What if we’re never all together again…
No. Tish, no. Don’t think like that. Stop it.
You have to believe we have the ability to bring them home.
I didn’t want Camille, let alone Case, to worry about me and so I forced myself to relax and appreciate the music. Case bowed the fiddle with his eyes closed, as usual, while the father and son gave their guitars a workout and Mathias sang; his voice was as rich and true as always. Old-school country, one song flowing into the next. I rested both palms on my belly, imagining that the baby could hear the notes, admiring the way the stage lights glinted on Case’s beautiful auburn hair, already envisioning our daughter with a soft cap of red-gold curls.
Listen to your daddy making music, I thought. Music is in your blood, my sweet girl.
Garth and Becky arrived and Garth was pulled onstage to much applause and encouragement from the growing crowd. Perhaps an hour passed; though I had not consumed a drop of alcohol I felt slightly inebriated, my thoughts rippling from one to the next. I kept thinking I saw Ruthann in the crowd of swirling dancers. My vision seemed to blur at increasing intervals. I despised the way something seemed to be holding its breath at the back of my mind, creating a pressure-cooker of increasing tension. Twice I’d felt Camille’s concerned gaze alight on me.
Something’s wrong. Something is so wrong.
I knew if I asked my sister she would admit to sensing the same thing, and so I kept quiet.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I finally told her and Becky.
“Are you all right? Do you want me to come with?” Camille asked, but I shook my head.
No one else was in the stalls, to my relief. Alone, I bent forward and cupped my face, which was unpleasantly sweaty. I inhaled against my palms, trying to regroup.
It’s all right. Nothing is wrong – at least, not anything new.
You’re just tired. You’re pregnant, for heaven’s sake, and you didn’t sleep last night.
I tried to recapture the hopeful feeling I’d experienced earlier, at Clark’s.
It’s all right. Stop this. You have to start taking better care of yourself.
I splashed my face with cold water then patted it dry with a scratchy brown paper towel. Thank goodness I hadn’t worn any mascara this evening. I studied my eyes in the mirror; they appeared stark and bloodshot, rimmed with dark shadows.
Think, Tish.
I prided myself on being a problem solver, someone dedicated to her work, to logic and careful research. I’d completed law school in the top ten percent of my class and hated the current haze shrouding my mind. Though I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, the word I’d spoken earlier had taken root. I knew I hadn’t been referring to a weapon; all my instincts screamed that Ax was a person.
But who?
Why does that name seem familiar?
My phone, which I’d tucked in the back pocket of my jeans, suddenly vibrated. I fished it out and fumbled through my pin code; someone had just sent a text.
I need to talk to you. It’s important.
My heart seized with a violent thrust. I almost dropped the phone. For a horrible second I thought the text was from Robbie; dead Robbie entombed in his expensive coffin for the past two months. Sweat glided down my temples as I examined the words again, seeking the sender’s phone number and a rational explanation. I didn’t know the owner of the ten-digit sequence but did recognize the area code, 773. Chicago.
Despite my shaking fingers, I composed a response – Who is this?
Derrick, came the immediate answer, blunt and without further explanation. Call me right now if you can.
My heart convulsed again, this time in alarm. After weeks of hearing nothing from him, Derrick was suddenly ready to talk? I vacillated between the need to immediately dial his number or scurry back to the bar to tell Camille and Case. Before I made a choice either way my phone vibrated again, flashing a new message and communicating a repetitive sense of urgency – It’s important.
The next thing I knew I was pushing open the front door and striding outside, tense with restless energy. Assaulted by cold darkness I inhaled the thin late-winter air, searching the assemblage of parked cars and trucks as if for a sign of Derrick; I had no idea if he was in Chicago, Jalesville, or someplace else entirely. Since our confrontation with Franklin in Chicago in February, I no longer feared or hated Derrick; he had tried to warn Case and me, had told us we should leave when he knew Franklin’s appearance was imminent. And while I would hardly consider Derrick a friend, I felt an undeniable connection with him. If what we believed was true, he and I had once been married. Unhappily married, but still; something existed between us whether I wished it or not and that something could perhaps save the lives of my family.
The lot was at once familiar and alien, a stretch of blacktop I’d parked my car upon hundreds of times – but never before had it felt so menacing. Twenty feet from the safety of the front entrance I stood alone between diagonal rows of mute vehicles, heart clubbing, my breath creating an increasing vapor cloud.
Stop it, Tish, you’re imagining things. You’re not in any danger.
I pressed the icon to make a call and brought the phone to my ear.
Derrick answered on the first ring.
“Tish?” His voice was a hushed demand.
“It’s me, what is it?” I scraped hair from my forehead, shivering, my sweat evaporating in the breeze. From a short distance away I eyed The Spoke, its entrance merry with glowing beer signs. The stage was not in view of
