Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Silence eats my words, and I wipe my eyes with the palm of my hands. My heart is beating hard, and for some reason, I have a flash memory of walking out of my second grade classroom to Aunt Britta’s van, of how my backpack felt so heavy, and I disliked being stuck in that school building all day so much. I want to cry some more, but I manage to hold it in, because I'm not a girl who cries.
Finally, I hear the slight rustle of Father Mendez's robes, and his low voice travels through the thatch.
“The Lord hears you,” he says. “I don't want you to say Hail Marys. Close your eyes and see your past and understand that you have paid these debts already. Sister Mary Carolina—she wishes to shelter you. St. Catherine's offers shelter for all people and if there is danger, we will trust our Lord to deliver us.”
And now Father Mendez leans forward, so close to the thatch divider that I can smell a whiff of coffee. When he speaks again, his voice is nothing but a hiss. “But if you want to ensure that God keeps these children safe, I have a message. Walk out the door nearest the site of the explosion Thursday at ten o'clock in the evening.”
He leans back into his seat.
“I cannot promise that the Lord will preserve your life, but I have heard your confession and I believe your heart is pure. If you perish, you will join our savior in Heaven.”
7
Cross
ONCE I DECIDE to go looking for Meredith Kinsey, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. It's my fault she's still in Mexico. If she's dead and gone, that's my fault too. I could have told someone. Shown someone the files I saved on a USB. Copies of e-mails that showed my father conspired with Priscilla Heat and Jim Gunn to sell one of his former mistresses as a sex slave.
When I found out, last May, Cross Carlson had his own shit going on. He was busy making money, tweaking bikes, fucking around. He’s done being a selfish fucknut.
I have to drive to Vegas before I do anything else. I leave early Wednesday morning, armed with my trusty leather bike bag, plus my passport and a fake ID that I bought last night from one of my high school buddies, a civil servant who specializes in fake documents for illegal immigrants.
After making a pit stop at a bookstore for a road map of Mexico, I adjusted the Mach’s arm band for extra mobility and steering accuracy. Right before bed, I called my mobile phone provider and got the internet turned back on; I’ve e-mailed both Wil and Napo, plus my old receptionist, Martha, informing them that I’ll let them know something about the shop in the next two weeks. It’s a small step, I know, but it feels good.
The air is cool and crisp at 6 a.m. as I head down I-680 toward Walnut Creek and Dublin, which will get me close to I-5 South. The sky is caught between shades of blue, the grass glows yellow-silver with the sun’s first rays, and on my bike, I feel okay. Capable. Good.
I got a voice mail in the wee hours of this morning from my father. He sounded drunk and said some vaguely threatening shit about the situation between us deteriorating further if I stirred up any trouble regarding ‘the situation we discussed’. If anything, it was the final affirmation that I’m doing the right thing.
I make good time through Walnut Creek, past Livermore; then my route veers eastward, and after that, south on I-5 toward Bakersfield. I make a couple of stops to stretch my arm and shoulder, but I’ve got PB&J and water, plus some jerky and a couple of apples in my bag. It’s enough to hold me over until I get to Vegas.
The nine-hour drive is surprisingly enjoyable. I haven’t felt the wind on my face the way it hits you on the highway in a long, long time. I know I must be hard-up for this when I feel my throat get thick outside L.A. It’s not the most beautiful place to ride—far from it—but it just feels so damn good to be back on the road.
By the time I roll to a stop at a gas station in Vegas, it’s mid-afternoon and I’m sweaty, stiff, and tired. Still, I grin when I pull my helmet off and rub my hand back through my sticky, matted hair. I unzip my leather jacket and fish a map of the city out of my bag. It would be good if I could use a phone’s nav system, but I think it’s too risky to bring a smart phone on this excursion. I don’t trust my father not to try some shit and track me down. Anyway, I’m pretty good with old-school maps.