Found and Lost (25 page)

“My contact was unable to locate him after the arrest. Sometime later, the Constabulary's official report was filed on the operation. Their suspect escaped.”

If he escaped, why did Lee look like she might throw up again?

Belinda rocked up on her toes and leaned into Chuck's arm. “There it is, I knew it. He's on his way here right now.”

Lee stepped back again, only one step, but now she stood apart from their square. “He is unreachable.”

“He's hiding,” Belinda said. “He'll contact us as soon as the coast is clear.”

But Chuck cocked his head at Lee. “Out with it, all of it.”

“The arrest took place nearly ten hours ago. The alleged escape was shortly after that. He would have found a way by now to contact me. We have multiple methods set up for emergencies.”

“So he didn't escape,” Chuck said.

“I don't believe so.”

“But if he didn't, they should be gloating about the capture. It should be all over the news.”

“And they should have a case file on him. According to my contact, no paperwork has been filed.”

“So either way, they're not making sense.” Chuck took one of Belinda's hands and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. She glanced up at him, eyes wide and watery, but his focus didn't waver from Lee.

Silence howled through the house. Lee backed up until she bumped against the table. She flinched, a ripple in the armor.

“You're sure about this,” Chuck said.

“I am.” She laced her fingers in front of her.

Sure about … Oh. There was only one reason a Constabulary agent would report a false escape.

No no no. No, Jesus. Please.

When the rest of them stood paralyzed, Violet forced herself to say it. “He's dead, isn't he.”

42

Debrief. Such a deceiving word. It should be
unbrief
or
anti-brief
or
not-so-brief.

They were frying his brain.

So many hours had passed. Clay couldn't count them, but they had to be adding up. Maybe darkness was falling outside this room, the same nondescript room with the reflective window. Or maybe the night had already worn away. Maybe the sun was coming up.

Agent Lopez squeezed the bridge of his nose. Must have ticked Mayweather off to get stuck with the stubborn Christian-turned-informant. “Mr. Hansen, I really don't want to repeat myself again.”

“Release me, then. All I'm asking is for you to honor the deal.”

“So you got desperate enough to turn in a fellow … believer.” His mouth pursed around the word. “Before you're released, we need to be certain of your philosophical standing.”

He couldn't answer that, not when he himself wasn't certain. He rested his head on his arms, the way Khloe did when she was done with the world. He spoke down to the tabletop.

“I want to see my daughter.”

“We've talked about this. Over and over.”

“Yeah, well, you're not getting any answers without her.”

“You mentioned that.”

“Still true.”

If Clay were a less civilized man, he'd have decked this guy hours ago. Lopez deserved decking. But Clay embraced the self-control that had lasted this long. If he stood up from this chair, even to stretch his legs, he might get too close, be tempted to take a swing. And that would get him nothing but a spot on the re-education list. He hunched in his chair and crossed his arms.

The red phone rang. Lopez huffed and ambled to the window wall to pick it up. “Yeah.” Pause. “You think that's going to accomplish anything?”

Was Mayweather on the other side of that window?

“Fine.” Lopez hung up the phone and resumed his seat across the table. “You mentioned that Brenner said we didn't have your daughter.”

“I know what I mentioned.” Hours ago, when they'd first herded him into this room, when he'd had energy to challenge them.

“Well, when I said he was lying,
I
was lying.”

Clay's wrung out brain had to replay those words. Twice. “You don't have Khloe.”

“Never did.”

The chair crashed behind him. His hands flattened on the table as he leaned toward Lopez. “Where's my daughter?”

“If we knew, we'd have her in custody.”

“That charm, the silver heart.”

“We have multiple sources of information, of course. Someone knew your daughter collects them.”

He spun, kicked the chair, waited for the handcuffs to emerge while it skidded across the carpet, but Lopez didn't move. Clay dug his knuckles into his eyes. The right thing—he'd lit it on fire and watched it turn to ashes.

“You're still searching for her?”

“Actually, while we do lie sometimes, we also tell the truth sometimes. All depends on what we want. Your bargaining chip scored big, I'm sure that doesn't shock you. Agent Mayweather had the search called off for Natalia and Khloe. And for Violet.”

Weariness, relief, maybe even gratitude wobbled his knees. He righted the chair and fell into it.
Have to get out of here.

“He's willing to honor the rest of the agreement as well.” Lopez glanced at the window as if he could see outside.

“The rest of the agreement?”

“Your freedom too, Clay. It's just not unconditional.”

“Whatever you want.”

Lopez twirled the stirrer in his coffee mug. His voice shifted to recitation, like a kid who knew the words by heart but couldn't define them. And didn't care to. “I want you to admit that God doesn't pick and choose who gets to heaven. That He doesn't dictate which path we follow to get to Him. That sin is less about God and more about how we condemn ourselves.”

Elysium dogma. The stuff he used to mock, the stuff he used to pray wouldn't sink into the minds of his wife and his daughter. But really, did it matter?

“If you cling to your Christian beliefs, then we obviously can't let you go.”

Okay, God, they didn't get Khloe. Maybe You did keep her safe. But You also let Natalia leave me.
If he gave God credit for one thing, he had to hold Him accountable for the other. The scales tipped back and forth. He closed his eyes, shut out the walls, the phone, the window, the table. Inside him, a storm cloud spun.

“Mr. Hansen, at this point, what happens next is up to you.”

Maybe it always had been.

Clay opened his eyes, lifted them to the white ceiling tiles, the fluorescent lights. In the far corner, a light panel flickered. They'd have to replace it soon.

God, it's time You did something, really did something. If You kept Khloe free, if You really did heal her ten years ago, if You've been with me all this time and I haven't just wanted You to be …

“Mr. Hansen?”

Get me out of here.
Clay waited. God could do it however He chose. Call Agent Lopez away and leave the door open. Cause a blackout so that Clay could sneak through the doorway, down corridors to a generator-powered exit sign. Shoot, an earthquake would be fine too.

The light panel hummed.

You see me, don't You? But You're not going to do anything for me.

“All right, Mr. Hansen, we'll be moving you to a secure facility where you'll be enrolled in re-education for no less than ninety days.”

“Forget it.”

“Excuse me?” Lopez's dark eyebrows crinkled.

“I've given God the last ten years. He doesn't get the next three months. I'm not going to re-education.”

“If you're going to give a recanting statement, we need it in writing.”

He was ready. The end of something throbbed in his chest, but when he told it to stop, it did. This would be a new life, free from the helpless pleading that God would come through. Free from the obligation to trust and obey.

Clay held out his hand, palm up. “Just get me a pen.”

43

Maybe Violet should be crying like Belinda, whose weeping overflowed from the dining room. Chuck had shepherded her in there when she looked ready to fold over. But instead of sorrow, a numbness spread from the center of Violet, stretching toward her toes and fingers.
They killed him.
She angled a glance at Lee, who still stood framed by the bay window. Fingers laced behind her back. Poised like a sculpture.

“Lee?” If anyone should be crying …

Lee pivoted toward her, stiff but dry-eyed. “Yes?”

“I'm sorry. I know you … I mean, obviously, he was your friend.” At the very least.

“Thank you.”

“Is Belinda … Will she be …?”
Okay
was a stupid word to use in this situation.

“He made her dining-room set.”

The sturdy table, the carved chair backs. Violet tried to picture the time and care required for a project like that.

He was really gone? None of them would see him again?

“Lee, maybe she's right. Maybe Marcus got away.”

“I can't logically account for his silence in that case.”

“Well, what if he got hurt somehow and he's in the hospital right now?”

“The Constabulary thought of this. According to my contact, only one patient admitted in the last day has matched his description. It was not him.”

“Okay, so maybe he—”

Khloe skidded into the room and froze. “What in the world? What's wrong with Belinda? Did somebody die or something?”

“Yeah,” Violet said. “Marcus.”

“Wh-what? How did … What—just now?”

“Today, yeah. They arrested him and then they killed him.”

The words sank in at last, through layers of denial. Images burned in front of her eyes even when she shut them, the different ways they might have killed him, his eyes open and glazed. Her stomach churned.

“But …” Khloe plopped down on the kitchen rug. “He's dead? He's actually dead?”

Lee swept past her and headed for the front door.

Violet trailed her down the hallway and ignored Khloe's quavering “Violet?”

Lee stood before the open front door. Rain poured now, pelted, the kind of drops that punched ricochet marks in the dirt. It poured down one side of the porch awning with a waterfall sound that mingled with the storm of Belinda's crying.

“Um, Lee.”

No movement, no response.

Violet stooped and picked up the Bible, fallen to the floor next to her mostly empty duffel bag. She stepped around the mound of clothes, stayed to one side of Lee and held out the book.

“Here. This isn't mine. He—he would want you to have it.”

Lee spoke to the rain. “He gave it to you.”

“But he didn't know this would—”

She blinked once, slowly.

Nothing Violet said was helping. Good grief, nothing anybody said would help right now. From the dining room, Belinda quieted. Violet held the Bible out to Lee again, and not only because it belonged to Marcus.

“I think you should read it.”

The mask rippled. Lee half turned. “You have experienced a conversion.”

“I … well, I've been reading. I started in Matthew. I got to Acts.”

“You are a Christian.”

“What? No, I … I mean, I'm …” Her breath caught on a searing in her chest. It wasn't a government label. It was what the true followers labeled themselves. So, if she was following the true Jesus, then … “Okay, yeah. I guess I'm a Christian.”

Past the porch, tires ground on gravel. Violet ducked from the doorway, but Lee stood still. Violet reached for her hand and tugged her out of the way. Lee jerked her hand back, eyes sparking with some emotion that she quenched before Violet could name it.

“What if it's con-cops, Lee, what do we do?”

“It isn't.”

Violet peered around the doorway. A red Jeep came to a halt halfway up the drive. Clay stepped out and traipsed through the rain, up to the house. He didn't look as tall as he had a week ago. His eyes landed on her, and he broke into that rolling lope, up the steps, right into the house. He lifted her off the floor in a strong hug that smelled like soap and tasted like tears. Her tears.

44

“Where's Khloe?” Clay's whole body waited for Violet's answer—his breath, his heartbeat, the arms he'd wrapped around her. His other daughter. She wouldn't be here unless Khloe was here too. But in her pause, he still couldn't breathe.

“Dad?”

Khloe's high voice pierced him straight through. She barreled down the hallway, would have crashed into them, but Violet stepped out of his hug and to one side.

Khloe latched onto him like a toddler. “Dad … Dad … Daddy.”

Her arms squeezed out his breath, and she sobbed into his T-shirt. She stood level with his chest, but in his arms she was a bright pink infant, still wrinkled from her watery first home, testing her lungs with a scream. She was a four-year-old who couldn't stop screaming with the pain of an enlarging tumor in her head, and she was a five-year-old throwing up on his shirt and smelling like a hospital even when she was home, and she was a healthy first-grader who could run and laugh and demand rides on the park carousel. She was a middle schooler in high heels and makeup because she wanted to look older, and you couldn't say no to that when half of you still feared she'd never
be
older.

“Don't leave, Daddy.”

“No, no,” he whispered to her. She gulped away tears. “Never, baby.”

“Where's Mom?” She peeked around him, beyond the open front door.

He rubbed Khloe's back to keep from scooping her up in his arms. “She didn't come with me.”

“But where is she?”

“She'll be with us soon.”

Khloe pulled back from his arms and stared up into his face. Her lower lip quivered. “Re-ed?”

“No, Khloe. She—she decided she needed a little time. It was—it was really hard, baby. Without you.”

“She doesn't know you came to get me?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, let's call her.” Khloe grabbed his hand and tried to pull him down the hall, toward what looked like the kitchen.

“Not here.” A cold female voice snapped through their blind reunion.

A woman around thirty stood against the far wall, black hair layered short, gray eyes watching without expression. Had she been standing there the whole time? Her eyes brushed over Clay, frosty with … warning. Then she pushed away from the wall and left the room.

Khloe's grip tightened around his hand. “It's not like the con-cops are bugging the phone.”

“No, Lee's right.” Violet grimaced as if she'd said something wrong.

Khloe's glare sliced her like a laser, and Violet glanced toward the wall. He'd sort the details of their falling out later. Or better yet, Natalia could. Not the first time she'd forced them—well, usually Khloe—to “talk it through.”

“We'll call her on the drive.”

The woman must be a resistance member. Why she and Violet had been standing in the open doorway as if waiting for him, why the owners of the home—Chuck and Beverly, was it?—hadn't shown their faces yet … Clay tried to be curious, but the gaunt truth was that nothing mattered. Not the resistance, not its leader who probably sat in some interrogation room being pressured to sign a recanting of his faith. Not any of these people, only
his
people.

“Are you ready to go?”

Khloe nodded hard, as if she had to convince him. He turned to Violet, but she stepped back.

“No,” Khloe said. “Violet doesn't come.”