Secrets Rising (26 page)

She forced herself into action. Going by the bank, chatting with Clyde at the door—all had cost her precious minutes. If she forgot something she needed, she'd have to replace it later or do without it.

Her purse still sat on the nightstand where she'd left it two weeks ago. That was a necessity. It had her driver's license.

Haphazardly she tossed clothes and toiletries into the suitcase, being certain to add the blue dress her mother-in-law had given her as a birthday gift. The dress, from Doris Jordan's shop, was the nicest one she owned, but, more importantly, Ben's mother, a woman she adored, had given it to her.

Finally, she put in her wedding picture from the nightstand beside the bed.

With one last glance around the room where she and Ben had made wonderful love, where she'd thought they'd make love when they were old and wrinkled, she closed the suitcase and dragged it downstairs.

On the front porch, she turned back for one last look, seeing the house the way she and Ben had seen it for the first time when they'd been full of love and hopes and dreams.

Lifting her chin, she turned away. If she let it, the sorrow would weigh her down, immobilize her, and she'd be lost. She locked the sorrow into a separate compartment of her heart leaving the rest of her empty except for the fear that Charles would catch her.

The sorrow threatened to escape, but a car turned the corner behind her and fear replaced everything until she saw that the driver wasn't Charles.

Panic gripped her with its jagged teeth. How could she possibly make the right decision when she didn't know how Charles would think?

She shook her head, clenched her jaw and shoved aside the panic. She could only make the best possible choice and go, drive as fast as legally permissible, focus on getting away.

North on the old highway.

***

Weaving through back roads, the three hour trip to Dallas took five. She reached the outskirts of the city and knew she had to get on the highway then decide at the downtown intersection whether to take Highway 30 east or west, or Highway 75 north. Her entire trip so far had been consumed with driving to evade Charles, taking the least obvious route, checking the rearview mirror constantly, controlling her fear at every car that passed, keeping her runaway emotions in check and thinking logically. Now she would have another decision to make.

As she approached downtown Dallas, traffic became heavier. Rush hour. She'd heard talk about it on the Dallas radio stations but had never experienced it.

Cars—hundreds of cars—zipped past her, around her, pinning her in her lane. It was impossible to check all the drivers, to watch for Charles. Avoiding an accident became her primary concern as the bumper-to-bumper traffic slowed but still moved fast enough that, if anyone made a mistake, dozens of cars would crash into each other.

When she realized she had passed downtown Dallas without having a chance to choose an east or west route but had been funneled by the flow of traffic onto 75 north, she accepted that as her destination. It was as good a way to choose as any.

The traffic slowed to a maddening crawl. She consoled herself with the thought that Charles wouldn't be able to wedge his car into the solid wall of automobiles and catch her even if he knew exactly where she was. For the moment she was safe, but frustration at the delay kept her on edge.

The evening was warm, and she was perspiring from heat and anxiety. She rolled down her window and a popular song drifted from the radio in the car next to her. Then a traffic report.

"...five car pile-up on Central Expressway just north of the Walnut Hill exit has traffic backed up all the way downtown. Expect about an hour delay as crews work to clean up the accidents."

Mary wanted to scream. Though she hadn't seen any signs, she'd be willing to bet Highway 75 was more commonly known as Central Expressway. She had to get off. She'd lost too much time already.

Almost thirty minutes later she finally made it off at Mockingbird Lane. All she had to do was continue northward, winding her way through the city, until she made it to the northern outskirts, then get back on the highway and head for...

Well, somewhere north. Oklahoma City, Tulsa, Kansas City. Even New York City was somewhere north.

***

Plano Diner, Serving Plain Ole Good Food

Mary almost burst into tears when she saw the sign two hours later. It was only advertising. She knew that. But the hominess of it lured her into the parking lot.

Since leaving the highway, she'd roamed through the Dallas area, becoming hopelessly lost. Streets were not straight. They changed names, dead ended, circled back on themselves, and with every wrong turn, the nightmare thickened around her. Panic beat at her with leathery bat wings. She felt trapped, an animal in a cage running in circles, unable to escape the hunter who could appear at any moment.

Fearful that someone might remember her or her license plate if she stopped to ask directions, she'd tried to make her own way. Finally she'd purchased a city map when she filled up with gas and was slowly, determinedly, making her way back to the highway. Plano was a suburb north of Dallas, so at least she was on the right track.

With her car door half open, she hesitated in the parking lot of the Plano Diner, afraid to stay and afraid to go.

Since she'd awakened in the back room of a strange woman's house, barely avoiding an unwanted abortion, faced with the news of her husband's death, her world had become shrouded in a perpetual fog of sorrow, fear and frustration. If not for the precious life she carried, she'd have given up long ago. If Charles wanted to kill her and only her, she'd have let him rather than continue on this way...rather than continue on without Ben.

But she had to continue. She had to go in the diner and eat. She hadn't had anything since breakfast at Paula's. She wasn't hungry, but her baby would need the nourishment.

She got out of her car and headed for the diner, her gaze scanning every vehicle, every person. Logically, she knew Charles couldn't possibly have followed her here. But logic and terror were incompatible companions.

The place was crowded so she'd be harder to remember if Charles came by looking for her after she left. And, paranoid as that sounded, she was unable to convince herself that it wasn't a very real possibility.

She slid into a booth in the back that allowed her a view of the door.

A waitress brought over a menu. She ordered the fried chicken then went back to studying every person who came in.

A woman strode purposefully toward her, blocking her view, and Mary froze. The woman, of medium height and weight, somehow projected an image of strength. Mary's heart pounded so hard and fast she expected it to push right out of her chest.

They made eye contact. The woman smiled, her brown eyes shining with kindness, then she looked away and slid into next booth over, and Mary released the breath she'd been holding.

"All right, Dorothy," she heard the woman say briskly, "you have George call this number and ask for Harry Pemberton. I just talked to him, and he said he can use a worker like your husband."

"Brenda, you're wonderful. I don't know how I can ever thank you."

"Seeing that happy look back on your face is enough. We've got pecan pie tonight, and I'm going to send over a piece for you and one to take home to George."

Mary lifted a shaky hand to her face. She had to get a grip on herself. Being careful was a necessity, but she couldn't go on being terrified of everything and everybody.

Her hand on her cheek was sticky with perspiration and grime from the steering wheel. The first thing she needed to do was find the bathroom, wash her hands, splash cold water on her face and try to think.

She rose from the booth, and the fog of fear thickened, turned black, swirled around her and completely enveloped her, pulling her into its inky depths.

She bolted upright, panic knifing through her. Where was she? Had Charles brought her to another abortionist? She clutched her stomach, fighting the black, dizzying fog that tried to overwhelm her again.

"My baby! What did you do to my baby?"

A tall man grabbed her shoulder, and she flailed against him. "Easy! Easy! I'm a doctor. You're okay. You just fainted."

"My baby!" she shrieked, forcing her blurred mind and eyes to focus, to assess the situation...to figure out if it was too late.

The purposeful woman with kind brown eyes stepped forward and clutched Mary's hand. Mary felt peace flow from her. For an instant she was reminded of her mother-in-law, a woman she loved as much as if she'd been her own mother. Doris could soothe her with a touch.

But Doris was part of the past, someone she'd never see again. This woman was a stranger and not to be trusted.

"I'm Brenda Patterson," the stranger said, smiling and holding tightly to her hand. "The blonde, chunky guy on your left is my husband, Jerry, and the tall character you tried to assault is a friend, Doctor Fred Wingfield. Jerry and I own this no-star restaurant where you passed out before you even ate any of the food. Most of our customers at least have one bite before it affects them that way."

Mary drew in a deep breath and looked around at the small room, apparently used as an office. It contained the sofa on which she lay, a filing cabinet and a desk littered with stacks of paper that almost hid a typewriter. The three people crowded around her, their faces etched with concern. None of them meant her any harm. They didn't even know who she was.

She longed to lie back on the sofa and rest, to take a break from the nightmare until she could gather the energy to fight again. To run again.

"You came in alone," Brenda said softly when she didn't respond. "You didn't have your baby with you."

Mary felt herself smiling as the horrible tension flowed away from her and her fingers traced the soft roundness of her stomach.
No,
she thought.
I didn't come in alone. I had my baby with me, and she's still here.

Brenda's alert gaze dropped to the movement then returned to Mary's face. "Okay, guys," she said, briskly, "let's give the lady a little breathing room. Fred, I really appreciate your help. Sorry to interrupt your dinner. Tell Hazel to bring you a plate of hot food and a piece of pie, on the house. Jerry, honey, would you check on this lady's order and bring it back in here along with a glass of milk?"

"Sure, babe." He gave Mary's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I hope you like milk because if Brenda's decided you need milk, you're gonna have milk!"

In the safe atmosphere, surrounded by the comfortable bantering of the Pattersons, Mary's eyes filled with the tears she'd held at bay for so long. "I love milk," she said.

The men left, closing the door behind them, and Brenda sat on the sofa beside her. "Got the little one tucked away, huh? When's it due?"

Don't tell! Don't admit it! Nobody can know! It's the only way to be safe!

"Mid-May," she heard herself say, then a sound that was somewhere between a laugh of joy and a sob of relief erupted from her throat, and she burst into unrestrained tears.

Brenda pulled Mary's head onto her competent shoulder and stroked her hair. Mary allowed herself a few moments of release, then bit back her sobs and pushed her hair off her face. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Brenda handed her a tissue. "For what? Everybody needs a good cry now and then."

Jerry appeared with Mary's purse and a tray of fried chicken, hot rolls, mashed potatoes, salad and a big glass of milk. "Everything okay?"

Brenda shoved aside a mound of papers and perched on a corner of the desk. "Not another word until you've finished every bite of food on this tray. Then you can tell me why you thought somebody wanted to hurt your baby."

Though she hadn't been hungry when she came in, Mary found herself ravenous now. She ate most of the food, determined to ignore Brenda's request to talk. She'd pay for her meal and leave. She couldn't tell Brenda what had happened. She could never tell anybody.

The heavy meal made her sleepy and languorous, but she set the tray on the desk and stood, retrieving her purse. "I need to pay and get back on the road," she said, fumbling for her wallet.

Brenda laid a firm hand over hers, halting her search for money. "Food's on the house. We never charge our customers who faint. Where do you have to go in such a hurry?"