Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [83]
I let go of a sigh that’s been building inside my lungs, just waiting for an opportunity to escape, to mark the fact that something, however small, has gone right.
“I need a favor, Ducks.”
“Name it.”
“I need someone to get my mom away from the house. They have to take her somewhere safe.”
What Duckey says next is a testament to our deep friendship, to a trust not easily granted. And it denotes another item on the ledger for which I’ll be paying for the better part of the foreseeable future.
“Quickly or quietly?”
“Quickly.” The word is out of my mouth before I’ve really considered the question, but I know it’s the right answer. Manheim has shown too much of his hand; I know now what his people are capable of. I’m certain that my mother is under at least one set of watchful eyes at this very moment, so the odds of an operative secreting her from the family home are slim. In this case, then, bigger is better. “Black and whites, flashing lights, whatever it takes. I need her out of there and tucked someplace where even Santa couldn’t find her.”
“Denton Street, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll make the call.”
I know what those words mean for him. Duckey will have to call someone a thousand miles away and convince that person to utilize the resources of a big-city police department to collect and hold a woman on nothing but his say-so. I’m not deluding myself that things will be that easy, but I’m grateful for Duckey’s willingness to try.
“Thanks, Ducks.”
His answering grunt is cut off as he breaks the connection. I try my mom’s house again but get the same busy signal I got before I called Duckey.
As I pull the phone away from my ear, I see that I’ve walked in a straight line away from Parliament House, following a path toward the lake, and the older building that stands all but forgotten except to tour groups and those susceptible to nostalgia.
Espy is still at my side. I slow and then stop as it hits me that we’ve nowhere to go at the moment. I know where my car is parked, and I know the location of the hotel, and yet neither morsel of knowledge helps direct me. I am, again, at the mercy of a force outside of myself, and even though a friend with proven loyalties is exercising this force, it nonetheless leaves me stripped of immediate purpose. I look around and my eyes settle on Espy.
Then her hand takes mine and she leads me to a weathered wooden bench near the path, where she makes me sit, forcing me down with her stern but gentle eyes. And despite myself, I’m grateful. The bench is comforting, and I sit and consider the idea that I feel adrift because the Australian to whom I’ve just spoken has shown an ability to affect peoples and events on the other side of the world, whereas I can’t even get someone to water my cactus.
Esperanza squeezes my hand, as if to remind me that regardless of Manheim’s vast resources, I’ve shown that I’m equally resourceful.
“What now?” she asks, and immediately I feel like I’ve let her down. Up to now, I’ve been somewhat in control. But after hearing Manheim’s threat, everything’s changed. There’s a strange combination of emotions that comes from baring oneself, and I don’t think I like it.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Should we go back to Sydney?”
“I don’t know.”
It’s quiet here, like a still pool of water carved from a fast-moving river. I know that under different circumstances I’d appreciate the quiet, were I not fighting the dual sensations of worry and weariness as I am right now. If the last week has reinforced anything, it’s been an understanding that I work best when alone, when all I have to worry about is me, when a misstep means that I’m the only one in harm’s way. Death as an abstract. But it’s a completely different story when people I care about are drawn into my affairs. Al is dead because of me. Sarah is dead because of me. My mother is in danger because of me. It’s hard to swallow all of this with my customary