of course. If he can’t protect you, maybe he can at least provide you with the money to start a new life somewhere, with a new identity.”
“My own private witness protection program,” Rachel said on a small note of sobbing laughter. “Izzy, I don’t know what to say. How can I ever thank you?”
“Thank me by having and raising a happy, healthy baby, somewhere away from all this violence and danger, that’s how. And do
“Your rosary,” Rachel whispered. “Izzy, I can’t. Really.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve prayed since high school.”
“Keep it anyway,” Sister Mary Isabelle said firmly. “You never know when the mood might strike you. And just because you’ve forgotten how to pray doesn’t mean God’s forgotten how to listen. Speaking of which…” There was a moment of silence, followed by a whispered, “Amen…” and the familiar little flurry of movement that was Sister Mary Isabelle crossing herself. Then the strong, capable hands-physician’s hands-took hers once more.
“Now-remember. No driver’s license, no identification, no credit cards. Right? Do you have any money? Cash?” Rachel shook her head. “Well, never mind-I left some for you in the car. Not much, but it should get you to your grandfather. No cell phone-oh, that’s right, you don’t have one. Just as well. If television cop shows are right, they could probably track you that way. So-have I forgotten anything?”
“I can’t imagine what,” Rachel said with a laugh, and added in a shaky whisper, “Izzy, what if I-”
“You’re going to be fine.” The fabric of the habit rustled as Sister Mary Isabelle pulled her close in a quick, hard hug. “Now go.” And after a pause, she added a fervent,
The reality was, it was all up to her now. Izzy had given her the chance she needed, but finally,
She took one last breath, the deepest she could manage, and whispered, “’Bye, Izzy. Thank you.” Then she opened the door and slipped into the hallway.
After the darkness, the indirect lighting in the hallway, subdued as it was, struck her like a spotlight; she almost expected to hear sirens blaring and steel doors clanging shut. Her heart thumped so hard it hurt her chest as she hurried toward the stairs. Remembering to keep her face lowered, she took courage from the knowledge that it would be shielded from the watchful eyes of the security cameras by the starched wings of the wimple.
A hard grip on the banister didn’t entirely prevent her hand from shaking, and she found herself clutching the rosary in her other hand, thrust deep in the folds of the habit. She’d meant what she’d told Izzy, about not knowing any longer how to pray, and in fact she didn’t know if she even believed in such things now. But somehow, as the rosary beads pressed hard into her flesh, she felt a sense of purpose come over her. Purpose, resolve, strength-a surge of power that seemed to rise from some place deep within her. Maternal instinct of some sort, probably. The absolute certainty that she would do whatever it took to protect the tiny life nestled beneath her heart.
A life that was becoming increasingly impatient with its confinement, it seemed. Halfway down the curving staircase she had to pause for a moment to wait for the steel band that had tightened around her belly to relax. Braxton Hicks contractions, she told herself. Although this was the strongest she’d felt yet, she knew they were still nothing to worry about.
The tightening eased, and she continued down the stairs, head bowed. The security guards in the cavernous entry gave her a lazy glance when she stepped onto the quarry tile floor. Their eyes were flat and expressionless, although they both nodded with a modicum of respect-the habit, again. As she swept past them, habit swishing over the baked adobe, one of the guards even stepped ahead of her to open the heavy, ornately carved doors. Then he stood and watched her descend the steps at the slow and stately pace befitting a nun in full habit-or a woman in her ninth month of pregnancy. Rachel could feel those hard, cold eyes on her as she crossed the brick-paved courtyard, but her newfound courage kept her from giving in to the urge to look back or hurry her steps.
She found that she felt both shielded and bolstered by the voluminous folds of the habit, as if it was a suit of armor rather than mere cloth. The wimple that hid her face from the eagle eyes of the security guards and cameras also kept her focused, her own eyes firmly concentrated on her immediate goal:
The big iron gates slid open as she approached…then silently closed behind her. At the bottom of the drive she paused, left-turn blinker off-sync with the frantic rhythm of her pounding heart. She made the turn and rolled slowly down the curving street, every part of her wanting to step on the accelerator and screech away at all possible speed. But she forced herself to go slowly…slowly. She rounded the first bend, and the red tile roofs of the Delacorte compound were now hidden from her view. She let out her breath in a gust, and wondered how long she’d been holding it.
For the moment, yes, she was free. But she had a long way to go before she-and her baby-would be safe.
Her game plan was simple. She would head east on the interstate as fast as traffic and the law allowed, and go as far as roughly half of the almost-full tank of gas in Izzy’s car would take her. After that, she would get off the main roads, buy herself some food and as much gasoline as the money Izzy had left her would buy, and cut back north and west across the desert to the remote southern Sierra Valley where her grandfather’s ranch was. She would avoid places with people, so as to leave as few witnesses as possible. She would not risk going to the police or any other public agency for help; she didn’t know how far the Delacorte family’s influence might reach. Best to stay anonymous. Play it safe.
Before getting on the freeway, though, mindful of Izzy’s instructions, she drove to a shopping center she remembered from the days when she was free to come and go as she pleased, and drove into the center’s underground parking structure. She found a remote and relatively unused level and parked in the shadow of a support pillar. She took off the habit-with regret; she’d liked the feeling of safety it had given her-and put it in the trunk of the car. It had occurred to her that leaving it might serve as a marker, a signpost for those who might be trying to track her down, like a footprint or a broken twig. Better to leave no traces of herself behind.
She found the license plates Izzy had left in the trunk, along with a screwdriver, and was pleased to note as she took the borrowed plates off and put the correct ones on that her hands didn’t shake. She no longer felt terrified. Keyed up, excited, euphoric almost, but not afraid. That alone was a wonderful and amazing thing. She’d been afraid for so long.
Back on the freeway, which was moving relatively swiftly at that time of evening, she opened her window, shook her hair free of the elastic band that had held it back from her face and reveled in the sensation of the cool spring wind lifting strands off her shoulders, tickling her ears and temples.
But then a pair of headlights came zooming up behind her and, as her heart leaped into her throat, whipped impatiently around her on the left and sped away in the fast lane. After that, heart hammering, she kept checking her rearview mirrors even though the anonymous headlights she saw reflected there had nothing to tell her.
Just past the Ontario Airport she turned off onto Interstate 15, heading northeast toward Las Vegas. Several times already the almost constant pressure on her bladder had forced her off the freeway in search of a public restroom, and during one of these pit stops she had bought a map. She had studied it while munching cheese- flavored popcorn and bottled water from the rest stop’s vending machines, and had plotted what she thought seemed like the best route-meaning the most devious, the least likely. Just past the town of Barstow where I-15 intersected with I-40 she had discovered a numbered highway that seemed to run in a reasonably straight line northward to Death Valley. Perfect, she thought. Who would ever think to look for her in Death Valley?
Having settled on her travel route, Rachel still had decisions to make. Looking at the map, the road she’d chosen, though a numbered state route and therefore probably fairly well maintained, seemed lonely and remote, and she wasn’t quite brave enough-or stupid enough-to chance it alone at night. Neither would she feel safe in a motel anywhere in a major crossroads like Barstow, which would be the obvious place for Carlos to look for her. Even a maintained rest stop seemed too exposed, too risky.
Maybe she was being overly paranoid, but she’d learned a lot about the Delacorte family in the two years she’d been a part of it, and she wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating its resources. Not when her life and the
