“Yes,” I tell her. “My name is Gwen Proctor. And I can help, if you’re in trouble.”
“I don’t think you understand,” she says. “Nobody can help me.”
“Maybe I can.”
“He’ll never let that happen.”
“Who’s he?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says. She sounds quiet now. Resigned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I got out. I can’t ever get free. I thought I could, but . . . it’s never going to work.” I squeeze my eyes shut and listen desperately for any environmental clues. I hear a babble of voices in the background. An indistinct PA announcement. A metallic squeal.
I sense she’s about to cut me off, and I quickly say, “Carol, can you tell me what happened to Remy? Where he is?”
Silence. Silence for so long that I think the call’s dropped and she’s vanished into the air. But then she says, “Remy’s with the saints.”
Click.
But I heard enough. I can guess where she is.
She’s at the bus station.
14
GWEN
I’m taking a shot in the dark as to which bus station. She could have been at a regional stop, but if she wants to get out of town, Carol will be at the main Greyhound bus terminal. I’ve made it a point to know the city, since I do a fair amount of work for J. B. around here. I race across town, driving far more recklessly than Pastor Wallace would have approved, and I pull into the bus station in just under thirteen minutes, which isn’t bad.
But if Carol was about to board a bus when I called, it’s too late.
I head inside. There’s a sign on the doors of the station that guns aren’t allowed, and I approve of that, but I don’t have time to retreat and secure my weapon, and leaving it in a rental car’s glove compartment isn’t a great idea anyway. I make sure my coat conceals it and stroll inside. Or try to. The station is a fairly new construction, all glass and steel and open areas that ought to seem spacious but don’t, because it’s crowded with people and bags. Bus travel generally doesn’t draw in the first-class passengers, so most often it’s duffel bags, battered old suitcases, and backpacks. Lots of people who seem exhausted and dispirited.
I spot Carol because she’s sitting close to a group of Amish or Mennonite travelers; the women are in neat, long dresses with aprons and bonnets, the men in uncomfortable-looking square suits with beards bristling down over their starched shirts. Carol almost blends in, except that she lacks a bonnet. She’s a young, pale woman wearing a long-sleeved white blouse with a bow tied in front of the high neck, no jewelry or makeup, a long, straight dark-blue skirt. Waist-length dark hair. She’s got a fairly new-looking backpack with her, and for some reason it strikes me as . . . wrong. I’m not sure why. Yet.
She’s scanning the room like her life depends on it, evaluating every person who comes into view. She looks me over and moves on; I’m not what she’s afraid of spotting, clearly. Good. I was worried she’d run at the first hint of my presence.
I get all the way through the crowd. There’s an empty seat across from her, and I take it. Her gaze still searches the entrances until I say, “Hi, Carol. I’m Gwen.”
She shrinks back on her bench, crowded next to an older Amish woman, who turns, clearly concerned about her. That’s better than Carol bolting, but not by much. I don’t want a public incident, especially since I’m carrying a gun. That’ll get me arrested.
I quickly hold up both empty hands, palms out. Surrender, and placation. “I’m sorry I startled you,” I say, and smile. “Honest, I’m here to help. You’re looking out for someone, but it isn’t me. Right?”
Carol slowly relaxes. The Amish woman says, “Are you all right?” and gives me a doubtful look. “Should I get help for you?”
Carol has big, dark eyes. Doe eyes. I can see why a young college-age man would be so drawn to her; there’s a real vulnerability there, a fragility that would appeal to someone who has an instinct for protection. And predators, I think. Melvin would have loved her. Just as I appealed to him, coming to him as an innocent girl fresh from a religious home. Looking at this young woman, I see myself, and I want to shake her and scream at her to wake up.
“I’m okay, thank you,” Carol says, almost in a whisper, and the Amish woman settles back but keeps a stern eye on me. I make damn sure I keep my body language correct and unthreatening. “You’re the one who called me.”
“Yes.”
Carol shakes her head. Her satiny curtain of hair shimmers as it moves. “I can’t help you.”
“But you can tell me what you know about Remy,” I counter. “That’s all I want. I swear. I just want to find him for his folks. They’re suffering, Carol, and I know you don’t want that for them.”
She looks down. She’s a willowy, tall young woman, graceful. Long-fingered hands that are reddened and roughened, as if she’s recently done hard work as a cleaner. Short, plain, strong fingernails. Her head snaps up as the speakers above us announce that a bus for Pennsylvania is ready to board, and I know I’m about to lose her. The Amish are getting up, gathering their things. She’s going with them, or at least getting on the same bus.
The backpack she’s holding still bothers me. It’s got faded stickers on it for University of Tennessee football. She doesn’t strike me as an alumna.
I nod toward it. “That’s Remy’s backpack,” I say. “Isn’t it?”
She looks shocked. “I—he gave it to me!”
“When?”
“When I told him I had to leave,” she said. “I should have gone. I would have, but then . . .”
“Then Remy vanished?”
She doesn’t blink, doesn’t nod, doesn’t answer at all. Then she just stands up.
“Who’s after you, Carol?” I stand up, too, and her paranoia is catching; I scan the crowd, looking for trouble. Lots of motion, and no obvious threats. “The same people who took him? What happened to him? Did they question him to find out where you were?”
“He’d never tell,” she says.
She turns and walks away. I move up to go with her. I don’t have a whole lot of time. This boarding line is long, but the second I get to the agent collecting tickets I’ll be done. She’ll be beyond my reach. “Carol, please. Please, I’m asking you to give me something I can use. You know what happened to him, I can see that. Remy tried to help you. And something happened to him. Just give me a place where I can start looking for him, that’s all I need!”
We’ve moved up two feet in the line by the time I finish saying that. Carol’s clutching Remy’s backpack like it’s a life preserver in a thrashing ocean. She’s crying, I realize. Silent tears, racing down her cheeks and dripping on her blouse. She hastily wipes them away and shakes her head again.
Then she suddenly dashes for the bathroom. I hesitate, not sure if she’s trying to actually escape or wanting me to follow her. She doesn’t look back. I take the chance anyway. Worst case, I can claim to be needing the toilet.
Carol’s waiting by the sinks, jittering from one foot to another.