Page 35 of Atlas

I wait a few minutes before I can think of what to say. What on earthisthere that could possibly sound right to someone who’s been hogtied and wrangled away from her own home? “I don’t know why this is happening. It’s unthinkable and unbelievable. It’s like a bad nightmare.”

“I always wanted a chance to use one of those grenades,” Agatha mutters sorrowfully, like she’s mourning the missed opportunity more than anything else.

“I’m sure that if you really want to practice with one, the club could set something up for you out in your field that doesn’t involve getting life in prison or blowing that lovely cedar barn sky high. I’m still not done picking in there!”

“They’re just lucky I didn’t go straight for the throwing knives. I doubt that big beggar could have tied such good knots with both his eyes gone.”

We’re only a few minutes down the road and I’m already wishing that they’d done a more thorough job of searching Agatha for weapons before tumbling strapping her into the truck. I’m starting to think that she could have taken on a whole army by herself if she wanted to.

There’s a good portion of this that’s probably just angry bluster. The guys were right. We can’t chance anyone being there and winding up in the line of fire. No matter how tough they might be, they’re still ultimately flesh and bone and that’s no match for a bullet.

“You’ll be at this prison you’re taking me to?” Agatha asks stonily ten minutes later, but her words sound s watery at the end as my apology did. She’s losing some of her vinegar.

“Yes. Me and a whole bunch of other people. It might not be a luxury spa retreat, but the clubhouse isn’t bad, there’s a full kitchen and it’s in a nice location. It’s not a great situation, but we could make it fun if we tried.”

“Well…” She sniffs, turns her face to the window, and sighs. “As long as I get a ride on one of those bikes, I suppose it won’t be allthatbad.”

I have no doubt that she’s serious. Agatha looks like a harmless sweet old peach of a lady, but underneath that exterior is a warrior with a rebel soul.

“Is that hottie your man? Not the old grizzly vultures. The hunk who overheated last time. Couldn’t handle his own sizzle?” She snickers to herself.

“He- I- it’s complicated.” I stutter. “He’s the best male friend that I’ve ever had. But, yeah… it’s complicated.”

“They seem like they’re the kind of men who don’t know a boring day, at least. There’s something to be said for a good burst of violence every now and then, some action, some danger, some adventuring into the darkness and walking on the wild side.”

Considering Agatha walked out of a room wearinggrenades, I now see that her life wasn’t always that sleepy little farmyard. I don’t know what her past was, but I doubt she’s the kind of woman who was born in and will die in, and never leave, the same ten square miles.

“My husband, well. Goodness. I believed in love, but I didn’t know the meaning of the world until we were in it. It snuck up on us, and suddenly, it wasthere. Two people living one life. Two souls twisted and entwined together.”

There’s such passion in her voice, and such sadness too. She must miss him. Terribly. I know what it’s like to lose someone, to have a hole inside of you that scars over eventually, but the wound acts up, bothering you some days, the grief seemingly insurmountable just when you thought you’d tucked it safely away.

My hands tighten on the wheel.

“Have you told him how you feel?”

“Not in so many words.” I’m a thousand degrees, even with the air blowing right on me, and I have it cold enough to make ice cubes.

“Ahh. Sometimes there aren’t words. Just don’t wait too long to tell him. Death is a thief. It steals from us. I know you’re both young, but don’t take it for granted.”

“I’ve taken a lot of things in my life exactly that way.” The cloud of dust ahead of us reaches the end of the gravel road. It obscures the paved road, but I imagine that the three bikes are starting to turn off onto it. “My sister raised me. I was unkind to her so many times. Difficult. A brat more often than not. I purposely disobeyed her, disappointed her more times than I can count. She still loved me.”

“What happened?”

I think we’re at the point of knowing each other where the sharing of intimate, painful secrets is allowed. A trunk full of ill-gotten money, grenades, and a kidnapping kind of speed up the personalization process.

“I lost my mom young, and I know how fast life changes. You’re right. Deathisa thief. It steals people. Opportunity. Lifetimes. Paths that you then can’t choose because they’re closed off.”

“I’m sorry.” For the first time, her voice softens completely. “What about your other family?”

“My mom’s relationship with her parents was… I don’t even really know. It must have been terrible. She left when she was young. She ran away with Lynette’s father. He stuck around for all of two seconds when he found out she was pregnant. She raised Lynette alone, and then ten years later, I arrived. I don’t really remember my dad, but he was pretty much what people would call a shithead. Lynette remembers. She doesn’t like to talk about it, but I think he was mean sometimes, especially when he drank. Our mom worked three jobs and so it wasLynette who was always at home with me, even when our mom was alive. After she- after she died, no one bothered to reach out to us. I don’t think either of us will ever forgive whatever family is out there for that. Lynette had just turned eighteen. She was old enough to be my legal guardian. I guess they didn’t feel like their help was needed. If people aren’t interested in being in your life, then fuck them, right?”

“Fuck ‘em,” Agatha agrees emphatically, lisping through her dentures.

I thought hearing Lynette start to swear was funny. She was pretty uptight before she met Bullet. Very prim, proper, businesslike, and icy. Often, even with me. She’s warmed up and chilled out a lot since Bullet.

Love is good for people.

“Family can be chosen too,” Agatha points out. “These people are your family?”

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