Found and Lost (16 page)

“Marcus,” Chuck said. “What you're talking about is the opposite of invisible. This girl has parents—you do, don't you?” He pointed at Violet.

Violet forked a bite of egg, perfectly salted. She still had to force herself to swallow it. She nodded.

“Okay, so the parents report her missing, probably by tomorrow if they haven't already.”

Actually, that might take a week. Or two.

“The regular cops start a search, it comes out that she was on some kind of Constabulary mission, next thing you know her face is all over the news and she's presumed murdered by the Christian crazies. How's that for under the radar?”

“You want me to let her go,” Marcus said. His feet slowed.

“It's not a great choice, but it's the only one.”

“Chuck, I know—missing persons, the media, the cops—I know it could happen. But if she leaves, she'll talk.”

“I can't keep her here.”

“Well. You're going to.”

Wow, Marcus knew how to overstep. This wasn't his house. Chuck and Belinda were adults—good grief, could be his parents. But Chuck didn't bristle at the order. Didn't seem surprised or even annoyed.

His chair thumped back onto all four legs. He looked from Marcus to Violet, then back again. “You're really serious about this.”

“It's this or prison. For everybody.”

“So to avoid prison, you're going to kidnap a child.”

The pacing resumed. “We don't have a choice.”

“This is not ‘we,' Marcus, not for one minute. This is you. I have a choice, and I'm telling you, son, I won't follow you if this is the road you're taking.”

Follow him? The slope of the debate had slipped right over Violet's head until this moment. These people had begun arguing as equals, but … they weren't.

“If I let her go”—Marcus's words bit the air with quiet steel—“they will lock us up.”

“And if you lock her up, how are you any different?”

Wait … lock her up? Were they talking literally, throw her into some bedroom and board up the window?

Marcus dug his knuckles into his neck and drew in a deep breath.

“Marcus is different,” Lee said, “because he isn't threatening or mocking or brainwashing her.”

Chuck shook his head. “I know that, but it's still holding a defenseless kid against her will.”

A long sigh lowered Lee's shoulders, and she turned to Marcus. “He's right.”

“He's … what?”

“She'll escape if she wants to, unless you confine her, and you can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Marcus. You cannot physically force your will on her like this. You're not that kind of man.”

Her words were a cool breath over the burning shield of his anger. He shook his head, but his shoulders caved forward.

“Nothing I decide is going to be right,” he said quietly.

Belinda stepped into the room. She must have been standing behind Violet for a while now. She set another pitcher of syrup on the table. “Blueberry flavored.”

Marcus rubbed his neck, then forked his last bite of egg and shoved it into his mouth.

“What happens now?” Belinda rounded the corner of the table and sat down beside her husband. They looked like some official council, Lee and Violet a few chairs down from Belinda and Chuck, all facing Marcus's side of the table.

Marcus sipped his coffee.

Belinda sighed and grabbed the fork from the plate of pancakes. “Someone had better eat these. I put wheat germ and blueberries in them.” She stabbed two at once and deposited them onto Violet's plate.

“You won't keep her here?” Marcus said.

Chuck glanced at Belinda, who ducked her head and offered Violet the syrup pitcher. As if that were some meaningful gesture, Chuck leaned back from the table and hooked a thumb in his belt loop. “No, we won't.”

“Okay.” Marcus pushed his plate away. “I've got other places.”

A stare-down ensued, and Chuck lost. He sighed. “All right, son.”

Lee said nothing.

Violet's breathing pinched as she poured syrup over the pancakes. Her fingers stuck to a congealing drip on the handle. The syrup trickled over her plate, pooled in the center, and seeped under an edge of her eggs. She used her fork to push them clear.

If she bolted, would Marcus tackle her and tie her to a chair? Would the others let him?

In the quiet, Belinda made herself a plate of pancakes and drowned them in syrup and butter. Chuck wandered to the kitchen and came back with a mug of coffee. Lee finished her eggs and took her plate to the dishwasher as if she lived there.

Violet forced down bites of pancake for maybe a whole minute before courage took over. She set down her fork.

“What about Khloe?”

“Khloe stays here.” Marcus picked up his dishes and crossed toward the kitchen.

“Who?” Chuck said.

“You can't take me away from Khloe.”

Marcus pivoted with a glare that scalded her. “She'll be safer.”

He assumed Khloe was a Christian. He assumed Violet would turn in even her best friend.
He's right, isn't he?
She shoved her plate, and it clattered against the pancake plate in the center of the table. Belinda jumped.

“Someone tell me what else is going on here,” Chuck said.

Violet might as well be chained to her chair. She couldn't get up, couldn't get out of this room, away from these people.

“A lot's happened,” Belinda said.

“Details, woman.” He spread his hands on the place mat. “Who's Khloe?”

“That would be me.”

Khloe stood on the cuffs of borrowed lounge pants, one foot on the dining room floor and one on living room carpet. She hugged herself, swallowed by the oversized sleep shirt. She didn't look at anyone but Violet.

“I'm Khloe.”
With a K.
But those words didn't come. Khloe took another step into the room and shivered. “Violet, did you … do something?”

Eventually, yeah, Khloe was going to learn everything. Not like this, though.

Violet pushed her chair back and approached her friend. Khloe blinked at her like someone who'd just watched her house burn down. She didn't back away, though. Maybe she'd listen.

“Violet,” Lee said.

Violet turned. “We're going upstairs. Marcus can wait.”

She led Khloe back up to their room, shut the door, and sank onto the bed. Before Violet could open her mouth, Khloe planted her feet apart as if bracing for a fistfight and crossed her arms.

“You spill it, Vi, all of it. Marcus was accusing you of something down there.”

Everything became inevitable, the way people described a car wreck. Why was she still pumping the brake, still turning into the skid of this friendship as if she could make it right?

“Khloe, I …” Her hands curled into the quilt.

“Come on, whatever it is, just tell me.”

“When we were at the church meeting … and I had my phone out … I wasn't playing pinball.”

Khloe's forehead furrowed. She crossed the bedroom and sat beside Violet. “Am I supposed to be following right now?”

“I was sending a text. ‘Fifty-six-eighty-two Apple Lane.'”

“Uh … the address? Who would you text the …?” Khloe's mouth dropped open. Her voice returned as a squeak. “Not the con-cops. You didn't text the con-cops.”

Violet gulped a breath and steered them both through the guardrail. “I … I did.”

They smashed through and plummeted forever, sitting side by side on Belinda's guest bed. Then Khloe was on her feet. Shaking. Shouting.

“You did not do this. You did not try to send my father to re-ed.”

“Khloe, I did.”

“You did not.”

Violet doubled over and twisted her hands into the quilt. Her stomach hurt. “I did.”

“No, Violet, no.”

“The church raid happened because of me. Everything's happened because of me. I wanted him to get help, I wanted all of them to get—”

“No!” Khloe closed her eyes.

“I had to do it. Austin said they—”

Khloe stormed into Violet's space and shoved her. Another few inches back and Violet's head would have bounced against the wall.

“Austin? You turned my dad in for Austin? You ruined my life for Austin? Were you going to turn Belinda in too, while I was right here sleeping in one of her fugitive-Christian beds?”

Violet sat back up. “Khloe—”

“Were you going to even tell me about it, or just let the con-cops show up and play stupid while they hauled me off to re-ed along with a bunch of strangers!”

Something long simmering boiled up in Violet's chest. “Shut up. Shut up about you. This isn't about you, this is about everyone, this is about the whole country. I was trying to help these people, including your dad, and maybe if you end up in re-ed they'll teach you the world's bigger than Khloe-with-a-K Hansen.”

Khloe whimpered, and her voice fell to a whisper. “You did know. That I'd go to re-ed. What was I, collateral damage?”

No. Of course not. And yes.

“My gosh, Violet. What kind of friend are you?”

Ten years of sleepovers and secrets and tears and laughter, Khloe's
I-know-you'll-save-me
gaze, a week's worth of Violet's clothes stashed in Khloe's bottom dresser drawer—all of it broke in Violet's chest, all at once.

Khloe shook her head as if to clear a daydream. “I heard a baby crying earlier, when I was getting dressed.”

“Another fugitive came last night. She had a baby.”

“I'm hungry. I'm going down to eat.”

Khloe, I helped deliver him. He's so tiny and alive. And I don't want you to go to re-ed, and I'm starting to feel mixed up, and I think I need help to figure things out.
“Belinda makes good pancakes.”

Khloe ambled from the room. Violet shut the door after her and walked back to the bed, smoothly, like water, like Lee. She slid down to the carpet with her back against the bedpost. Her knees drew into her chest. Tears clogged her throat, not because she hurt but because she should. And didn't.

27

They weren't escaping anything, not really. When they returned home in a night and a day, Khloe wouldn't be there. Clay pushed it out of his head, the image of where she was, would still be.
Lord, I asked You not to let this happen.
Beside him in the Jeep's passenger seat, Natalia hadn't spoken since they left. The open window ruffled her hair toward him, hitting him every so often with a breath of mango shampoo. He'd asked her where she wanted to go, but she didn't even glance his way. So he drove the highway and inhaled the freedom of speed. And prayed, though he was starting to wonder why.

Natalia shifted in the seat. “You're heading toward our old house.”

“There's a hotel off exit Forty-One, remember?”

Only the wind responded.

“We skipped lunch.” His thumb rubbed the steering wheel grip. “You hungry?”

“Drive-through. I don't want to sit down in some restaurant and have some person come inform me about the specials and expect me to smile and tip them and …”

“Agreed.”

The conversation stalled again, until he'd filled up the Jeep's tank and bought sub sandwiches and taken a spontaneous exit that made Natalia finally look at him and keep looking. She knew where he was going. He waited for her to protest, but she didn't. The place drew him mile by mile until he turned onto the same dirt path they'd driven a hundred times, ten years ago. Through the same metal gate, into the same parking lot, paved now.

He wanted to ask her if this was okay, if he'd projected his own emotions onto hers. Maybe Clinton River Park was the last place Natalia wanted to be. He locked his jaw against the questions. Her silence couldn't last much longer, anyway.

But it did last. He grabbed the bag of sandwiches and locked the Jeep. She needed to say something. Anything. He led her toward the cluster of picnic tables canopied by century-old oak trees.

“Where to, Nat?”

She picked the table farthest from the family with a Lab puppy and two strollers and wow, five kids. Through a screen of foliage to the left, Clinton River glimmered, about fifty feet away.

Too close.

The kids across the picnic area provided most of lunch's soundtrack: shrieking and shouting and prompting barks from their dog. Farther away, out of sight, carousel music joined in counterpoint. But underneath the symphony of bliss roared the river.

Natalia found her Tuscan chicken, and Clay dug into his BLT. See, he could eat right beside the dragon. He didn't fear water, didn't even fear rivers. The sound simply didn't relax him. If she knew, Natalia wouldn't choose the table nearest the water, but she didn't need to know this. Didn't need to know he'd thrown out her
Wilderness River and Waterfall
CD, either.

Still she didn't talk. She took petite bites and studied the grooves in the picnic table, the paint chips that would have told Clay this wood used to be red, except he didn't need to be told. The paint job had been new last time they ate here. Last time Khloe had bounced on her bench and tossed her bread crusts to the squirrels.

Clay swallowed his fifth bite and threw away his reserve. “I appreciate that you came.”

Natalia's gaze jumped up from the table. She set her sandwich down on the plastic wrapper. “You thought I wouldn't?”

“I just don't take it for granted. That's all.” He shouldn't have said anything. He bit into the sandwich.

“Where's my mommy?”

The squeaky voice came from over the table, behind Natalia. She swiveled on the bench, and Clay stood. The littlest from the nearby family, no older than four, stood with her small bare feet planted apart and her hands splayed open in front of her, a petition. Dark hair strayed from her ponytail, and her nose curved like Khloe's.

Shoot, she could have fallen into the water and … The river grew louder, or maybe he only thought it did.

“Come on, Clayton, don't be a chicken.”

“I'm not, I just don't want to get wet.”

Clay shook his head. The memories should know better by now. They weren't wanted. Weren't allowed.

Natalia practically jumped to her feet. “Let's find your mommy together.”

“Okay.” The girl reached for her hand.

Natalia latched on as another voice found them from across the clearing.

“Isabel! Izzie!”

“Oh, there's my mommy.” The girl tore her hand from Natalia's and dashed toward the voice, though the woman couldn't be easy to spot from Isabel's three-and-a-half-foot vantage point. Natalia watched into the sun, until the girl collided against her mother's legs with an open-armed hug.

Clay sat back down, but Nat kept standing there, staring, her hand shielding her eyes. The child skipped alongside her mother for a few steps, then was scooped into her arms and wrapped in that smothering hug of released terror. One second, she's next to you. The next, she's nowhere. The next, she's back in your arms, and you vow never to blink again.

“Nat?”

She didn't face him, instead ducked her head and dabbed under her eyes.

“Oh. Nat.” Clay was off the bench and beside her before he could think of a safer response. He cupped his hand around her face.

“Sorry, I—I guess she hit a soft spot. It's fine.”

She backed away, and he let her. He could live a thousand years and never make this right.

Lord, You can't possibly want Khloe in re-education. Why didn't You prevent it?

“Let's walk.” His hand twitched at his side, but he didn't hold it out. Natalia stuffed their unfinished sandwiches back into the to-go bag and dangled it from her left hand. They strolled side by side, away from the river, across the picnic area, past Isabel and her siblings as they played frozen tag.

“Izzie, you have to stand still!”

“How come?”

“'Cause Jamie tagged you!”

“Mommy, do I have to stand still?”

Natalia walked faster, and the debate faded before Clay could hear the verdict. If they'd been able to have more after Khloe, if even only that one time, when Natalia had been so sure she was pregnant … what if she had been? They'd have a thirteen-year-old too. Maybe a son. Maybe another little girl. Or if they'd been able to have as many as they wanted. If they could come to the park with a whole precious brood and play frozen tag.

The possibilities burned his eyes. He blinked fast, turned his head to watch a pair of Canada geese waddle down the sidewalk, single file. The one in the lead stopped before a dip in the pavement and eyed Clay as he and Nat crossed in front of them. Once they had passed, the goose led his mate forward. Watching out for her. A dumb bird was a better guardian than Clay was. No wonder God hadn't given him more children.

The distant carousel score, the chattering squirrels, the random birdsong all mixed with the conversation clips of passing strangers. Yet it was Natalia's quiet that seemed to ring in Clay's ears. He had lost track of their direction. Maybe Natalia was heading somewhere specific. He let the park seep into his pores, memories thick as the scent of cut grass. Khloe's laughter trying to fill the whole park. Khloe's sticky kiss brushing his cheek. Khloe's dance in front of the carousel every time Clay handed her a bright blue ticket to ride her favorite horse.

The boisterous brass had been growing louder as they neared the park's biggest attraction. Clay veered toward it, and Natalia straggled for a few seconds, then jogged to catch up. Around a bend in the path, there it stood, a shiny rainbow of painted horses beneath the broad green top. It drifted to a halt as Clay and Natalia stopped at the metal gate. Hardly any line.

“Clay?”

“Let's ride it.”

Her lips parted, and he held back the urge to touch them. She gazed at the kid taking tickets who had begun to stare at them.

“Y-you … want … to … ride … the … carousel?” Each word escalated, not in volume but in pitch.

To let the past cradle him for three or four minutes, to let it sweep him in circles until the world blurred around him, until his failure blurred too. Until he could hear his little girl laughing from the horse next to him, a sound the doctors had told him he would lose forever, a sound he had finally, this week, lost. Yes. He wanted to ride the carousel. He reached for Natalia's hand, tugged it to his chest, let her feel his pounding heart.

“Natalia.”

Her fingers curled into his T-shirt and held on for long seconds. She stepped closer until her whisper fell against his chest. “Not without my daughter.”

She let go. Stepped back. Walked away. Half of him wanted to watch her go, wanted to buy one ticket and ride alone. He jogged after her, caught her wrist, and let her pull away.

“I want to go home.” Her words fell toward the concrete.

“Nat, they—”

“I have a wedding tonight, did you forget? A huge wedding, couple hundred people. The bride's Polish. She told me there'll be family there that she's never even met. And I … I need to do it, Clay.”

A gray squirrel moseyed down the sidewalk ahead of them, a nut in its mouth, too heavy for scampering. Its tail was thin, chewed, as if something larger had attacked it and lost. Natalia stood still, watched it gain distance from them, then faced Clay with granite in her eyes—hard, beautiful, yet unable to withstand the strongest blows.

“I have to shoot this wedding. I have to do something … normal. Today. I don't know if that makes sense.”

“So …” He cleared the sandpaper from his voice. “This isn't because of the carousel.”

“It is, it absolutely is. I thought maybe you were right and we could run away, but even for a day—we can't. And I don't care if they come or not. They can question me. They've done it already and got nothing.”

He pushed her hair back from her shoulders. She shouldn't be out tonight, alone in a crowd, feigning happiness. And he shouldn't be home tonight, alone in a house that echoed accusations and shoved him toward his keys, toward the door, toward the highway. He could reschedule the bowling game. He could call a spontaneous online chat for the Lit Philes.

He could act normal.

He leaned close to Natalia's ear. “I'm coming to the reception.”

She stepped back. “You obviously can't do that.”

“You said yourself the bride and groom don't know everyone.”

“No, but I'm sure the bride's mother does.”

“A couple hundred people? I can avoid the important ones.”

“Clay, I'll be working. Even if no one figures it out, it's incredibly unprofessional to let my husband crash the—”

He settled a kiss on her lips, soft and salty, quick, but she closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Strangers passing on the path saw her hand on his arm and her hair in his hands and probably believed that Natalia loved him with abandon, that he could never hurt her. She pulled back from the kiss, but the granite had cracked a little.

“I guess you could be my assistant. You're pretty decent at holding things.”

Despite everything, he smiled, and Natalia threaded her arm through his and walked beside him to the Jeep, down the sidewalk like an aisle.