“I might have been a little more patient, too, if I either had something else to do but sit around and think about Angelina, or if I could have served in some official capacity with a little authority. As it was, I was just a hanger-on, and I’m not used to that.

“But a murder is a priority for only so long, and then the police get bogged down with other matters, and it gets put on the back burner. If I hadn’t been on their backs all the time, Angelina might have . . . might still . . . well, it’s hard to say.”

29

29

I kept my eyes on the stars and my concentration on breathing deeply. Each turn the truck made clicked with the road map in my memory, and a small smile began to form at the corners of my lips. I felt free already, but the freedom wasn’t from casting away everything that was real, it was embracing that which had value. Sarah had substance—the real feelings of a woman, a complete woman, a warm woman. She would touch me and then I too would find those terribly elusive feelings that had kept me separate all this time.

The truck stopped, shuddered, kicked, and was still. Two doors slammed, and two young faces looked over the tailgate at me.

“You all right?”

I nodded.

“Stay put. Looks like Sarah’s at home, all right. We’ll get her.”

I nodded again, tears of relief hot and hard inside my face, and I lay there, waiting with desperation.

Soon there were footsteps along the gravel path and low talking sounds. I heard Sarah’s voice. It had been sounding in my mind for two years, but in the continuous replaying, my mind had laid down tracks of grit, scratches, and static, so my memory of the sound had lost the most beautiful of its tones. Sarah’s voice was deep and pleasant.

“I can’t imagine who it could be,” she said, and then she looked over the edge of the truck bed.

My legs began to twitch. I propped myself up on my elbows, lightning flashes crashing across my vision. “Sarah,” I said.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know who you are,” she said. “Are you a student?”

“No, no. Angelina Watson. Two years ago . . . sick by the road . . .”

“Oh, yes, Angelina. I remember. Well, what do you want?”

“Please,” I said. “I need your help.”

She sighed and my heart lurched. “I can’t help you, Angelina. I can give you a bed until you recover, but I can’t help you.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “You can. You’re the only one who can.” I lay back down as the edges of their faces began to vibrate in shades of blue and gray and expand and contract with my breathing. I was near the end of my endurance. “Please.” I closed my eyes. “Please understand.”