Girl of Rage (21 page)

She shook her head. “Anglican,” she said. “But not devout. The only thing he believes in is himself.”

“Teach him as best you can. Perhaps through your daughter.”

Adelina knew the advice was sound, but all the same, it made her want to vomit. She felt more desperate than ever.

“I will,” she whispered. “What is my penance?”

“I’d like you to read First Peter, chapter three, and think on the instructions given within. Not just of wives, but also of husbands. You’re subject to him, but you can also set an example, and bring him to the Lord.”

She nearly recoiled from him. She would read the verses. But they frightened her.

“Yes, Father.”

He brought her the book and they read it together. As they read the words, she felt fresh tears begin to stream down her face.

Wives, in the same way, accept the authority of your husbands, so that, even if some of them do not obey the word, they may be won over without a word by their wives’
conduct when they see the purity and reverence in their lives.

The words made her angry. She felt her fists clench, and her first thoughts were rebellious. She didn’t want to be an example to Richard. She wanted to
hurt
him. She wanted to walk away. She wanted him to go to hell.

She closed her eyes. Mary hadn’t taken the easy way out. When she realized the fullness of God’s plans for her child, she didn’t run away. She didn’t hide her child. She let him be raised up, exalted, hammered to the Cross in shame and disgrace and terror and pain.

Adelina didn’t have that sort of courage. She could admire it. She could wish for it. But how was she to live it?

Father Dennis began to pray. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Adelina bowed her head and choked out the word, “Amen.”

As she left the church, she kept thinking to herself that she felt no relief. She felt no guidance. God and the Church expected her to simply be submissive, to let Richard continue to do whatever he wanted.

It was wrong. It was
so
wrong. She found herself running as she exited the front door and rushed down the front steps. It was cold again, winter returning with fierceness, a chill biting right through her inadequate clothes. The sky was nearly black with dark, roiling clouds. Her heels clicked on the front steps as she ran down them, barely paying attention to what she was doing. Tears ran down her face, and she began to sob as she started to sprint.

But then she came to a sudden stop. Because a car stood next to the curb, and standing next to it, blocking her way with an open and hopeful expression on his face, was George-Phillip Windsor.

Andrea. May 2. 1:45 pm.

“I’m getting kind of hungry,” Andrea said.

“Yeah, me too,” Dylan said. “We’ll get something after this.”

As he spoke, his eyes scanned the desks where the library patrons sat at the computers. Just to be on the safe side, they’d taken the Washington Metro out to the Virginia suburbs. The library was busy, and the dozen computers lined up on three long tables were all in use. The library was well lit by long lines of overhead fluorescent lights, and the place was crowded. At the opposite end of the building, a large crowd of children sat in a circle around the librarian, who was reading a story. Young mothers stood nearby, some of them chatting, others reading, all of them looking relieved to have a few minutes’ break from their children during story-time.

“There,” Dylan muttered.

A woman at one of the computer tables stood and shouldered her bag, then walked away.

Andrea breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the woman hadn’t logged out. They’d been surprised to learn that access to the computers in the library required a current library card—which neither of them had.

She followed Dylan as he slumped into the seat and opened up a web browser. He started with
The Washington Post.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Andrea felt her eyes widen. The entire front page of the website was devoted to the attack on the Thompsons, underneath a huge headline.

Secretary of Defense Elect’s Family Homes Attacked

Adelina Thompson, Two Children Missing: Sources Speculate Drug Connection

Underneath the headline were smaller stories and photographs, including individual photos of her mother, Jessica, Dylan, and Andrea. Andrea felt her breath accelerate as she squeezed in beside Dylan and looked at the story. The newspaper also had photos of the entrance to the Bethesda condo and the burned out house in San Francisco.

“Jesus,” Dylan muttered again. His voice was low. “I talked to your mother last night. Just for a second—that’s when the shooting started.”

“Do you think she’s hurt?” Andrea whispered.

“Probably on the run,” he said. “She called to warn us to get you out. It was just too late.”

“What the hell is going on?”

He shook his head. “Beats me. All I know is, we’re staying under the radar until we know more. Check this out.” He pointed.

One of the several articles described a press conference that morning. It didn’t make any sense. Richard Thompson was accused of corruption and money laundering. The feds had put out a warrant for her
arrest
as a conspirator.

“That’s what the drugs were about,” he said, “and the money.” He looked at her. “I bet the bills we have are marked somehow.”

She nodded. “Maybe we can go … I don’t know … buy a bunch of prepaid credit cards?”

“Not too many in any one place. If the money gets tracked—say through a bank—it might link back to the card. We’ll buy a few at a time in several different places, I think. And … new clothes. Haircuts.”

“You could use a shave,” Andrea said.

Dylan grinned, his teeth showing up white in the midst of a darkening beard. “That’s what Alex always says. But that photo shows me clean shaven, so I’m gonna let it grow.”

“We can’t go back to the hotel.”

“Nope,” he said. “Pretty soon they’ll match up the fingerprints, if not today, then tomorrow. And then the surveillance cameras will show up on the Metro.”

She grimaced. “What do we do?”

“Hold on. I’m not out of options yet. But once we’re finished here, we’ve got to book.”

He turned back to the computer and opened up Facebook, then logged in. Then he typed in a name: Christopher Mendoza.

The page that came up showed a grinning man with short-cropped black hair and a five o’clock shadow, wearing a grey sweatshirt with the word ARMY on it. The
About
section on the page said, “US Army, Arlington, Virginia.”

“Who is that?” Andrea asked.

“Old friend,” Dylan replied. He opened up a message box and typed in the message:
What’s up, Border Bunny?

The response was nearly immediate:
Redneck motherfucker. What do you want?

Andrea sucked in a breath. What did
Border Bunny
mean?
Motherfucker
she could figure out.

Dylan:
Calling in a favor. Priority 1. Need help now.

Mendoza:
Wut u need?

Dylan:
Place to sleep. And a ride. I’ll explain later, but if
you help me you could go to jail.

Mendoza:
Sick. Where?

Dylan:
Clarendon Metro. 3 pm.

Mendoza:
See you, Bacon Bits.

Dylan laughed silently, then typed in the search bar. Alex Paris. Andrea’s sister’s profile showed up immediately. Dylan pulled up the message box and typed in:
Andrea and I are alive and well. In hiding. I’ll be back in touch
as
soon as possible. Stay low. Keep your status updated so I know you’re okay. Love u.

Then he logged out without waiting for an answer. He looked over his shoulder, then pulled up the drop down menu. Delete cookies. Delete history. Then he logged out of the computer.

“All right. Let’s go.” He stood, and Andrea followed. Both of them walked as casually as possible toward the door of the library. Andrea could see Dylan was nervous. Like he thought someone was watching them, or they were in danger. His back was tense, muscles in his arms bunched up, his neck tightly wound.

She touched his arm and he froze. “Is something wrong?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Come on,” he said. His voice was curt, almost rude.

She didn’t understand why he was always such a prick. What did Alexandra see in him?

She followed him anyway. What choice did she have? Once they were outside, he turned quickly to the right and walked down the sidewalk. A cool wind was beginning to blow, and since they’d been in the library, the sky had become much more cloudy.

Lips compressed tightly, he walked. His right leg was a little stiff—the leg that had been nearly destroyed during the war.

“One of the librarians was watching us as she talked on the phone. She was sweating.”

“You think she recognized us?”

“Yeah. We gotta get to the Metro right now. Cops might be on their way already.”

She nodded. They were less than half a block from the station entrance.

That’s when she heard the sirens.

“Shit,” he muttered. He didn’t falter, his legs moving, one step in front of the other. “Mess up your hair,” he said conversationally. “In your face a little.”

He turned and walked backward, casually lighting a cigarette. A police car rounded the corner, drove past the Metro station, and then passed them. Another sped past. Both police cars had their blue lights flashing, but no siren.

He took a deep drag from the cigarette and turned around again. “Come on.” He ducked into the entrance to the Metro station, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and swiped the Metro card he’d purchased from a machine earlier that day. She followed.

The inside of the station was crowded. It wasn’t quite time for rush hour, but there were far more people in the station than they’d seen when they arrived an hour before. Dylan led her down the escalator to the platform, then stood leaning against a pillar. She leaned against it too, facing him.

“I’m worried, Dylan,” she whispered.

He grimaced. “It’s going to be okay.”

He said the words, but she could see his eyes, and Dylan was a terrible liar.

“You don’t look like you mean it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t. Ray used to say that shit to me. It’s gonna be okay. Don’t worry, he’d say. It’s all good. But sometimes it’s not.” He looked away.

Andrea sighed. First rule of being on the run with Dylan: don’t tell him when you’re feeling anxious. Because he can’t help.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Yeah, right. She turned away from him. She could feel wind blowing from the tunnel, and a moment later saw headlights. With a loud roar of brakes and a rush of wind, the train entered the station.

She turned to him as the train was coming to a stop. “I know you lost your friend, Dylan. But you need to get yourself together. You’ve got a lot more you
could
lose.”

His mouth opened, but he didn’t say any words. She walked away and stepped on board the train. He followed a moment later. A loud ringing peal burst from the overhead speakers, and the doors closed with a thumb. She scanned the car. No seats, so she wrapped her left hand around one of the stainless steel poles. Dylan took the pole opposite the car from her and glared.

As the train pulled out, he said, “What exactly does that mean?”

She sighed. “I’m worried. I’m worried because you sound like a pessimist and you look like a drunk and my life depends on you. That’s what it means.”

“I’m the guy who took those killers on with a knife to protect you,” he muttered.

“I know that, Dylan. Don’t think I’m ungrateful. I’m telling you, I’m worried about you. You know my sisters said it too. Carrie said you haven’t been the same since Ray died.”