The Fall(67)

Michael was in the kitchen area when I found him. He was checking his guns and ammunition while sitting at the table, beside him a large coffee tin. “I need some DNA, some hair, saliva and some fibers from your clothes.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the can.

“Of course. I can do that.” I dropped one of the duffels from off my shoulder and pulled out a hairbrush. My fingers massaged the bristles pulling out as much hair as I could. I made a neat pile on the tabletop before grabbing the nightshirt I’d been wearing for the last few nights. With the help of my army knife, I shredded the edges, taking pieces of the torn fabric and adding it to the pile.

“Here,” he passed me an enamel camping cup, “Spit in this.”

It was so clinical, but I did what he said, spitting into the cup as he took my hair and the shredded fibers and torching them lightly with a cigarette lighter before tossing them into the can.

I handed him the cup, and he added it to the mix. Giving everything a good shake after he reattached the lid.

“Do you think it will work?” I asked, taking a seat beside him.

“Who knows? It’s worth a shot either way though, right?”

There was no way of knowing if my father would believe it, but at the very least it would stall him. Give me a day or two buffer to get away. And if a miracle happened and he believed it was me, then maybe it would give me a small window of opportunity to live a normal life.

“I’m ready.” My back straightened, hefting the duffle on my shoulder, my overnight bag on the other.

“This is yours.” He handed me the thumb drive he’d retrieved from my house before he blew it up. It was hard to believe that it hadn’t been that long ago, it felt like more than a year had passed.

“Thank you.” I shoved it in my pocket. The rest of the information on another drive sitting beside the computer. “I’ll go get the rest of my things and meet you at the car.

I waited, hoping he would say something more, but he didn’t, so I walked out of the room and made a beeline for the computer. It was still humming, not having been turned off in days as I quickly downloaded the last bit of information and sent it to an email address one of the hackers had set up for me.

It had a fail-safe, an insurance policy. Designed to send out the draft email and all the attachments within ten days unless I stopped it. So if anything happened to me, I would still be able to make sure the work I had done wasn’t in vain.

My hand fumbled with the monitor, switching it off before carrying my bags to the Chevy that was parked on the inside of the roller door. It had been a far cry from the Camaro he had initially driven, but in the end, it had been more useful.

My body slid into the passenger seat and waited for Michael to join me. I tried not to focus that it was the same place a dead woman had sat not so long ago. The mental distance needed because I couldn’t afford the physical one. Thankfully Michael appeared a few moments later with a green canvas messenger bag draped across his shoulder.

“You good?” he asked me, sinking into his seat and putting on his seatbelt. “No turning back.”

“All good.” I faked a smile and stared out the windshield, ignoring there was no view to concentrate on.

The roller door behind us rose; the sound of metal scraping bringing with it the bright sunlight. It was hard on the eyes, forcing them to close as the warmth hit my back.

Before I opened them, the car had started moving, reversing out of the warehouse and onto the road. The neighboring businesses had started their work day; the noise of trucks and workers spilling into the cabin of the car as we drove past them. No one so much as glanced in our direction.

There was no speeding, no erratic lane changes, no explosive road rage as we traveled to Saint Margaret’s. On the outside it looked like two regular people in a car, little did anyone know there was nothing regular about the car or the people inside.

The trip continued in silence. Michael didn’t even give me a sideways glance, his hands locked at ten and two on the steering wheel while his eyes roamed between the windshield and the rearview mirror. My fingers tightened around the seat belt, every mile we got closer to Saint Margaret’s plunging my stomach into a sea of knots.

It was a quiet neighborhood, but he drove around the back, parking in a side alley. He exited the car, carefully closing the driver’s side door and waiting for me to do the same from my side. He removed my duffel and my bag from the trunk, carrying both in one hand and didn’t bother locking the car. Instead he made his way along the back alley, giving a quick look over his shoulder checking to see I was following.

I hated the silence.

Hated it.

But there was nothing to be said.

There was a large hedge, thick and lush, that barely hid a chain link fence that was approximately eight feet tall. Between the hedge and the fence it seemed there was no way in from this side. It wasn’t until we got up close that I noticed a small gap in the brush, just wide enough for a person to push through, and just beyond that, a door. Michael stepped through first, his hands making quick work of the lock, swinging the door open and stepping through. He held it open for me as I followed, closing it and reaffixing the lock as soon as I’d cleared the threshold.

The garden was extremely well-maintained. The grass felt soft and spongy under my feet and all the garden beds had been neatly tended, with not so much as a weed out of place.