Beyond Resistance (The Ransom Series) Read online

  Dad shrugs. “If you insist. Be back before dinner?”

  “Deal.”

  With a quick nod, I hop back in the car and wait for my family to get all the way inside the house before starting the engine and turning around to brave the sinking mud puddles of the driveway again.

  It takes only a few minutes of being back on the main road for me to realize just how stupid of an idea this really was. My place of refuge is back in the woods, the clearing and the rock by the creek that bring some amount of peace and solace to my isolated life. I’m just wasting gas driving myself down the endless roads of Maine with no destination, no purpose. Once this grand scheme to bring my family back together again is over, I’ll have no purpose again.

  I don’t know if I can go back to living like that.

  The steering wheel quickly becomes the receiving end of my rage. I slam my hand against it as hard as I can, over and over until an achy feeling from my fingers to my wrist tells me I’ve gone too far. I need to reset my thoughts, to get back on track, to either bring me back in focus or distract me enough not to care.

  I need alcohol.

  It takes thirty minutes to get to the nearest bar, a place I’ve eyed up on every supply run I’ve ever gone on but have never actually visited. Its isolated location on the back roads instead of in the center of town has always made it appealing.

  By the time I pull into the parking at CJ’s Tavern and park the car, I’ve committed myself to going inside despite the tiny voice in the back of my mind telling me to turn around and get the hell out of here. The list of reasons why I shouldn’t be here is long, but at this moment I don’t really give a shit. I’ll have one harmless drink and be out of here in no time.

  When I step inside, I immediately notice that the tavern is a lot quieter than I expected. Sure, there are only about four people at the bar and a few scattered throughout the tables that take up the majority of the remaining space, but I expected rowdiness and loud music and demands for another drink to be shouted into the air. Instead everyone looks about as miserable as I feel, drowning away their sorrows in the beverages before them in a dark and dreary establishment.

  I’ve apparently come to the perfect place.

  Wanting to avoid any and all conversation, I opt for a table in the corner instead of sitting at the bar. I’ve barely sat down before I hear someone approach me.

  “What can I get you?”

  The woman’s voice comes across like a radiant beam of light through this depressing space. My head tilts up to see the owner of the voice, the perfect mouth that spoke her words, the dimples that sit at the tips of the smile on her face, the shoulder-length brown hair that frames her face. And her eyes. God, her dark brown eyes are the finishing touch on the friendliest and most welcoming face to greet me in as long as I can remember.

  I clear my throat and look away for a moment, completely taken off guard by my reaction to this woman who only asked what I want to drink. After quickly composing myself, I reply, “Sam Adams. Lady’s choice.”

  Somehow her smile manages to go even wider as she nods in reply before walking away.

  My heart thuds rapidly in my chest as I settle back in the chair and take a deep breath. What the fuck is wrong with me? The last bits of my control after my outburst in the car seem to be scattering away from me. Mentally I’m scrambling to get them back, to refocus and get my shit together before that lovely creature comes back to my table.

  I’m acutely aware of the woman’s approach as she returns to my corner of the room. My eyes remain focused on her, my posture confident. I’m ready to make up for my strange reaction just moments before.

  She stops a foot away from my table, holding the bottle of Boston Lager out in front of her but not extending it to me. She gives me a suspect look. “You look pretty young. Are you sure you’re old enough to drink?”

  I’m speechless. She’s going to scrutinize me for my age even though she can’t be much older than me. Given her job here, she’s probably been trained to spot underage drinkers. Though I am genuinely of legal drinking age, there is nothing authentic about my ID. My family has lived with fake papers for my entire life.

  After a few seconds of her staring at what I’m sure is a horrified look on my face, her doubtful expression dissipates into a huge grin. “I’m just messing with you. Here’s your beer.”

  She offers the bottle to me, and I have to will my hand not to shake as I accept it. “Thanks.”

  My tentative smile is not nearly as enthusiastic as the beaming look on her face. She studies me for a moment before turning around and calling out over her shoulder, “Let me know if you need anything.”

  I cup the bottle between my hands, immediately feeling the soothing effects of the cold glass against my sore hand as a sort of calm overtakes my body. The effects may be less the bottle’s doing and more from my inability to stop watching my waitress weave through the tables on her way between other customers and the bar. Her body almost bounces as she walks, as if the life within her is so vibrant that it shows through in every move she makes. She’s almost always smiling, her expression contagious to the patrons she serves and even to the woman behind the bar helping her serve up drinks.

  When she disappears behind two swinging doors next to the bar, my focus returns to where it should be. I take turns between swigs of beer and holding the bottle to my injured hand. I don’t dare look to see if my waitress has returned to the room. My eyes instead stay trained on the wall or on the bottle or the front door, anything to keep my mind away from that walking welcoming distraction that does crazy things to my brain.

  I grip the bottle a little tighter as I hear her approach. Jesus, I can recognize her footsteps now.

  “Here,” she says quietly, and I have no choice other than to drag my eyes away from the bottle to look at her. She’s holding a small bag of ice toward me. “Much better option than the bottle.”

  For a moment I’m not sure what to say or do. She was clearly keeping an eye on me just as much as my eyes were following her. She looked closely enough to notice me nursing my injured hand with the cold bottle. She cared enough to get me ice for it.

  In my lack of response, she slowly pries the bottle away from my hand and replaces it with the small bag of ice, cupping both the ice pack and my hand between her palms for a couple moments before beaming another smile at me.

  Her aura is infectious. I can’t hold back the grin on my face as I look away to hide the reddening I can feel working its way into my cheeks. God, this is fucking embarrassing.

  “You should see the other guy,” I offer in a desperate attempt to laugh it off.

  She nods, clearly impressed. “I’m sure your car learned its lesson. Let me guess. Steering wheel?”

  Though my pride should feel shaken at being called out like this, I can only laugh. My eyes close and my head falls back and I let the effects of the alcohol or this woman’s presence take me away into a fit of laughter before I finally pull myself together enough to respond to her. “That fucking steering wheel.”

  She gives me a thoughtful look before turning away to tend to the other customers, and the moment she’s gone I already miss her. She is clearly affecting me way more than the bottle of beer I’ve all but finished. Can I not bottle up the energy this woman exudes and bring it with me, let it nurture me and pull me out of the status quo that is my life?

  Then I remember the reality of my life, the reason I have no friends and why I was homeschooled by my parents and why there is nothing normal about my existence.

  My parents are criminals who have been hiding from the world for over twenty years. We can’t make social connections with people who can never know us. Isolation is the price we pay for freedom.

  But what point is there to being free if we cannot truly live?

  I have to stop this train of thought. I need to get out of this bar and away from the woman who brings life out in me that I haven’t felt since I was a kid, back when I didn’t fully
understand my family’s past and the reality of our situation. Ignorance is total fucking bliss. What I wouldn’t give to go back to that.

  I toss the ice pack down as if it’s on fire and abruptly stand and grab the first paper bill I can find in my wallet. After throwing a twenty down on the table, I make for the door, not daring to look behind me as I take the first steps backward to status quo.

  5

  It took over two months, but the house is finally complete.

  There is an amazing amount of work involved in renovating a house. With the help of their attorney friend, my parents anonymously purchased the structure that looked like nothing more than a beat-up forgotten shack in the woods. I don’t think they realized the amount of work that would be required to make it a livable space for my grandparents, but luckily they had me. Throughout the entire project they continually reminded me just how grateful they were for my help.

  What they didn’t realize is I was grateful for the distraction.

  From the moment I picked up Cindy the day she was released from prison almost three months ago, I’ve been feeding off the feeling of having a purpose to my life. My parents relied on me to bring Cindy back to them. They let me lead the effort to rebuild the house my grandparents would settle in nestled away in the woods of Maine within an hour of our own home.

  That feeling of purpose has filled the emptiness inside me. It’s only temporary, but I’ll take any distraction to put off what I know is going to come crashing down on me eventually. The full realization that I will never lead a normal life is not something I’m ready to face yet. I’m keeping my distance for now, refusing to acknowledge that it’s coming.

  I need to remain in this beautiful state of denial.

  Endless hours poured into replacing broken floorboards, painting walls, and fixing wiring were just what I needed, the ideal means to distraction. When the work ran out and the house was as perfect as Cindy wanted it, my focus immediately shifted to what’s next. It rests on me now to bring this plan to completion, to go get Robert and bring him home to us.

  Letting me go to pick up Cindy three months ago was almost too much for my parents to bear, but it wasn’t as tearful of a goodbye this time. They know I can do it again. I have to believe I can, too, but I know the risk is even higher this time. Robert is the prime target for anyone who will scrutinize his release.

  The drive back to Arizona was bittersweet. Exploring the country again and seeing the life and potential that is out there for anyone to grasp but me was almost hard to witness this time. The heavy feeling it placed on me dulled my nerves the entire trip until I finally made it to the enormous state prison surrounded by desert. Its tall barbed wire fence and guard towers were all the reminders I needed that I was willingly throwing myself into the lion’s den.

  An array of thoughts swirl through my mind as I wait in the car just outside the prison. It’s giving me the unwelcome opportunity to reflect on my past and look forward to my future, and I’m realizing that I’m losing sight of what I’m here for. The purpose of this plan is fading from me. I’m forgetting the reason my parents let me come out of hiding and risk my life to do what we’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember.

  I’ve stayed in this damn car for far too long. I don’t know if it’s the cramped walls of the vehicle around me or my current train of thought that seem to be suffocating me, but I have to get out. Throwing the door open, I inhale a deep breath and step out of the car as if there’s something deadly inside it. In the short amount of time I have left before today’s part of the plan gets underway, I try desperately to reset my thoughts and focus again on my purpose for being here.

  The emblazoned sun fills the sky above me. It’s the same sun I’ve known all my life but feels completely different here with its dry heat over this barren desert terrain. I’m far from home, and I know it’s dangerous to be here, but this is something I have to do. My family needs this. I need this.

  And he needs me, too.

  We’ve only had this raging celestial body in the heavens to connect us all together, but its pull on the Earth is nothing compared to the pull of family. Resisting the primal need to be together is something we can’t do anymore. There is no moving on with life knowing that the final piece of our family is out there.

  We understand the risks. We know what’s at stake. We’re ready to face whatever the hell life decides to throw at us, because honestly it can’t be worse than the difficulties we’ve already endured. It’s time for happiness and love to bring our family back together after being apart for so long.

  It’s time.

  I can feel the sweat beading on the back of my neck as I watch closely for any movement from the massive building in front of me. I’d like to think my body’s reaction is from the heat of leaning on this black car in the full sun of mid-afternoon as I wait, but I know nerves are playing their part. While our plan is well underway, this moment is where it could all fall apart. The next few hours will tell me just how risky this self-created situation is.

  A blaring buzzer sounds from the building before a metal side door opens. For the intensity of the sound, I would have expected an army to emerge from inside, but only one man with a plastic bag in hand walks out before the door closes abruptly behind him.

  He walks with his eyes trained on the ground and no urgency to his movements. Even at this distance I can see the worn lines of age that travel across his skin. His hair is wiry and gray with white patches throughout. As he walks down the path toward the massive barbed wire fence that separates us, I fear the life within him has been as drained as it appears to have affected his body.

  Even after the guard at the gate unlocks a door in the fence and allows the man to leave, there is no purpose to the man’s steps. He glances up only briefly to acknowledge that there is a car waiting for him as expected, though I see his expression long enough to recognize the look of confusion there.

  When he’s within feet of me and the car, he finally looks up to meet my gaze and clears his throat. “You’re from the cab company?”

  It pains me to hear the hopelessness in his voice. Given what this man has endured and what just happened to change his life around, he should be elated, full of anticipation, ready to take on the fucking world.

  I smile and avoid his question completely. I won’t lie to the man. I will never lie to him. “I’m here to take you home.”

  He laughs under his breath, a guttural sound full of sarcasm and discontent. I’m on the verge of putting it all out there right at this very moment to make him feel better and understand, but I have to wait until we’re on the road. I can’t risk anyone seeing his reaction.

  Before I can move to do it for him, he opens the front passenger door and takes his seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

  I take a brief moment to breathe and remember who I’ve just met and how long I’ve waited to meet him. There is no room for anger or frustration between us.

  He will understand.

  I move around the car and buckle into the driver’s seat, glancing only briefly next to me to confirm the scowl I expected would be on the man’s face. Without another word, I start up the car and get us on the road.

  The car’s radio is silent. Only the sound of the air conditioner combating the heat of the summer sun fills the space between us, though the car feels thick with tension.

  I need to make him understand, to put his worries to rest. Though I’ve been ready to do this for an eternity, now that the moment is finally here it’s almost impossible to know what to say.

  I turn to face him, fully intent on opening my mouth to speak and get the words out with no stopping until he realizes just how great of a turn his life has really taken, but there’s no need for me to say a thing. Understanding is written all over his face as his eyes remain fixed on my left hand on the steering wheel.

  “Oh my God,” he whispers in disbelief. Tears and sparks of life fill his eyes as he raises them to look at me. “It’s you, i
sn’t it?”

  My heart momentarily jumps to my throat as I glance down at my left wrist and the small black symbol of infinity tattooed there. I slowly bring the car to a stop on the side of the desert road before turning to meet the man’s gaze again, swallowing hard before speaking.

  “It’s good to finally meet you, Grandpa.”

  A look of shock remains plastered on his face as he is speechless in response to my greeting. For a moment I’m not sure what to do. This man has been through countless ups and downs in this life. His mind has to be jarred from the experience.

  After a moment, he seems to come back to reality, glancing me up and down before looking away to discreetly wipe his eyes. Robert laughs to himself before speaking, his voice raspy. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you. You look–”

  “Just like my father,” I interrupt with an unstoppable smile broadening across my face. “Cindy thought so, too.”

  “Cindy…” Robert’s voice fades away as he stares out the windshield.

  “It’s not what you think,” I quickly chime in. “You need to understand what’s going on now that you’re away from the prison. I have a lot to tell you, I just need you to listen.”

  “Is she okay? Is she happy?” Robert’s gaze finally returns to me, though his eyes seem reluctant to meet mine as if he’s afraid of the answers I’m going to give him.

  “She’s waiting for you.” I pause a moment, letting the weight of my words sink in as a look of disbelief overtakes the worry on Robert’s face. “My parents are waiting for you, too.”

  Robert shakes his head and brings his hand to cover his mouth. I see the understanding work its way into his face. From what my parents tell me, he was a damn fine detective before he was thrown in prison for helping me and my parents evade the law. It seems to have only taken my few words for him to put the pieces together.

  He looks away from me, clearly trying to compose himself, and I give him the time he needs. It’s uncomfortable to see a grown man break down like this, to see my own grandfather fall apart and be put back together again all in the course of a few minutes.