Free Edge of Midnight by Charlene Weir Page B

from the brake and drove on, letting her mind drift back to problems less complicated than adolescence. Ida. Would she settle down and work out? Maybe, if she didn’t leap into something beyond her ability to handle and get herself killed.

 
    9
    The bus rumbled its way across Nevada through towns many of which she’d never heard of. Cary dozed and stared out the window at alien landscape, mind disengaged by some numbing wonder at what she’d done. Each stop had her tense with worry, watchful. At Battle Mountain, the glimpse of a cop car jammed her throat with fear. The bus rolled, leaving the car behind. It had nothing to do with her.
    A little after six Tuesday morning, the bus pulled into Salt Lake City. She was stiff and tired, sticky and grimy, head sweaty and itchy under the wig, teeth fuzzy. She needed a shower, toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, and clean clothes. What she got was her transfer point, with an hour-and-a-half wait. After splashing her face with cold water and washing her hands, she squandered some money on a cup of coffee. With it she ate her remaining peanut butter sandwich. The second bus took her across Utah, and when it reached Dinosaur, Colorado, she hit the twenty-four-hour mark.
    Finally, finally, at eight-thirty Tuesday night, they got to Denver. After stiffly climbing from the bus, the first thing she did was find a bathroom and take off the hated wig. She stuffed it in the plastic bag with the knitting. Vigorously she scratched her scalp, digging in with her nails. Turning on the faucet, she stuck her head under the water, then blotted her hair with paper towels.
    Tears of misery stung her eyes. She wanted to go home, she wanted California, she wanted Mitch to tell her he loved her. She wanted clean underwear! One foot in front of the other. Keep going. Think about all those steps you’ve already taken. Maybe Mitch found the car by now. He’d be furious. Minus the wig, her own blond hair still wet, Cary went up to the ticket counter.
    â€œHelp you?” The man behind the counter was middle-aged and tired and didn’t have much patience. He had a look of either step away from the counter or pick a destination.
    Ticket to oblivion.
    Never again would she plant impatiens in the backyard, or smell the Cecil Bruner roses climbing along the fence. Never again would she watch the squirrels scamper through the oak tree, or watch the passion flowers bloom.
    The people behind her in line shifted impatiently. “Where to, lady?” the man said.
    Home. She swallowed and said softly “Hampstead, Kansas.” She paid for her ticket with more of the twenties.
    There was a two-hour wait for her bus. Two hours. Anything could happen in two hours. Mitch could have cops looking for her. Her picture could be out. Missing person. Her stomach rumbled and she bought a hamburger, then sat in a hard plastic chair next to three other tired, defeated-looking people.
    The bus came, she got on, sat near a window, and felt herself getting farther and farther from home as it rolled across Colorado. Like she was disappearing, fading little by little. She closed her eyes. When she opened them she was in Limon, Colorado. Somewhere rain had started, and it fell like a heavy mist as far as she could see on the flat prairie. Miles and miles of emptiness, the gray sky like a dome closing down, landscape as bleak and desolate as she felt.
    Maybe she’d gotten away from Mitch. Maybe. But she’d lost her sister, her niece and nephew. She dared not even contact them. If he got the idea that Sybil had helped her, he’d hurt Sybil, maybe even the kids. She would disappear from Sybil’s life and Sybil would never know what happened to her.
    Cary had only herself to rely on, and what a weak reed she was to cling to. No crying. A crying woman would attract attention. She mustn’t attract attention. A ragged breath caught in her dry throat.
    Head on the seat back, she looked out