Slow enough to avoid flagging the attention of law enforcement, fast enough to get us away from the diner, from the GPS beacons, and from the holding house. I aim south toward Binghamton, New York. More people, greater safety.
“How did your father die?” Howard says from the backseat.
“That’s a little rude, isn’t it?” Tanya says.
“It might make it easier to remember,” Howard says.
“It was Mike,” I say.
“I knew I hated that guy,” Tanya says.
“But I can’t be sure he’s dead,” I say. “That’s why I asked you about it in the diner.”
“Why aren’t you sure?” Howard says.
“I thought I saw something when I was young, but sometimes when you’re very young and you experience violence, your brain shuts down. You think you remember something, but maybe you remember it wrong.”
“Like a false memory?” Howard says.
I glance at Tanya, who is scrutinizing me from the backseat.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask her.
“This isn’t about Howard at all. It’s about your father.”
“Howard was helping me try to find him. That’s why Howard was kidnapped, and why I came back for him.”
“I thought you came to save him,” Tanya says.
She’s perceptive. I have to choose my words carefully.
“Howard is innocent,” I say. “I got him into this, so I’m getting him out of it.”
“So you’re saving him,” Tanya says, “but finding your father in the process.”
“I hope so. Yes.”
I glance back and find her crying.
“What’s going on?” Howard says. He’s as confused as I am.
“What about me?” Tanya asks. “Where do I fit into this plan?”
“You weren’t part of the plan,” I tell her.
“I want to go home,” she says through sniffles. “Right now.”
This is a difficult situation. If I let Tanya leave, she’ll almost certainly call the police and bring the wrong kind of attention down on us. That’s assuming she isn’t recaptured by The Program first. Either way, it’s safer to keep her with us, at least for the time being. I need to find a way to calm her down.
“I’ll get you home as soon as it’s safe, Tanya. I promise.”
Her crying gets louder. Howard strokes her shoulder to try to relax her, but it doesn’t seem to work.
I spot an exit two miles ahead. I can see the ramp in the distance, arching off the main highway and disappearing behind a hill where I can just make out the sign for a small, local gas station.
“I have an idea,” I say. “How about we stop for a minute and you call home? You can let them know you’re okay and you’ll be back soon.”
That seems to do the trick. She wipes tears from her eyes.
“Thanks, Zach,” she says. “That means a lot to me.”