Cries of Penance (29 page)

From desert to DC on no sleep, and only caffeine and adrenaline keeping me going, the days without sleep are catching up with me fast.

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Cries of Penance – Roxy Harte

It has been two ful days since I recovered Lattie’s remains, and it is stil hard to believe that she is dead. I have to tel my children their mother isn’t coming back. I scrub my face with soap and water, wishing I could go back in time.

Returning to the bedroom, I motion again for Garrett and when he doesn’t come to me, I leave him sitting in the dark room alone. He catches up soon enough, finding me two-thirds of the way down the hal way. I duck into the stairs.

I real y hope Glorianna was on the level, letting me walk away free and clear. I doubt it, but I hope it just the same.

“I’m pissed at you,” Garrett informs me.

I hurry down the two flights to the ground level, and he fol ows close but is left winded.

“Me too,” I tel him, pausing on a landing.

“You’re pissed at me? I didn’t do anything!”

I turn on him, shoving him against a concrete wal . “You left Celia and my children alone. Unprotected.”

He looks ashamed, offering sheepishly, “My parents needed me. What was your excuse? The wife who abandoned you? You sure took your sweet time coming home.”

I shove him again. “Lattie’s dead.”

His eyes go wide, and he opens his mouth and closes it twice before managing to say, “God, I’m sorry.”

I nod. “Me too. She was a sweet girl, and for a while, a good wife.”

I run down the last flight of stairs and exit through a service door into a back al ey. I walk to the end of the block, trying to get my bearings. I don’t trust anyone 271

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in the vicinity, not even the taxi drivers or transit workers. Anyone could be Glorianna’s people.

The wind howls, pushing against us, as I start walking toward a destination.

Looking up at the sky, I see dark clouds gathering. I pray for a storm to disappear into.

Garrett fol ows behind me, quiet, too quiet. I wish he’d have kept yel ing at me. I veer off the main road, preferring dark al eys. Garrett walks faster, bumping into me. “Does this seem safe to you?”

“Get used to the shadows, Garrett, and trust me when I say, I’m the most dangerous man you’l ever meet in the dark.”

He trails close and silent. At the end of one al ey where another begins, a fire inside a trash can burns brightly, drawing me like a beacon. Three men stand near it, though the night is warm, not cold. They’re singing a capel a until we get close enough to appear threatening. I pul a hundred dol ar bil out of my pocket and hold it out. Nodding toward two of them I say, “Your jacket, and his.”

The two men share a look and shirk out of their outerwear, one an Oriole’s hoodie, the other a ragged leather. I gesture for Garrett to take the garments.

“And your hats,” I say.

The closer man grabs the hundred as he hands me his knit cap. The second man hesitates. “I real y like this cap, I’ve had it a long time.”

It’s a dingy gray skipper’s yacht hat.

“I can appreciate that, man. It’s a great hat.” I take off my suit coat, flashing the tag that says Armani, and pul a second hundred from my pocket. “For your loss.”

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Hesitating, greed makes him hold out for more, but as our gazes clash he sees something in mine that makes him take my offer.

I stay facing them as I back down the al ey, not even reassured when they go back to singing. When we reach the main road I press my back against the brick wal of a building. I pul on the knit cap and the Orioles sweatshirt, keeping the hood over my head.

“Put on the hat and the leather coat.”

“You do realize how bad these clothes stink?”

I don’t sugarcoat it for him. “You can shower after I get you out of town alive.”

We final y reach the bus station, but we’re not here for a ticket. Keeping my back to the security cameras and my head down, I head straight for the public lockers. Mine is three rows deep, not observable by any camera. I open it and praying no one comes near enough to see us, start stripping off the hoodie, knit cap, and shirt I’ve been wearing since the press conference. I pul on a black tank top I had stashed in the locker.

Garrett reaches up to peel the blood soaked washcloth off my neck. “That needs stitches.”

“I’l live without stitches. I might not have survived being tracked.”

He doesn’t question the tracking device, or why I wasn’t concerned before, and why I am now. “You’ve hit a vein, you’re stil bleeding.”

I pul a quick-clot packet out of the locker and push some of the powder into the wound before shedding my slacks and pul ing on a pair of faded and torn blue jeans. “Were you injected with anything?”

“No!”

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“Are you certain? Was there any moment you lost consciousness and someone could have injected you without you knowing it?”

“I haven’t slept a wink since I was picked up and brought here.”

“Are you wearing the same clothes?”

“Yes. What’s with the twenty questions?”

“I don’t want anyone to know where I’m headed when I leave here. Take off your clothes. Everything. I’m not taking any chances.” I step into black combat boots. While Garrett is stripping, I restock my weapons: shurikens, three knives, and two revolvers, several clips. I hide most of my weaponry with a loose black and gray Hawai an shirt, buttoning only the two center buttons.

I toss Garrett a t-shirt, some sweats, and a pair of running shoes. The shoes wil be too big, but he doesn’t complain.

We exit the building as we entered, back to al the cameras, head ducked low.

I’m pleased to see Garrett is fol owing my lead and shadowing my moves. Three blocks from the garage but eight al eys later, I lead him into a high-rent, high-security parking garage. We drive out in a BMW X5M.

Garrett peels off the knit cap and tosses it out the window.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“No, we both probably have lice now. Are you going to tel me what in the hel is going on?”

“Not yet.”

“At least tel me Celia is safe?”

I give him a look that shuts him up. I cannot bear to think about Celia and the children not being safe, and as much as I want to reach them as quickly as 274

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humanly possible, I can’t lose my head. I’m not sure but I’m guessing Ely, Nevada is about a thirty hour drive, maybe more. I won’t risk flying even though a week ago I would have trusted a dozen pilots. Tonight I trust no one.

General’s Highway is almost deserted as I head out of town, except for the city cops. I drive past four cruisers in two blocks. Beside me, Garrett is pul ed into himself. Angry? Frustrated? Confused?

“What were you told by the people who brought you to Washington, DC?”

“Nothing. They showed me a picture of Enrique, demanding to know who he was, and then they showed me photos of you and Celia and said if I wanted to see either of you again, I should come with them.”

“Subtle. How did you know they weren’t the bad guys?”

“Black suit, sunglasses, earpieces. I thought they were FBI or CIA. Turns out they were Secret Service. God, what does my mother think? I just left her in the lobby of an office building.”

I sigh heavily.

“Just tel me. Al of it. The worst of it. Not knowing what in the hel is going on is far worse than the truth.”

I merge onto I-97, stil obeying al the speed laws. I don’t want to draw anyone’s attention tonight. “The truth is there are a lot of people looking for me, and anyone who is close to me is now a target. You. Celia. My children.”

“You’re on the run, meaning we’re al on the run.” He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “Your brother brought this on us, didn’t he?”

I give him a long look, trying to figure out how he made that leap in logic, but then life hasn’t been the same since Nikos showed up on our door, so it is no 275

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great leap from there to here. “No. He doesn’t have anything to do with this. I made a mistake. I let down my guard, I got lax, I let people into my life, and now the people I have al owed to get close to me wil pay the price.”

“What does that mean—exactly?”

“It means you can’t go home. Until the dust settles, you wouldn’t be safe.”

“I can’t go home?” He snorts. “I’m not going to let some thugs keep me away from my life—that’s insane. This is your life, your problems, not mine.”

I pul off onto the shoulder, realizing this frustration has been building for a while, over a year. Probably since the first day we became a ménage because my comings and goings became more evident. I turn in my seat so that I’m facing him. “Even if we go our separate ways right this minute you can’t go home. I drop you off on a corner, give you a phone number to cal , and you wil be picked up and given a new identity.”

“A new identity?” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, unbuckles his seat belt, and opens the car door. “Fuck that.”

I grab his arm. “You won’t live twenty-four hours without protection. You have to choose now—a new life with me in it or a new life away from me—either way you can’t go back to San Francisco. You can’t go back to Ohio. You can’t go back to being Garrett Lawrence.”

The rain that has been threatening al night suddenly lets loose with big, plump drops hitting the windshield.

He jerks away from my grasp. “You said the dust wil settle.”

“It wil . One way or another. Either the threat wil be annihilated or my enemies win the big battle and the organization I’ve worked for wil be destroyed.

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This isn’t about me and you and Celia, Lattie and my children, or my brother.

We’re just the pawns as two factions struggle for control. Their strategy is to destroy the Guardians from within by making every agent weak.”

“So you take me someplace safe and then you disappear to fight a war?”

I shake my head. “I’m no good for this fight. I quit. My only loyalty now is to my children and the ménage.”

Lightning streaks the sky, and the rain pours down. He closes the door and buckles his belt, but doesn’t look at me. I wonder if his decision to stay is solely based on the weather. I whisper, “Garrett, I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes and crosses his arms, shutting me out, but at least he’s stil in the car. I pul back out onto the highway and start driving. Even with the windshield wipers on ful power, it is hard to see. If anyone was fol owing me, they’l have a harder time of it now.

Garrett doesn’t say anything for the eight hours it takes to leave Maryland behind and cross Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana. I think he slept through most of the storm. There are few things more powerful than an early summer storm in the Midwest. High wind, rain, hail—I kept expecting to see a tornado on the horizon—but then the sun broke the horizon to bright blue skies.

“Do you want me to drive? You have to be exhausted.”

I don’t tel him that exhausted was three days ago. I exit as we cross into Il inois. “I’m al right. I’m going to refuel and get some food though. Hungry?”

He perks up as I pul into a multi-use fuel stop that promises petrol and a home-cooked meal.

“I could eat.”

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The restaurant is a typical interstate-dive, eggs, potatoes, and meat al prepared on the same gril on a slick of lard, my arteries’ worst nightmare. As I bite into the crisp bacon, my taste buds do a happy dance. God, when was my last meal?

Between us we put away six eggs, three orders of bacon, an order of sausage, two orders of home fries, four biscuits, a bowl of gravy, and a serving of grits.

“Fuck me.” Garrett says it, I’m thinking it. There’s no way I’m going to stay awake to drive now. Eating was the worst thing I could have done.

I pay with cash.

“I wil drive,” he says as we approach the car, and I’m too tired to argue.

“I’m going to have to take you up on that but if you feel like anyone is fol owing us, wake me up. Don’t speed. We can’t afford to draw any attention to ourselves.”

We both climb in and buckle, he starts the car. “Where am I going?”

“Stay on Interstate Eighty West.”

“For how long?”

Fifteen, maybe sixteen hours, but he doesn’t need to know that. It’s a little after nine, four hours sleep and I’l be good to go. “Wake me up when you stop to refuel.”

It seems like I just closed my eyes when he wakes me up. “We’re refueled.

Stay on Eighty?”

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“Yes,” I answer, or maybe I just dream I answered. I may have dreamed the fuel stop completely because he shakes me awake. “We’re refueled. Stay on Eighty?”

I rub my eyes and sit up, blinking at the clock. It reads nine thirty and it’s dark outside. “Fuck. Where are we?”

“Wyoming, maybe? I remember Iowa and Nebraska. I know we entered Wyoming, I don’t think we left it yet.”

I rub my face, my five o’clock shadow is heavy and rough against my palms.

The beginnings of the ful beard I plan to have. “I’l drive. I just have to piss first.”

I don’t bother getting the key from the attendant, I empty my bladder into the grass behind the building. Walking back to the car I’m irritated at myself for sleeping so long, so deeply. Anything could have happened. Inside the car, Garrett is surrounded by snack food, a bag of granola, chips, candy bars, cola, bottles of water.

“Tel me you paid cash?”

“I did.” He offers me the bag of granola.

“No, thanks,” I say, realizing I’m dying of thirst. “Is there any juice?” He tosses me an icy orange juice. After several gulps I manage to say, “Thanks.”

“We’re not going to California?”

“No.”

“You aren’t going to tel me where we’re going though, are you, even if we played twenty questions? Wil you at least tel me Celia is safe? Are we going to see her again? Did those spooks try to make her the same deal they made me?”