17

            Lying low against the seat, half-wishing she could be absorbed like oil into the leather, Lisa braced herself for a bullet plowing into her spine, for the SUV to tip over and hurtle her through the windshield, for a car driven by an innocent to strike them head-on and crush them inside.  The night, already troubling since Anthony had shared his account of his communications with the enigmatic Bob, had become more terrifying than anything she had ever imagined, a menacing new world where worst-case scenarios seemed not only plausible, but likely.

            How could this be happening to them?  They were ordinary people.  They lived quiet lives.  How had they gotten sucked into this?

            Anthony handled the Tahoe with cool intensity, spinning the wheel with authority, hitting the gas and the brakes crisply, as if being shot at by maniacs was an everyday occurrence.  Although he rarely spoke of it, she knew he’d completed combat missions in the Marines, had been in situations where his life was on the line and the lives of others rested in his hands, but she had never seen this side of him.  The Anthony she’d fallen in love with was gentle--strong, too, yes—but mostly gentle and thoughtful, with an acute awareness of the frailty of life and a quiet commitment to making the most of each day, never taking his loved ones for granted.   

            But this man so weirdly calm in the face of peril was foreign to her—and she was, she had to admit, thankful that he was around.

            He shifted the truck into Reverse, and the tires chewed through dirt and rocks and climbed a slight, bumpy hill.  She turned her face to the windshield, and from her vantage point, saw only leafy trees against a black sky. 

            “Where are we?” she whispered.

            “You can pop up and look.”

            The truck rocked to a stop.  He shut off the lights and the engine. 

            Heart knocking so loudly it seemed to rattle the windows, she rose in the seat.  They were at the terminus of a driveway crowded with weeds and shrubbery.  The cracked, canted lane curved around a gigantic maple and a spray of tall weeds, and emptied into the quiet street beyond.

            Behind them stood a Craftsman-style home in disrepair, shingles faded and draped in kudzu, windows boarded over with plywood.  A chain-link fence festooned in vines bordered the yard, holes torn through the link fabric.

            “We’re only about five or six blocks away from home,” he said.  “I figured we could lie low here for a few minutes, till the coast is clear.”

            “What the hell is going on, Tony?  Who were those people?  Why were they shooting at us?”

            “They saw me with Bob.  Bob betrayed them, I think, and they probably figure that he and I are working together.”

            “Working together on what?”

            “Bringing them down.”

            “Bringing down whom?  Who are they?”

            “Sorry, I don’t have many answers, Lisa.  Bob was vague.  But this group after us—they’re powerful, well-connected.”

            “You mentioned they might be some kind of cult?”

            “That’s what Bob said.”

            More questions stormed through her thoughts, but hard shudders suddenly wracked her, and she hugged herself.  The night was warm, but she was drenched in perspiration, freezing. 

            Anthony took one of her hands in his.  His steady strength and his warmth were what she needed.

            “I feel like I’m about to fall to pieces, but you’re so composed,” she said.  “I guess you’ve been in situations like this before.”

            He laughed softly.  “Not quite like this.”

            “These people after us . . . you think they murdered your dad?”

            “That’s what I’m going to find out,” he said, eyes hard as gunmetal.

            “But how—“

            He brought his finger to his lips, and she left the question unfinished.  He pointed toward the street.

            Through the trees and shrubbery, she glimpsed the Suburban.  It lurked past the driveway like a panther sniffing for prey.

            Involuntarily, she held her breath.    

            “There’s only the one vehicle,” Anthony whispered.  “I’d worried that they might have dispatched a whole squad after us.”

            Past the driveway, the truck halted. 

            She let out a rush of air, swallowed.  “They know we’re back here.”

            Nodding, Anthony gripped his pistol. 

            “You may want to duck again,” he said.