Footsteps approached and the door swung open. I recognized her silhouette in the doorway and suddenly a snatch of a forgotten song flitted through my brain-
— standing in that doorway like a dream-
“Laddie? Baby? Ye all right?”
“Was that a shot?” I croaked.
She came to the bedside and handed me a glass of water. I wrapped my hands around hers and tipped the glass. I sipped at first, then drank greedily. In between small gulps, I smelled the cordite on her hands.
“Are ye well enough to travel?”
“I don’t know. Where are we?”
“A vet clinic.”
“A vet…you’re kidding me.”
“No. It was all I could find.”
I took another sip of water. “A vet clinic where?”
“Some small town. Deer something.”
“Deer Park?”
“That’s it.”
So we made it about fifteen miles north of River City. I must have passed out and she probably got scared. “What made you think of a vet?”
“I saw it in a movie once.”
In a movie. Unbelievable.
“What did the doc…I mean, what did the vet say?”
“That yer lucky. Ye bled a lot but no major organs were hit. He doped ye up and sewed things up as best he could. Ye’ve been sleepin’ nigh on three days.”
I tried to wrap my mind around that. It seemed more like one long night. “He didn’t mind helping?”
Even in the dim light, I saw the mischievous smile playing on her face. “He took a bit of convincing, that one. But he came ‘round. Shut down his practice and took himself a little vacation.”
I drank some more water, amazed. I wondered how she managed it all and how we were going to keep him quiet after…
“Oh, no,” I said.
“No what?”
“You shot him, didn’t you? That was the gunshot I heard. You shot the doc.”
“The vet, ye mean?”
“Whatever. Did you?”
She leaned in close to me and in the dim room, her eyes appeared flat and black. “He saw our faces, Laddie. He knew ye were shot. A feckin’ idjit could connect the dots.”
“You shoulda dropped me at the ER,” I said, unable to turn away from her gaze. I shuddered involuntarily and a spike of pain fired from my wound.
“I’m not gonna lose ye,” she said in a harsh whisper. “Not ever.”
Her words made me feel wonderful and terrible all at once.
Shae helped me dress. The jeans were mine but the T-shirt must have been the vet’s. It hung off me loosely. I draped my arm over her shoulders as we made our way out to the Datsun. The vet had a nice place out in the country, one I thought Shae and I could be happy at, if we could ever stop rolling. But maybe that flow was what made us…us.
Her small, strong hands braced me as I lowered myself into the passenger seat. Once my legs were inside, she closed the door and came around to the driver’s side. I slumped in the seat and pressed my forehead to the cool window glass. She pulled the car out onto Highway 395 and headed north at fifty-five miles per hour. I stared out the window at the passing scenery, mostly farmland and trees. Inside of an hour, we’d be at Murph’s and I could lie low and recover.
We didn’t speak during the drive, but when her hand came to rest on my knee, I covered it with my own, and squeezed.
I couldn’t refuse her, and never wanted to.
A New Life
I don’t believe in love at first sight. Not a bit. I believe a girl can have a crush at first sight, true. But I haven’t been a girl in many years. And I don’t have time for crushes.
Still, what is it that draws us together in this messed up world? Makes bad decisions seem like great ones, simply because of who we’re with? What is it about another person that can take all the mundane, crude, cheap and bitter moments in this life and somehow make them seem magical?
I wish I knew. If I’d have known, maybe I would have found a way to avoid it.
Then again, maybe not.
The flight across the Atlantic was restless. I kept waking up at every small noise, just sure that some kind of cop was going to put the grab on me. None appeared, though, and all I had to contend with was a snuffling old fart next to me and a whiny kid two rows over.
Somewhere over Greenland, the old guy “accidentally” brushed the side of my breast with his hand.
I leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Ye do that again, Da’, and you’ll be eating and wiping yerself left handed the rest o’ yer days.”
He tensed and his eyes flared open slightly.
I smiled sweetly.
Lucky old duffer. If I hadn’t been lying low, he’d have been nursing a broken finger instead of a bruised ego.
The hairiest part of the trip was changing planes in Montreal. If there’d been more time, I would have booked a flight into any other province but Quebec. All the French, I stood out like an empty pint. Time wasn’t always a luxury, though. Sometimes you have to make do. Go with the flow.
I handed my Irish passport to the customs official at the airport and flashed him my best Emerald Isle smile. I’d already taken the time to undo an extra button on my blouse.
“S'il vous plait,” I said, letting my brogue butcher the French language. I never had much use for the French. Too much wine. Not enough fight. It’s no wonder they got their arses kicked twice last century.
He smiled at me, shot a predictable but appreciative glance down at my cleavage, then gave my passport the once over. “An-jay-lah Queen?”
I squinted. After a moment, I realized he was reading the name on the passport. Not my name, to be sure, but as good a name as any. “Aye, that’s me. Angela Quinn.”
He said something in French. I didn’t understand the words, but the tone was easy to decipher. He’d slipped into pick-up mode.
“Sorry, lad,” I told him. “The only French word left in my arsenal is merci. And I don’t have anything to thank you for yet.”
He smiled, baring his cigarette-stained teeth at me. “I say, what brings you to our fair country?”
“Visiting family.”
“Ah,” he replied, his smile growing. “Here in Montreal?”
I shook my head. “Vancouver.”
His smile faded. “That is too bad. Perhaps you have a layover, no?”
“No. I have a connecting flight.”
He pressed his lips together in disappointment. “What a pity.”
I smiled. “’Tis. I could have used a good knee trembler after such a long flight.”
He scrunched his eyebrows. “Pardon?”
“A knee trembler,” I repeated. I motioned toward the wall. “You know, there up against the wall. Up on your tip toes so hard, it makes your knees tremble?”
He flushed red with understanding. He hurriedly stamped my passport and handed it to me.
“Merci,” I said sweetly.
“Next!” he barked.
Serves him right. Goddamn French, anyway.
The walk through the Montreal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport kept me on my toes, though not in the way I’d teased the gaping customs agent with. Every time I saw a uniform moving toward me, my knees trembled. I kept expecting a grab at my elbow and a French accent asking me to “come this way, madam.”
What would I do? Fight here? Run? Bluff?
I was tired of all three. The Troubles just beats it out of you.
I arrived at my gate without a problem. I sat and pretended to read a paperback romance while I watched people traffic.
No law was interested in me.
At least I would see the uniforms coming. If one of Sinn Fein came at me, I might not know until the last moment. Still, much of the foot traffic consisted of very French-looking people. I didn’t see many faces that could have been Irish. And none of them seemed to pay me any mind.
Maybe I’d gotten away clean.
I forced that thought down. When I made it to Uncle Terry’s, that’s when I could afford to think about being safe. Until then, thoughts of safety only clouded my thinking, made me less sharp. And until I was clear, I needed to stay alert.