After an hour of aimless wandering, he began feeling the weight of Allen's absence. It radiated from the blackness beside him, where Allen should have been sitting: a nothingness so great it threatened to swallow him whole and leave nothing but an aching heart as a testament to his inability to protect his brother . . .
"Julia?" he said, making his voice sound strong.
"Hmmm?"
"Could you come sit up here? For a few minutes?"
"I really want to keep my eye on this."
"I'd appreciate it."
The briefest pause.
"Sure," she said pleasantly, as if it had been her idea.
He heard what he imagined were the sounds of a woman extricating herself from a tangle of wires. Then she slipped under the table and popped up next to him. She placed a hand on his forearm, squeezed it, then slid back into the other captain's chair.
Stephen didn't look at her but stared straight ahead, trying to gauge the void. It was still there, but weaker. Like smoke, it had swirled away when her body had moved into its space. He felt that none of it had actually dissipated; it was simply less threatening, not all gathered in one spot.
He also felt foolish. He supposed she was used to working with professional investigators who didn't need hand-holding, who didn't let things like despair and regret interfere with getting the job done, who'd rather hear the ratcheting lock of handcuffs than a comforting word. But that wasn't him. His practical side insisted that she continue setting up the equipment needed to find Allen. But he also had to contend with his emotional side, which still felt the warmth of her hand on his arm and felt as good about that as an investigator would about a break in a case. He could not erect a wall between these sides.
Yes, they would find Allen and rescue him. His determination to do so was solid and big, a mountain that could not be moved. But they would have to do it as themselves, with only the gifts God had given each of them. With her technical brilliance, knowledge of the criminal mind, and prowess at executing covert operations and tracking people, Julia obviously held the greater advantage to accomplish their goal. They'd simply have to find a way to utilize his skills as well. Which were what, precisely? Physical strength.
"Something else?" she said, startling him.
"Just thinking out loud, I guess. Thanks for coming up front."
They traveled in silence awhile, Stephen taking comfort from the splashes of light against Julia's face in his peripheral vision. He kept expecting her to suggest finding a motel or at least a place where they could park the van for the night, but she never did. She seemed to be thinking, working things out, and the impermanence of the view outside helped her do that. Finally he said, "How about a restaurant?" A glowing orange sign was approaching on the right.
She hesitated. "I really should get back to . . ."
Her voice trailed off, and he felt her gaze. He wondered how much of his urgency to get away from the van, from its muted shadows and its smell of Allen's cigarettes, showed.
"You know, I could eat," she said.
They rejected the first table to which the waitress led them, a cramped two-top, and settled for a big round booth in the corner. The fluorescent lights that cast the place in an unnatural, sterile luminance were bright in Stephen's eyes, a welcome change from the gloom of the van. Something about the artificiality of the place—its orange Formica tabletops, brick veneer wall, plastic plants, Naugahyde seat covers—made the harsh reality of life seem very far away.
Julia scanned the decor, examined her hands, rearranged the napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, sugar packets, and small decanter of maple syrup.
"I'll be right back," she said.
For twenty minutes, he turned away an ancient waitress trying to take his order, her lipsticked smile failing to hide her boredom. Finally Julia returned, an extra wrinkle or two around her eyes.
"Trouble?" he asked. "Or should I say, what now?"
"My mother. She has MS. Most times, she's fine; I mean it hasn't gotten really bad yet. But you never know when she'll get an attack. They can be debilitating and pretty scary. She gets trigeminal neuralgia, these stabbing pains in her face." Her eyes moistened, and he handed her a napkin. "Sometimes she can't move, can't feed herself or go to the bathroom or pick up the phone. I bought her a medical alarm she's supposed to wear around her neck, but she says she's too young for 'one of those I've-fallen-and-can't-get-up things.' She keeps it on her nightstand." Julia touched the napkin to her eyes.
"Did you call her?"
