“What have I done? I have no idea what happened to that boy. Or his brother. Did they get caught? They’re strangers, for God’s sake, and I just recklessly put them in harm’s way to help us escape.”
“Listen, those are country boys. You know what Hank Williams Jr. says is true. Of course they survived. And if the guards caught someone trying to help us, don’t you think Mr. Wonderful out there would have come in here and given us another lecture? That boy got away, Lynn. Whether or not he was sober enough to do anything with that phone number is another story.”
Lynn started walking again. Morning had come, and with it a breakfast on trays served by an agent who refused to speak to them. But he had, at least, parted the curtains to allow in some natural light.
“Wonder what they’ll bring us for lunch,” Roxy muttered. “Food is usually the one thing I have to look forward to, so at least that’s normal. Can I request Papa John’s?”
Lynn hated the feeling. Even when William had first disappeared, and in those awful, dark days in Argentum, she had never felt unhinged. But she felt it rising, now, like a fever. The walls around her weren’t closing in, per se, but the room felt tighter.
The weight of the shadow was growing. She felt it. It had to be tied in to what was happening to William. She had to find him. Giving the number to that young hunter may have been reckless and potentially fruitless, but she’d had to risk it.
“Roxy, I hate that you’re here—”
“Nope.” Roxy shook her head. “I can tell by the tone of your voice what you’re about to say. You know I’d be even more angry if I’d shown up at the house and I couldn’t find you. Kate is just worried; she doesn’t want you caught up in what William’s going through, so she holed you up here.”
“They’ve gotten to her. I know I sound irrational, but it’s true. She doesn’t know the truth. She’s never believed it. Anne and Chris and the boys must have called and realized I’m not answering my phone. They’ll know something is wrong.”
“Then it will get to the point where Kate can’t leave you here without an explanation—Now, what the hell is that?”
Roxy pointed out the window. Lynn turned to the sight that once made her skin crawl. But now the large vans with the bold call letters of networks and local stations, following each other like some kind of parade, stilled her breath in her throat.
They kept coming, one after another, turning off the frontage road and heading down the long gravel driveway.
Both women hurried to the window, watching as the trucks began to stop. The passenger and driver’s-side doors flew open, men and women in fashionable suits rushed alongside drivers in jeans and ball caps, gathering their equipment.
Like a tiny grand marshal, the Volvo that had led them in now parked directly in front of the home. As one of the security officers rushed out, a small woman, her hair in a fierce ponytail, waved her hand to the media to gather.
Lynn had to force herself to both breathe and not cry, watching her youngest daughter stand before the burly and enraged agent.
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is classic Stella,” Roxy said with admiration.
Lynn reached for the door, seeing one of the agents running from the yard towards them. But Lynn was closer, and rushed out into courtyard with Roxy behind.
“Stella!” Lynn cried out.
As the agent began to berate Stella for being on private property, she pointed to her mother and called out to the photographers.
“You wanted proof of my mother being held against her will? There she is. And sorry, sir, you don’t have a no-trespassing sign posted outside. In fact, according to this,” she said, thrusting a thick file at his chest, “this home is owned by Senator Glenn Scotter, who died twenty years ago and bequeathed this home to the government for out-of-town dignitaries, which in my book, makes it government property and therefore public property. We’ll do it right here, guys, once you get video of that man who wants to push my mother and her friend inside.”
The agent Stella was pointing to, towards whom the photographers had swerved their lenses, had stopped at the edge of courtyard. Lynn met the guard’s eyes for a moment. It was clear they were trained to secure prisoners and even kill, but not in how to respond to a swarm of reporters.
“Perhaps while this fine government employee reaches out to his agency’s lawyer, we’ll have this quick news conference,” Stella said. “Start streaming, folks, because here we go.”
As the multicolored mic flags were thrust before her, Stella put her hands on her hips. “My thanks to the news organizations who responded to my announcement. Quick introduction: I am Stella Roseworth, the daughter of Lynn Roseworth and my late father, Senator Tom Roseworth. As I indicated, this brief statement will concern the unfair seizure of my mother and our dear family friend by the government. Should you doubt it, let me ask her myself. Mom, are you being held here against your will?”
The reporters strained their mics in Lynn’s direction, for she still stood a good yard or so away.
Lynn raised her voice. “Yes I am.”
Even from this distance, she could see the eyes of the reporters widen.
Stella nodded. “So let me reiterate: My mother was taken into custody by the government against her will. It is unclear which agency has done this. I would not summon you all here today without proof. And so, seeing this, you will understand why I am taking my mother out of here.”
Stella outstretched her hand. “Mom, Roxy, come on.”
Lynn couldn’t hear what the agent hissed to Stella, but she saw her daughter flinch.
“My mother is under government protection? Protection from what?” Stella said. “We’re all here, sir. And we’d like to hear it.”
“Which agency do you work for?” a reporter called out.
“Why is Lynn Roseworth being held here?” another yelled.
Lynn grabbed Roxy’s arm and led her across the grass. As the agent rushed towards them, the photographers did as well. Trained to capture footage of riots and shootings, they saw no challenge in getting video of two seventy-nine-year-old women crossing a yard.
Stella was even quicker, bolting from the agent. He reached out for her, but running six miles a day made her difficult to catch.
As they reached each other, Stella brought both women into a fierce embrace, the media swarming like a barrier between the women and the guard.
With reporters and photographers in their faces, yelling questions while dictating the events into their phones and cameras, Stella led Lynn and Roxy towards her Volvo.
As the furious agent tried to muscle through the cluster of cameras and microphones, Stella threw open the door and ushered them into the back seat. The agent broke through, reaching for her.
She swung open her own door, his hand slamming against her window. She slid in and ignited the locks.
The agent pounded on the window, ordering her to stop.
With the cameras pointing in, Stella uttered a curse so offensive that, if it could have been heard through the windshield and above the chaos, would have caused the networks sensors broadcasting the event to scramble to bleep. Instead, the world of social media scrambled to make a GIF of it, ending with Stella throwing the car into reverse.
For a brief moment, Lynn caught the agent’s eyes. She knew he was remembering her words from the day before. You don’t know what I’m capable of doing.
Lynn nodded once to him as the car backed away.
The surreal feeling of being the only vehicle on a highway in the middle of the day, an experience usually reserved for weary overnight truck drivers on holidays, was heightened by the repeated, crackling, robotic voice on the radio.