A Girl Called Fearless (29 page)

The papery metallic blanket crackled as it unfolded. We both wrapped up burrito style, but I still shivered under the foil. Maybe it would have kept in my body heat if I'd had any left.

Time passed, but there was no way to tell how how far we'd gone or how close we were to where we were going, and my pulse wouldn't slow down. The guys chasing us were still out there and even though we'd dodged them this chase wasn't over.

They won't stop until they know we're not a problem anymore.
I wondered if they'd do it fast. A bullet to the head? Or if they'd interrogate us until they found the evidence we had.

Tears ran in hot trickles into my hair. I'd messed up so badly. I shouldn't have let anger screw up my thinking. I should have waited until we crossed the border to send out Sparrow's message.

If we live, if I get to Canada, I have to leave Maggie the phone with Sparrow's tape of Jouvert and I have to disappear. That's the only way I'll be safe.

Suddenly, we were slowing, turning off the highway. The tarp sighed and went quiet, and I lay completely still. The tires crunched over something like snow.

The truck cruised along slowly. Braked like we were hitting traffic lights. “Are we there?” I said.

Maggie rustled in her foil wrap. “No, we're on the outskirts of Boise, but I think we're safe for now. I doubt they'll track us into the mountains.”

I lay back. Soon, we started climbing and the road got bumpier.

I wanted to believe Maggie, I really did. But it felt as if she had decided a long time ago that lying worked better for her than telling the truth.

Salvation

66

When the truck stopped after what could have been an hour or maybe two, Maggie and I crawled out from under the tarp. We were parked by a big, black building with a cross on top. “Welcome to Salvation,” she said.

Hills spotted with pine trees rose up on either side of the little valley we were standing in. The moon reflected off the snow and the rooftops of cabins. It smoothed out the fields and caught on the blades of a dozen windmills.

Close to the church, the cabins clustered together, but as the valley stretched away, the houses were farther and farther apart. The lights were off in all of them except one.

“Is this a town?” I asked.

“Not exactly. It's for people who don't trust towns. Or governments,” she added. She grabbed her duffle. “You want us in the Bunker?” she called to the guy who drove us in.

“Nah, sis. Heat's not on. You kin stay at the house tonight.”

I don't know what blew me away more. That this place had a Bunker or that the guy was Maggie's brother. He came around the truck. “Let me carry that,” he said, taking my bag. “So who's your friend, Maggie?”

I decided then and there I was done with lying. “I'm Avie.”

“Rogan.”

“Thanks for—” My throat got so tight, I couldn't finish.

“Sure. No worries.”

We trudged through ankle-deep snow to his cabin and climbed the rough-hewn wooden steps to a small covered front porch. A white dog with grey and black splotches leaped up to greet us as we walked inside. Warm yellow light filled the main room. A sofa and chairs sat by a woodstove, and a table big enough for a family separated the sitting area from the kitchen.

“Nellie and the kids are asleep,” Rogan said. He fed wood into the stove before tossing us a couple sleeping bags. “Bathroom's back of the kitchen.”

Maggie and I rolled out the sleeping bags on the rug by the stove and slid in.

Safe. For now.

67

I woke to the smell of frying sausage. My eyes weren't even open when I heard a woman say in a hushed voice, “I don't want her staying here.”

“Shush now, Nellie,” Rogan said. “She's family and she's in trouble.”

“I understand she's in trouble, but she's never put family first. Not you. Not me. Not her son.”

My eyes popped open.
Son?
There were obviously volumes of Maggie's story that were classified.

Rogan said something I didn't catch. Maggie was asleep on her side a foot away from me. Her mouth twitched, and I wondered why we were here if Nellie hated her so much.

“I won't let her hurt that boy.”

“Luke's almost a man, Nellie. He can handle seeing her.”

“Do I have a voice in what goes on in this house?”

“Of course you do. We're partners.”

“Then respect my feelings,” Nellie said.

Maggie opened her eyes. She had been awake and listening, and when she saw me looking at her, she warned me with a look not to ask about what I'd heard.

“All right. They'll move into the Bunker,” Rogan said.

“Thank you. And I promise I won't say anything.”

“That's all I ask.”

Then everything was quiet except for the griddle. Maggie and I lay still.

I heard Rogan say, “Kids outside?”

“Sarah's feeding the goats, and Jonas is up to his usual. When do you expect Luke and the others?”

“Before supper. That the second breakfast you're fixing today?”

“I'm guessing those two didn't eat much yesterday.”

“You're a kind woman, Nellie Paul.”

“Go on. Get out of here.”

I watched Rogan pull his jacket back on. He was pressed, buttoned-up, tucked in, and polished even in jeans and a work shirt. Clean shaven, not a hair out of place. The front door opened and shut. Maggie waited a minute, then faked a yawn. She crawled out of the bag. “Morning, Nellie. Good to see you.”

“Maggie.”

“Mind if I wash my face?”

“Not at all. By the time you're done, food'll be ready.”

I waited another minute, then got up. “Hi, I'm Avie.”

“Nellie.”

After hearing Nellie stand up to Rogan, I expected her to be tall, but she was tiny and lean in her overalls and flannel shirt. Her hair was pulled off her clean-scrubbed face like she didn't have patience for unnecessary things.

“Thanks for letting us stay here,” I said.

She nodded. I rolled up the sleeping bags. “What should I…?”

“Oh, just leave that. Come get something to eat.”

Nellie'd set two places at the table. She slid a plate with eggs and sausage in front of me. I took a slice of bread, spread it thick with butter and cherry jam, and dug in.

“This is delicious,” I said. Then I took a sip of milk. It wasn't from a cow.

Nellie eyed me. She was in her thirties, I guessed, a survivor. “You don't seem
fancy
enough to be one of Maggie's girls.”

I didn't look like a call girl, that's what Nellie meant.

“I'm not one of her girls.” I don't know why I felt I had to stick up for Maggie. “You know, they're not … the girls don't have sex.”

“A penthouse full of girls in a Las Vegas casino. What
do
they do?” Nellie said.

I shrugged. “They're like, I don't know, entertainers. The guys just want to have fun and the girls play pool with them.”

“So what are you doing with her?”

“Maggie's helping me. I ran away from home after my dad signed my Contract.”

“You don't like who your dad picked?”

“He sold me to get money for his company.” I saw Nellie frown. “Besides,” I added, “I'm in love with someone else.”

Nellie's frown softened as she flipped the last sausage. “Is he coming here?”

“No. He's meeting me in Canada.”

Nellie paused, and then said carefully, “So you're not planning on staying?”

A little warning bell triggered in my head. Maggie layered everything she did with secrets. One wrong word, and who knew what trouble I'd cause. “Maggie can explain better than I can.”

“Explain what?” Maggie stood right behind me.

“How you're just visiting,” Nellie answered. “How you're taking this girl to Canada.” She looked at Maggie like she was challenging her to lie.

“That's the goal,” Maggie said. She pulled out her chair, and her face transformed. She was Magda: smooth, cool, deceptive. “Mmm. Elk sausage and homemade bread. You're an amazing cook, Nellie.”

The door burst open, and a little boy about five or six ran in, followed by a girl a few years older swinging a pail. The boy threw himself at the table. “I'm Jonas,” he said to Maggie. “Who are you?”

“Your Aunt Maggie.”

“I don't remember you.”

“It's been a while.”

The girl, Sarah, put the pail on the floor. “Can I hug you, Aunt Maggie?”

“That's up to your mama to decide.”

Nellie gave a nod, and Maggie drew in Sarah for a hug. The kids sat down with us at the table.

“Our brother's gone for a ride,” Sarah said. Maggie's face paled, before she said, “When's he coming back?”

“Around suppertime.” Sarah looked at her mother. “Can Aunt Maggie come to supper?”

Nellie froze, a plate in her hand. Maggie shook her head. “It's too much, Nellie. I know that.”

I saw Nellie nod, and Maggie turned to Jonas. “Tell me about your goats.” Jonas started talking nonstop about his favorite goats while I ate my food and listened.

I wondered what Nellie was thinking. She knew Maggie and I were in enough trouble that Rogan and four other men drove off in the middle of the night to save us. But why would Nellie think for even an instant that Maggie and I intended to stay?

And Luke, Maggie's secret son? Things were going to get really interesting here around suppertime.

68

Sarah and Jonas wanted to give me a tour after breakfast, but Nellie told them they weren't skipping school, and besides, Maggie already knew her way around.

I stood on the porch, the snow so bright I had to squint to see. Besides the cabins I noticed the night before, trailers dotted the valley. There were windmills next to almost every house, but only one big barn. The black walls of the barn and church twinkled. They were covered in solarskin. Wind and solar power kept this place alive.

The harder I looked, the more I saw what wasn't there—like mailboxes or satellite dishes. No store or school or post office.

The door banged open behind me. “You ready to see the Bunker?”

I turned, and Maggie tossed me my duffle and sleeping bag. “Sure.”

We walked toward the church, lugging our bags. By almost every house, chickens the color of maple syrup perched in the open doors of coops while one or two brave ones tried out the snow. In one yard, red and blue plaid shirts rocked like sheets of cardboard pinned to a clothesline.

“Our luck's improving,” Maggie said. “It's going to snow tonight.”

More snow didn't sound lucky when we were headed for the border in the next couple days. “Why's that good?” I said.

“Barnabas and John—they were the ones driving the other truck last night—they'll be back in a few hours. The snow'll cover their tracks. We can sit tight for a week and hope the guys following us decide we've left the state.”

I could feel myself wanting to believe Maggie's fantasy about how the snow would save us, but so far things hadn't been that magical. “The feds know who you are. They know you have a brother. I can't believe you think they won't find us.”

“Avie, this place, these people, they're off the grid. They got rid of IDs, credit cards. They don't take salaries or pay taxes or do anything else to clue the government into their existence.” Maggie opened a door on the side of the church.

“I thought we were going to the Bunker,” I said.

“Almost there,” Maggie answered.

“Did you grow up here?”

“No, a few hundred miles away. I stayed here, though, several years ago when I decided to take a break from law and revisit my life choices.”

I was dying to ask,
What life choices,
but I knew Maggie'd never answer that. “What kind of law did you practice?”

“Civil rights.”

I felt like every new thing Maggie told me turned my thoughts about her inside out.

Sunlight poured into the church even though the windows were narrow slits in the three-foot-thick walls. A skinny balcony circled the church hall. We walked up the main aisle through rows of long wooden tables and benches. Up on the wall in front, a simple cross hung between a Star of David and a yin and yang.

“I've never seen a church like this,” I said.

“It's not just a church. It's also the school and community center.”

Behind the dais, a staircase led up to the balcony. Maggie punched a code into a panel on the wall and the door in front of us unlatched. I unzipped my jacket.

“You might want to keep that on,” Maggie said.

I left my jacket open. “How long has Salvation been around?”

“Hmm. Forty years, maybe. It started with army veterans like Rogan.

When Maggie opened the door, I saw four rough wood steps before the rest disappeared in a black hole. She reached for a lantern just inside the door and lit it. I followed her down. “Was Rogan in the Middle East?” I asked.

“Saudi Arabia, then Iraq, then Afghanistan. He returned with a healthy distrust of authority and a hatred for Al Qaeda, the Taliban, and other oppressors of the human soul.”

At the bottom of the steps, Maggie held up the lantern and said, “Ah, the Bunker. Our home away from home.”

I dropped my bags. My breath clouded in the light and I zipped my jacket back up. The room was huge, bigger than the church hall overhead. The walls and ceiling and floor were all flat, dead grey.

The corner closest to us was set up like a kitchen with a sink and camp stoves. Folded canvas cots were piled to one side. Maggie carried her duffel bag over to a padlocked cabinet at the far end as I walked along the shelves that ran the length of the walls. They were loaded with jars of hand-canned cherries, pears, and tomatoes, and stacked with gallon cans labeled water, flour, oats, powdered milk. Sacks of beans and rice were piled as high as my waist.