Authors: Alicia Scott
They passed through Silverton and came to I-5
just north of Salem. Three miles, that was all they had to spend on the
interstate. Three miles, then the welcome exit for 22 would whisk them off the
highway and lead them to mountains. Three miles through the thick of Salem,
four lanes of traffic and even more spots for state troopers to sit in wait for
an escaped felon.
Cain's knuckles were white on the wheel. The
tendons stood out in rigid relief on his exposed forearms. He kept the
speedometer at a diligent fifty-five, the appropriate speed for passing through
city limits.
Wordlessly, Maggie rolled up her window and her
hair died on her shoulders.
"It's not that far," she said quietly.
"It doesn't take much to spot a stolen
truck."
A cop car was pulled over on the right. It had
been a long time, but even after six years, Cain recognized the spot. Cops
always waited there to catch the anxious speeder who hadn't wanted to slow from
the interstate's speed limit of sixty-five miles per hour to fifty-five in
Salem. At least habits hadn't changed while Cain was behind bars.
He kept his gaze straight ahead and his hand on
the wheel. Would Maggie try anything? One tap on the window, one frantic wave,
and with the news of an escaped murderer posted all over the radio, the cop
would pull out and blare his sirens without a second thought.
Sweat trickled down Cain's hairline. He didn't
even risk the motion of wiping it away.
Maggie remained silent and still and he
swallowed harshly. She didn't realize, of course, the full power that she
wielded, that in fact, she held his life in her hands and not the other way
around. One earnest attempt on her part and the pawn would checkmate the king.
He couldn't even blame her for it. She had the right to fight for her life, to
run from a convicted murderer. He, on the other hand, had gotten an innocent
involved in a drama that might leave her dead. She had just cause on her side.
It was more than anyone could say about him.
The exit for 22 approached. He released a
breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He turned onto 22 and the Cascades
rose up verdant and promising before them. They picked up speed.
Beside him, Maggie rolled down the window once
more and let the spring-filled wind whip through her long red hair.
The mountains were beautiful this time of year. Sunlight dappled deep green
firs and lighter-colored maple. Ferns and moss formed thick dark carpeting and
ran all the way to babbling brooks and, in some cases, cheery waterfalls. The
sky here seemed endless and the air tasted as good as it smelled, clean and
fresh and the way Mother Nature intended.
Maggie admired it as they wove along the
winding highway, climbing higher and higher until they finally traversed
Santiam Pass. They broke through to the other side of the Pacific Crest, and
suddenly snowcapped mountains beckoned on all sides. Mount Washington was to
their right, Mount Jefferson as well. Three-Fingered Jack waved frosted digits
on the left, while way out on the horizon, the Three Sisters flirted with the
faded blue sky.
It was beautiful, stunningly so. Maggie didn't
pass this way often and she tried to appreciate it, because she always
remembered the stories her grandmother had told her of how all this had looked
to straggling pioneers after months and months of plodding across the country.
How they'd taken one look at the lush, bursting greenness, and realized they'd
found home.
Of course, right now Maggie was having a hard
time appreciating that sentiment. She uncrossed and crossed her legs for the
fifth time in twenty minutes, then gave up.
"Time for a pit stop," she suggested,
wanting to sound firm, ending up sounding desperate.
Cain frowned and finally glanced at her.
"Really?" He didn't sound happy.
That brought her chin up. "It's been four
hours. I know time flies when you're having fun—and stealing cars—but don't you
think one bathroom break is at least in order?"
As if reading her mind, the road produced a
sign advertising that a rest stop was available in one mile. She looked at him
levelly. "Well?"
"We have to cross this bridge
sometime," he murmured. Lines creased his forehead. His finger began
tapping the wheel. Maggie swallowed the groan building in her throat as she
read the signs—he was thinking, and generally his thinking led to diabolical
plans or at the very least, grand theft auto.
"You're not going to dump this truck and
take some poor soul's only means of transportation, are you?"
He looked genuinely startled. "No, I
wasn't. But it's not a half-bad suggestion."
"I'm sorry I brought it up." She
clenched her teeth. He slowed for the exit. At least that was something.
He pulled into the parking lot. There were two
cars and one big vacation vehicle present. Next to the small wooden shack
offering rest rooms, a family of four sat at a picnic table in full sunlight.
They were eating sandwiches, passing around a thermos and chattering with the
merry glee of a family on vacation.
Maggie thought, if I walked right to them and
quietly informed them I'd been kidnapped by a homicidal maniac, would they help
me or look at me as if I'd just stepped off the planet Mars?
As if reading her mind, Cain said, "Don't
do anything stupid, Maggie."
Her bladder hurt; she was no longer amused. She
looked at her evil jailer crossly and said, "Define stupid."
That deepened the lines creasing his brow. His
fingers began tapping the wheel again. Heaven help her.
"All right," he said at last, in a tone
of voice that declared he'd found the magic answer, "this is the
deal."
"Deal?"
"I'll let you out of the truck
unescorted—"
She perked up at that.
"But, Maggie," he said quietly,
"if you run, I'll just turn around and take another poor innocent woman hostage
in your place. As we've already discussed, I need a hostage."
She opened her mouth, she closed her mouth. She
stared at him dumbstruck, and then when she finally found her voice she cried
in the most virulent tone she could, "You despicable cad!"
The left corner of his mouth twisted up.
"I thought you'd like that."
"You … you…!" She couldn't think of a
vile enough word. "You just made everyone my responsibility. You kidnap
some other poor woman, and somehow it's my fault. You can't just make everything
my fault!"
"I didn't," he said levelly.
"You did. You and your Mother Teresa complex."
"How…" Her lips pressed together so
tightly they turned white. She glared at him as harshly as she could. He
appeared completely unmoved. "You're not a paranoid schizophrenic, are
you?" she quizzed vehemently. "You're a pure psychopath
instead!"
"Possibly." He cocked his head toward
the rest rooms, his green eyes steady and unyielding. "Those are the
terms, Maggie. You can run away if you like. But I will kidnap another woman.
Just so you know."
"I hate you!" she declared miserably.
"I know, but do you still need to use the
rest rooms?"
Oh, how she wished she was C.J. at that moment.
And not to run, either, but so she would know some really creative and painful ways
to kill this man. She settled for stamping her feet against the floor, and when
that just reminded her of how badly she did need to use the facilities, she
gripped the door handle.
"Fine," she said, her blue eyes
shooting daggers.
"You do have a temper," he observed.
"Only when you're around!"
"Then I have my uses after all," he
murmured.
For her response, she popped open her door and
slid out from the truck as fast as she was able. Her shoulders rigid, her head
held high, she stormed toward the single hut containing the men's and women's
rest rooms.
After a minute, Cain pulled the baseball cap
lower on his forehead and followed.
"Christ, Cain," he muttered to
himself. "And you thought she was spineless?"
Once inside the questionable sanctity of the tiny women's room, Maggie stamped
around in a small circle. Two stalls, the ripe odor only a rest stop could
offer and no paper towels. In her current state, she scoured the concrete floor
and wooden walls for possible weapons. She could find only one feminine hygiene
dispenser. Great, next time Attila the Hun pulled out his gun, she could
counterattack with a tampon.
She grew so angry she actually saw spots.
Spots! Meek, humble Maggie so ticked off she couldn't even speak. She stopped
long enough to take a deep, steadying breath and allowed one moment to marvel
at her own temper. Maybe she was a true Hathaway Red after all. But what good
was it doing her?
She hated rest stops. She hated long drives.
She hated everything about this hostage business. And she still had no idea
what to do about it.
She used the facilities; she washed her hands.
And then, because the room hardly offered an instant-escape kit, she walked
back out into the sunshine. The family was still eating—she could hear the low
murmur of their voices. Cain was nowhere to be seen.
Walk over to them right now, Maggie. Walk right
up to them and tell them everything.
And put four innocent lives at risk? Her mouth
went dry at the mere thought.
But you can't do nothing, Maggie! All your life
you've done nothing. You watched your father come and go as he pleased,
accepting whatever scrap he tossed you. You sat quietly as Stephanie threw all
her tantrums, then simply helped the maid clean up the mess later on. You are
nothing more than a bureaucrat, never taking sides, never making a stand, never
putting anything at risk. The world has enough bureaucrats. It needs more foot
soldiers.
Her gaze came to rest on the pay phone.
Her breath held. She glanced from side to side.
Cain was still nowhere to be seen. What about money? She could call collect.
Do it, Maggie. Do it.
Her feet moved on their own. She didn't
remember consciously willing them to action, but they moved anyway, carrying
her toward the phone. She arrived. She clutched the receiver for dear life and
suffered one last shuddering pang of anxiety.
For one moment, she saw the bleak look on
Cain's face as he cranked the truck up the hillside to escape from the police.
So much raw determination in his bulging arm, so much desperation in those
intelligent green eyes.
For crying out loud, Maggie, you sympathize and
protect everyone but yourself. Can't you at least draw the line at empathizing
with a murderer? Use the darn phone!
With one quick punch, she dialed the operator, and
since no one ever knew where Brandon was these days, she gave the woman the
number of C.J.'s bar. A ponderous moment passed, then abruptly ringing filled
her ear. Once, twice.
In Sedona, Arizona, the phone was picked up and
the warm, smoky sounds of a lively bar filled her ear. Eric Clapton music and
laughing conversations. Fizzy drinks and pouring beer.
"Gus's Mortuary," C.J. announced
cheerily in his deep baritone. "You stab 'em, we bag 'em."
And suddenly Maggie was eight years old again,
seeing C.J. for the first time at the beginning of the Great Experiment. His
hands were scrunched in his pockets, his shoulders up around his ears. He was
wearing a full-fledged scowl and looking at her and Brandon with deep
resentment.
"My mother was the one he loved!" he
declared hotly. "He married yours for money, but mine he loved."
And then he looked away and a tremor shook his
small, wiry frame. Maggie thought he was going to cry and she'd never seen a
little boy cry before. But then he pulled himself together, digging his chin
into his chest.
"His mother died last year," Brandon
explained quietly. "He's actually been living with Max for a year. Can you
imagine, Maxmillian actually taking in one of his children?"
"Don't talk about my father like
that," C.J. muttered, but Maggie could tell that he was still very sad. He
hadn't lost just one parent, he'd lost both. And though her mommy wasn't very
nice, Maggie was glad she had her just to have someone to have. Without
thinking, she stepped forward. And though C.J. tensed, though he howled and
muttered a vehement protest, she wrapped her arms around him anyway. And then
abruptly he sagged against her and she knew he was crying though he didn't make
a sound and she knew she was crying without making a sound, because that was
what Maxmillian had taught his children—never make any demands, never make any
sound.
Never need him.
"Sure I'll accept the charges."
C.J.'s voice, adult and assured, resonated across the phone lines. She saw him
as he would be standing now, one hip cocked against the bar, the phone tucked
between his ear and shoulder, and his hands busy pouring the next beer while a
quick, easy grin split his face. "Maggie … Maggie, how the hell are
you?"
"C.J.," she whispered. Her hands
tightened on the phone. For a minute, she didn't know what to say. "C.J …
C.J., I need you."