“Of course. I didn’t think you might have actually found me attractive.” It was a juvenile response, and I regretted it as soon as it left my mouth.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She gave a short laugh and then sighed. “That was the problem, Lincoln-I do find you attractive. In so many ways. In every way. I’ve known you for one day, and yet I’m incredibly drawn to you. And I feel that’s wrong. It is wrong, considering the circumstances. But I can’t help it. You came to me when I needed someone, and you have all the qualities I’d always… I’d always thought my husband had,” she finished softly.
We sat in an awkward silence after that. After a few minutes I realized she was crying. I didn’t move toward her this time, though. I’d learned my lesson. Eventually, she reached out and took my hand in hers, brought it away from the steering wheel and to her face. She kissed my fingertips softly, her lips so warm they seemed to sear my flesh. A few of her tears fell to my skin as well. It was an appropriate mix. She placed my hand back on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, leaned back in the seat, and closed her eyes.
Then it was just me and the road. The traffic was sparse, and I stayed in the left lane with the cruise control set on seventy-five. Fast enough to make good time, but not fast enough on the interstate to attract attention from police. I watched carefully for them, and once I saw a state police car headed in the opposite direction, but it did not slow.
The dashboard clock rolled over to midnight, and a song lyric popped into my head: lonely midnight drivers, drifting out to sea. Who did the song? What was the song? I couldn’t remember either answer, but there that line was, trapped in my mind. Funny.
We crossed over the state line early in the morning and then spent two hours driving through North Carolina before entering Virginia. The entire eastern seaboard in an exciting midnight tour. Police drove past and didn’t slow. Julie and Betsy slept soundly. I stopped once to fill the car with gas, and I called Joe. He answered immediately, and I realized guiltily that he probably hadn’t slept at all, waiting for my call. I told him what had happened, and I told him I hoped to be in Cleveland later that morning. We wished each other well, and then I drove on, a lonely midnight driver drifting out to… to what? A quick, simple solution, I thought optimistically. I didn’t believe it, though. Not even for a second.
Dawn broke as I pushed us through the mountains in West Virginia. The hills came up out of a gray mist, becoming more defined with each passing minute, the fog and shadows fading as the sun rose and burned them away. My mind was still alert, but my body had begun to ache-the hours of sitting in the cramped Contour combining with the lack of sleep to make me long for a bed and some hours to enjoy it. Julie woke around six, stretched, and smiled sleepily at me.
“I can’t believe I slept that long,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed awake to help you pass the time.”
“I wouldn’t have been much for conversation anyhow,” I said. “My brain was pretty much dead to everything but the highway in front of me. I was surprised that you didn’t wake up when I stopped for gas, though.”
“You stopped for gas?” she said, and then laughed. “Has my daughter stirred?”
“Not once.”
“Good.”
We drove on for a while, and then I noticed the needle on the gas gauge was creeping toward empty once again. This was the longest stretch of driving I’d done in years, and the thing that most surprised me was how quickly the gas seemed to disappear. I stopped at an exit that boasted several gas stations and a Cracker Barrel restaurant. The Cracker Barrel meant coffee. Coffee would be very nice after ten hours on the road.
Betsy stumbled out of the car groggily after Julie woke her. She stood in the parking lot and rubbed her eyes with her tiny fists, then gave a great yawn, opening her mouth so wide I thought I could drop a basketball into it.
“Where is we?” she asked with all the energy ofa sloth.
“Where are we,” Julie corrected, and I wanted to laugh. We were driving through the mountains, hiding from gun-wielding thugs and even the police, and Julie was still correcting her daughter’s grammar. Priorities.
“We’re in West Virginia,” I said. “Do you know where that is?”
“Of course,” Betsy said as if I’d asked her if she knew her own name. Oops. Never underestimate the children.
“Are we going home?” she asked, and Julie and I exchanged a glance.
“We’re not going home, exactly,” Julie said, and I was relieved that she’d decided to field the question. “But we’re going to be close.”
“Do I get to see Daddy?”
Julie’s smile stayed in place. “Let’s go eat, honey. You’re wearing me out with all these questions. It’s too early for them.”
Betsy shrugged and started for the restaurant, then stopped and stared at me. I followed her eyes and saw she was looking at my shirt, where a cluster of tiny dried drops of blood remained.
“What happened?” she said.
“I had a nosebleed while you were asleep. Nothing to worry about.” I looked away from her. If there’s anything that feels worse than lying, it’s lying to a little girl. We went inside the Cracker Barrel, my legs wooden and awkward as they propelled me across the parking lot. Yeah, I’d been in that damned Contour for too long.
I had scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and six cups of coffee. The coffee was strong and rich, and it rejuvenated me, giving a sharper edge to my mind and making the morning feel more like the start of a new day instead of the continuation of a long, strange night. Julie had an omelet, and Betsy ate silver-dollar pancakes drenched in an obscene amount of syrup. Kids. I’d chosen the wrong profession, all right. If I’d wanted to make money, I should have been a dentist. She didn’t ask about her father again, which surprised me. Most of the young children I’d known weren’t prone to giving up on a question like that until they’d received a satisfactory answer. Maybe she’d sensed some note of warning in her mother’s voice, or maybe she’d asked the question so many times in the past few days she was giving up on the satisfactory answer. Or maybe she was just distracted by the pancakes.
“Honey, why don’t you go to the bathroom?” Julie said when her daughter was done eating. “We’re going to be in the car for quite a while again.”
“Okay.” Betsy left her plateful of syrup and went to the bathroom, and Julie turned to me.
“So what’s the plan for the day?”
“We’re meeting my partner outside the city,” I said. “Then the three of us will sit down and talk.”
“What about your reporter friend?”
I was surprised she’d brought up Amy. “I can ask her to join us,” I said. “Is that something you want?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, I think that is definitely something I want.”
I sipped my coffee. “I see. Would you mind telling me why?”
“Why I want the reporter involved?” When I nodded, she said, “Insurance, I guess.”
“Insurance?”
“Yes. For example, if anything were to happen to me-if, heaven forbid, the police screwed up, or Hubbard paid them off-my story would still be told. I’d like to know that.”
“You’re more scared of Hubbard than of the Russians, aren’t you?”
She held my eyes for a second and then nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I am. He killed my husband, Lincoln. You don’t have to believe that, but I know it’s true. And I know my husband was scared of him, too. My cocky, brave husband, who always thought he was invincible, was scared of Jeremiah Hubbard. So scared that he preferred to throw his life away-throw our life away-rather than upset the man. You think Wayne avoided the police because he was afraid of the Russians?” She shook her head emphatically. “No way. He was concerned about them, obviously, but the only person who scared him was Jeremiah Hubbard.”