“I want to stop by the shelter first, Ian,” Annie said with sudden force. “Maybe she’s there. Maybe she’s trying to tell me something by leaving those things behind …” But the sentence trailed off.
Ian wanted to fix this—and fix it right now. He wanted to go after Tara Frasier before she got away. They’d likely lost valuable time already. “What good would it do to go to the shelter?”
“Please, Ian,” she said, her heart in her eyes.
There was no way he could deny her. They closed the bedroom door and went downstairs together.
18
Jem prodded Tara out into the gathering night, pressing the framed canvases against her back. “Move! Head for the woods and don’t stop.” His voice was high with excitement, and he panted with exertion.
Tara struggled with her duffle bag, her feet slipping on the cobbled walk. The moon paled in the not-yet-black sky, and crickets had begun to mourn the dying day. She shivered in her light blouse and the shorts she’d worn that long day as she roamed the beach and rocky coast of Stony Point. There’d been no time to change and no time for a last look at the lovely old house. She’d had no chance to give Blackie one last cuddle.
She would have to go with Jem and carry out his plan. He expected her to do just what he said … as she always had. He snapped his fingers and little Tara would come running. She’d stumble after him and go where he wanted her to go. And she would leave another piece of herself behind that could never be recovered. She was so tired.
As she pushed forward through the lengthening grass with Jem close on her heels, the faces of her Hook and Needle Club friends flashed before her: Mary Beth, patiently guiding her fingers on the oversized knitting needles, and Alice, with gentle eyes and jingling bracelets, praising her designs and urging the adoption of her little feral kittens. Tara thought of Peggy—all innocent eyes and sweet smiles pledging a friendship that she, Tara, had refused. And there was Gwen and Vanessa and Kate … how kind each of them had been. Even Stella Brickson, who had seemed so severe and so uncompromising, had welcomed Tara in her own way; she too had tried to help.
“Not much farther now!” Jem panted.
They plunged into the dark trees. Thick shrubs scraped her face and thorny twigs clawed at her bare legs. Startled birds flapped and squawked as their woodland sanctuary was invaded. The county road on the other side of the forested strip had to be where he’d hidden the old conversion van with its fading paint and dented sides. She knew he was ashamed of it; that’s why he showed up in Stony Point with a fancy rental car. J.C., the successful businessman, couldn’t be caught dead in a wreck like that.
They’d believed him and had accepted that well-groomed, well-spoken facade. He’d fooled them—even Wally who looked at his brother with such sad affection. One could live on lies carefully chosen, carefully maintained—for a while. Then it would all come tumbling down, and the bricks would fall on the innocent. Tara thought of Annie—dear Annie. Tara could barely swallow for the rising flood of tears.
Suddenly she saw the decrepit old van that had been turned into a camper. It leaned oddly to one side where the ground was uneven. She slowed her steps, not only because she was exhausted, but because the thought of getting in it with Jem filled her with revulsion … and fear.
“Come on!” he rasped, pressing the hard frames into her back once more.
Jem was such a fool at times, so blind. How could he hope to sell original art pieces without someone checking their origin? “This is crazy! We’ll never get away with this, Jem …”
He misunderstood. “Nobody knows about this old rig. I’ve kept her hidden in a beat-up old trailer park in Petersgrove until now. They’ll never look for us in it!” He pressed up close to her. “Here, grab the keys. Open the back.”
She fumbled in his pocket. It was damp and hot, and she felt his sweating thighs through the thin material. Shaking, she pulled out a lone key with a rabbit’s foot attached to the chain. Insane laughter bubbled inside her. No one carried such a talisman anymore; but Jem swore by it. Poor, unlucky Jem!
“Quick. Back there!” He gestured for her to open the double doors at the back end of the vehicle. “That’s it.” He flung his cargo inside and jerked his head toward the driver’s door. “Now, go start it up. And kill the lights!”
He wanted her to start the engine while he arranged the canvases; then he would climb in, and they would be off. He called the shots; little Tara would obey. She understood all this in seconds.
Something rose in her like a periscope out of the ocean. She scrambled behind the wheel and gunned the engine. It started immediately—a rare occurrence for the aging machine—just as Jem closed the double rear doors and started around to the passenger door.