Redemption Road(77)

“Yeah, right.”

Those were her thoughts as she approached a creek with two boys fishing from the bridge. Her foot came off the pedal, and she moved past, parking beyond the bridge to watch. The smaller boy went into his cast, and for a moment everything hung in perfect balance: the rod all the way back, small arms flexed. He was nine, she guessed, his friend pointing at a deep-looking pool beside a willow tree and a slab of gray stone. The baited hook flicked out, landed perfectly. They nodded at each other, and she marveled that life could be so simple, even for a child. It gave her a moment’s peace, then the phone rang, and she answered.

It was Channing.

She was screaming.

*

Channing had stood on the porch and shaded her eyes as Elizabeth backed from the drive and accelerated down the street. The poor woman had been apologetic and calm, but Channing understood the sudden need to move and do and think wild thoughts. She felt the same thing when her mind went to the basement, like she could scream or rock in the dark or punch the walls until her fingers bled. Anything was better than stillness, and acting normal was the one impossible thing. Conversation. Eye contact. Anything could open the door.

She watched the street for another minute, then went inside and wandered the house, liking everything about it: the colors and the furniture, the comfortable clutter. A bookshelf covered an entire wall of the living room, and she walked its length, opening one book and then another, picking up photographs of Elizabeth and some small boy. In most of the pictures he was young—maybe two or three. In others he was older, shy looking and thin, and close at her side. He had troubled eyes and a pretty smile. She wondered who he was.

Turning from the photographs, Channing locked the door, poured a glass of vodka from a bottle in the freezer, and made her way to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She locked that door, too, and wondered if she’d ever relax behind a door that wasn’t bolted. Even here and safe, she felt as if her clothes were too thin and certain muscles had forgotten how to unclench. The vodka helped, so she took a sip, started the bath, and then lifted the glass again. She made the water very hot and waited for steam to rise before undressing in a careful, controlled manner. It wasn’t that she hurt—the stitches, the bite marks—but that she feared her eyes might betray her, that they’d find the mirror by mistake and linger on the bruises and dark thread and the tight, pink crescents his teeth had left. She wasn’t ready for that.

Sinking into the bath, though, she thought of what Elizabeth stood for, of her patience and strength and will. Maybe it was the vodka, or something more. Whatever the case, Channing climbed from the tub before the water cooled. She kept her eyes up this time and confronted the mirror with a steadiness she thought she’d lost. She started with wet hair and the water on her skin, then looked at the bruises and marks and the ribs that showed too plainly. But it wasn’t enough to simply look. She needed to see, and that’s what she tried to do, to see not just the person she’d been or was, but the woman she wished to be.

That woman looked a lot like Liz.

It was a good thought that didn’t last. Someone was banging on the door.

“Jesus—”

Channing jumped so hard and fast she slammed her hand against the sink. It wasn’t a knock at the door, but a hard, brutal pounding.

“Shit, shit—”

She shoved a leg into her jeans, fabric sticking on wet skin, the other leg going in just as hard. The pounding got louder and more intense. Front door, she thought, over and over, and hard enough to shake the house. Channing pulled on the sweatshirt, thinking telephone, Liz, run. It was panic, pure instinct. She could barely breathe, and it took all her strength to open the bathroom door. The hall was dim, no movement. The pounding got even louder.

Creeping into the living room, she risked a glance through the window. Cops were in the yard—blue lights and guns and hard-faced men wearing Windbreakers that said SBI.

“This is the state police!” A loud voice at the door. “We have an arrest warrant for Elizabeth Black! Open up!”

Channing twitched away from the window, but not before someone saw her.

“Movement! Left side!”

Guns came up, squared on the widow.

“State police! Final warning!”

Channing ducked sideways, saw men on the porch. They wore helmets and body armor and black gloves. One of them had a sledgehammer.

“Break it.”

An older man pointed at the lock, and Channing screamed when the hammer hit. The sound was like a bomb, but the door held.

“Again!”

This time the frame buckled, and she saw bright metal. Six men stood behind the hammer, soldiers in a row with fingers tight above the triggers. The old man nodded, and the hammer struck a third time, the door breaking from its frame.

“Move! Move! Move!”

Channing felt the rush, but was already moving. She snatched up the phone and sprinted left.

“Movement! Back hall!”

Someone else yelled “Freeze!” but she didn’t. She hit the bathroom in a skid; slammed the door and locked it. They’d clear the house before they broke the door, but it was a small house, and she was already dialing.

One ring.

Two.

She sensed men, tight-packed in the narrow hall. It was the stillness, the silence.

Please, please …

The phone rang a third time, and Channing heard the click. She opened her mouth, but the door exploded, and the world was guns and men and screaming.