turned and began to walk rapidly away, but after a few steps he whirled and jabbed a finger at C.J. “Promise me one thing,” he said, and his voice grated with emotion. “Just get him, you hear me? You get that SOB.”
Caitlyn drifted in a twilight zone that was not quite sleep yet not full consciousness, either. Her mind wandered, as it does in dreams, but with her permission; she knew she was dreaming and took comfort in knowing she could wake up anytime she chose.
Images crowded into her mind, people and places and events-mostly people. One after another they clicked by, too quickly, like a slide show on fast-forward-her past in reverse order, beginning with the last image she remembered: the landscaped mall in front of the courthouse; a sea of reporters and video cameras; the sun glinting on their lenses and the windows of TV trucks; a brilliant blue September sky.
Back inside the courtroom a few minutes before that: the judge’s face, fleshy Southern jowls, soft, smooth- shaven and unsmiling; Mary Kelly’s face, gaunt and pasty, with blue smudges under her eyes and freckles standing out like blotches, trying hard to smile.
In the days and weeks before: Mom visiting her in the jail, her hair like sunshine in that drab and dismal room…frightened eyes looking out at her from the serene and lovely mask of her face; and Dad, calm and reassuring as always, but swiping at a tear as he turned to leave her.
Further back: a sultry April night; a big blue truck, powerful diesel engine idling away behind her; a man with a face like a Norman Rockwell painting, hair soft and thick, sun-streaked blond…eyes dark as chocolate and just as seductive…a sweet and dimpled smile; big hands gentle on her shoulders…lips moving, saying words hard and heavy as hammer blows.
The same face in a rapid montage of swirling, overlapping images, like a kaleidoscope: eyes twinkling, smiling and flirtatious with her, nodding with good-ol’-Southern-boy courtesy to Mary Kelly; gentle and kind with a traumatized child; angry, hard as pewter in the bluish light of a yard lamp on an empty concrete apron; anguished, drawn and shadowed in the dimness of the truck cab as she’d seen them the last time. As he’d watched them walk away.
Mary Kelly again…then back through the faces of all the fearful and damaged women she’d known, all the way back to the first and most beloved-her own mother’s face…so young, so beautiful…so haunted.
There were children’s faces, too, and even a few men among the victims-her cousin Eric and his precious baby, Emily, in their desperate dash for safety, bundled against the Iowa winter cold…could that only have been last Christmas?
She saw Eric in happier times, along with his sister Rose Ellen, saw them as the children she’d played with on Aunt Lucy and Uncle Mike’s farm. There were Uncle Rhett’s children, too, though she’d seen them less frequently. They were so much older than she: Lauren, who loved horses, older by eleven years; and shy Ethan, who’d grown up to be a doctor, older by seven. And they’d lived so far away.
She saw herself, a nervous teenager in a long slinky gown, dancing with Uncle Rhett, newly elected president of the United States, amid the dazzle and excitement of his first inaugural ball, and Dixie, the new first lady, radiant and laughing, dancing with a red-faced but determined Eric. She saw herself as a gawky child in overalls, riding on one fender of Aunt Lucy’s green John Deere tractor, while Eric laughed at her from his perch on the other side.
And she saw an even smaller child, thrilled and scared witless, arms in a death grip around her daddy’s waist for one exhilarating turn around the block on his Harley. Much later she’d learned to ride motorcycles by herself, and had even had her own Harley for a while, but it was that first terrifying trip she remembered most vividly.
Her parents’ faces-her earliest memories. Their home in Sioux City. Her room. Pictures and more pictures… seasons and colors, places and faces…images upon images.
And now…nothing.
Chilled and sweating, she jerked herself awake. Her heart was pounding; nearby, a monitor was going off. A familiar hand was holding hers, stroking her arm. Touching her face. Her mother’s voice crooned, as if to a very small child, “Hush, sweetie, it’s okay…it’s okay.”
“Mom?” Caitlyn croaked. At least the pain was better; she didn’t feel quite so nauseated.
“We’re both here, honey,” her dad said. His fingers felt warm on her wrist. She sighed, and the monitor went silent.
“Can I have some water?” A moment later she felt the top half of the bed rise beneath her, forcing her upright, and fought a momentary stab of panic. She fought the urge to put out her hand, to try to hold away the nothingness that hovered just above her like a solid ceiling. She felt the smooth, slightly crisp touch of the straw on her lips, tipped her head cautiously forward and drank. “Thanks,” she said, and settled back, shifting to find a comfortable position.
“How are you doing? Can we get you anything?” Her mom’s voice was unsteady, and that unnerved her. As a physical therapist, her mother was used to hospitals and hurt people; it took a lot to shake her.
She squeezed her mother’s hand. “No, I’m okay.”
Her dad, from closer by, said, “Honey, if you’re up to it, there are some people here that would like to talk to you.”
“I’ve already spoken to the police-”
“Not the police. It’s…” He hesitated, which wasn’t like her dad, either. “Honey, it’s the truck driver you, uh… He has-”
Caitlyn’s heartbeat stumbled, then quickened. She croaked irritably, “Is he still here?” She didn’t feel up to soothing his guilty conscience.
“He is, and he has, uh, some people he wants-” the sigh of escaping breath interrupted the flow of words “- Caty, I think you should hear what he has to say.”
Before she could answer, she was distracted by pain and pressure in her fingers; her mother was squeezing them so tightly they hurt. She resisted gently and murmured, “Mom…”
The pressure ceased instantly. She felt the cool press of her mother’s cheek against hers, heard a quick, husky “I think I should go. I’ll be outside.”
There was a stirring, then an emptiness beside her. Caitlyn broke a brief and awkward silence. “Dad? What’s wrong with Mom?”
“Bear with her,” her father said softly. “This has been hard on her-” again, that whisper of breath “-on us all.”
Silence came once more. This time the memories that filled it were gentle and comforting: the sturdy strength of a finger clutched in her chubby hand; the crunch of footsteps and huff of breath and a tall man running beside her wobbling bicycle on a hot summer day; a hug and a goodnight kiss that smelled of a brand of aftershave she’d never learned the name of.
“Daddy,” she said as the easy and unbidden tears came, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
“Hey…” The empty space beside her was taken up by that familiar warmth…familiar smell.
“I didn’t tell you…I couldn’t-”
“Tell me what, punkin?”
“What I was doing. I couldn’t-I still can’t. It’s so important-do you understand?” Her eyes stabbed futilely at the darkness; she’d have given anything to see his face. Anything.
She heard a gusty sigh. The hands that held hers tightened, then let go. “No, I can’t say I do understand, Caty.” There was a pause, and then her father added in a dry voice, “You’re not helping, you know.”
“I’m sorry.” Weighted with a helpless sadness, she used her orphaned hands to wipe her face and heard a grunted “Here-” as a wad of tissues was tucked into her hand. Drier-eyed and quieter inside, she said tightly, “I can’t risk giving away the others. What we do is so important. The people we help have nowhere else to turn. It has to go on. Even if I can’t…”
“So,” her dad said, and she could hear him struggling to understand, “I guess it’s like the old Underground Railroad, huh? During the Civil War. Only you help people escape…what? Domestic violence? Sexual abuse?”
“Abusers. Those the law can’t-or won’t-touch. Sometimes…the law and justice aren’t the same thing.” She sniffed and, feeling tremulous and exposed, fought to smile. “I guess it is a little like the Underground Railroad. With some witness protection thrown in. Sometimes it’s not enough to just escape,” she added somberly. “Sometimes
