I could feel myself wavering.

"We need to keep going," Bethany said. "They're small-town cops. How hard are they going to press? I mean, hello, how many real crimes involving dead bodies don't get solved?" When Brad didn't respond, her voice rose. "They're fucking small-town cops, not rocket scientists."

Brad looked away from Bethany and me and kept on brainstorming, as though we'd never spoken. Jean stayed quiet. We could drive to the next stop, park Jean's car, rent another one, and deal with the police when everything was over, he said. Maybe even take Trina back there once she had enough medication in her system to say what was in her best interests. And ours. But there was no guaranteeing that the police would wait patiently for us to volunteer an explanation.

Jean reiterated her original suggestion. She sang her one note in a higher key, this time a shrill soprano. If we went home and faced the music, the police wouldn't believe Trina no matter what she said. Any claims she made would sound preposterous. All they had to do was call some of the hospitals in LA and have them send the records, and it would be clear that Trina had a mental illness, which made everything she said suspect.

The hospitals wouldn't release the records, Brad countered, and if they didn't, what proof did we have that Trina had bipolar disorder?

Anyone could see that Trina had problems, Jean said. Her voice had climbed to a squeaky register, Minnie Riperton notes, only flat. Her hands flailed uncontrollably. Jean's distressed face revealed a woman who was easily browbeaten. At the moment, she was more scared child than Earth Mother, more frantic woman than New Age spiritualist. There was no wisdom in her eyes, just fear. Of the four husbands, my guess was that at least two of them had knocked the shit out of her on a regular basis and she'd gone back for more. Why had I listened to her? Why had I placed my future in her trembling hands?

I could hear the panic in their voices. It grew louder and louder, as did my own doubts. They didn't possess magic-or even answers. Nobody had ever sicced the dogs on them before, and for all their secrecy, their first-names-only and late-night cruising, they were unprepared. And now we were bound together by the same shackles, tracked by the same hounds.

If anything happens to me, Trina will be lost.

"I'm leaving," I said, pushing back my chair. "If you won't take me to rent a car, I'll call a cab."

"With no money?" Brad said.

It was true: Brad had my wallet. It only occurred to me now that one of the reasons Brad had confiscated it was for an occasion such as this.

"We're not going to force you to stay," Jean said, "but we think it's in Trina's best interest and yours if you do. You've come so far. Really, this is no more than another challenge. Honey, if you weren't here, your challenges would be far more perilous. Think about the reason you called us."

"What did Eddie tell the police, Jean?" I asked.

She looked at Brad before she answered.

"He told them that the woman was mistaken: No abduction had taken place, and the people the woman saw-us-were all going on a trip together, on a retreat. He told them Trina was probably just playing around."

"How did the police respond?"

Jean glanced at Brad again. "They said they had thought of that, but the woman was certain the girl was in serious danger."

Jean sounded defensive to me. "What else did they say?" I asked.

"They kept asking questions," Jean said.

"What kind of questions?"

"About the car. Who was driving." She shifted a little; the motion caused small animal noises to escape from her seat. "They wanted to know where I was."

"Where you were?" I asked.

She opened her mouth and then put her open palm over it.

"Do they know you?"

Something about the way Jean slumped against her chair told me there was more.

"Do they know you, Jean?"

Brad looked at her. Jean's hand came down. Her eyes were nearly closed.

"Oh, Jesus!" she said. We waited. "They've been to the house before."

Of course they had. "Because of your son," I said.

Now her eyes were completely shut, as though she didn't want to see the words she spoke. "No, not because of my son-at least, not recently. Because-"

"Jean," Brad said.

It was generic caution, a yellow light flashing: Careful, careful, don't tell too much.

The old rules didn't apply. Jean sped right through. "Three years ago I got arrested for attempted assault. Eddie was seeing someone, a younger woman. I came back from a trip, and she was in my house. I punched her-well, him too, but she pressed charges. So-"

"Holy shit," Bethany said.

"So what happened?" I asked Jean. "You said she pressed charges."

"I plea-bargained. I got probation and community service."

"Are we the community service?" Bethany asked. She hooted, her laughter a sudden burst of noise, like a shot in the night.

"You never told me," Brad said. His tone was flat and empty, somewhere between rage and resignation. His incredulity was palpable. So was mine. How could he not know something so essential?

"They may come after us," I said. It was what we all were thinking. Might as well say it.

"I didn't think that . . ."

Jean's voice trailed off as Brad stood up. We all watched as he left the room.

"Brad is upset. He's invested so much in this. It's his entire life. I mean, he really doesn't have much outside of-" She stopped abruptly and gave us a half smile. "This is bad," Jean said.

She looked so morose, so unlike her "everything's fine" self. I reached out and patted her back. "You and Eddie seem so happy," I said.

Jean looked surprised. "We are, sweetheart. We love each other. I forgave Eddie a long time ago. He hasn't had a bimbo in ages."

"Not every woman can say that, goddammit," Bethany said.

"I was married to an alcoholic who couldn't keep a job and liked to hit me. Next was an alpha male who spent all his time making money and was never around. And then there was Steve, who also had a handy right hook. Eddie and his girlfriends . . . I guess by that time I was tired and ready to make a deal. He was helping me with my son. I was willing to look the other way. But the woman I punched out was just a little too bold. She didn't play by the rules. Funny thing is, after I hit her, Eddie stopped cheating. It was as though he felt my punch, like it went right through that girl and knocked some sense into him."

"Why did you go after the woman when it was Eddie you wanted to hurt? Women always go against each other," Bethany said.

Jean looked surprised. "I didn't want to hurt Eddie. I wanted him to respect my feelings, and I wanted to scare her away. I knew exactly what I was doing. That punch wasn't the result of some heat-of-the-moment passion; it was planned. I was angry that night, but I was in full control. She was a crybaby. She started bawling and Eddie was trying to comfort her and keep me away, so she thought she'd won. But she'd lost. Eddie likes strong women."

"So you forgave him," I said.

"I needed him, and gradually I forgave him. He stopped cheating, and I began to love him again."

A simple formula. Forgiveness always sounds easy, even in the Bible. Especially in the Bible.

"I just didn't realize the repercussions for what we're trying to do," Jean said, her words bringing us back to the matter at hand, which had nothing to do with forgiveness.

The door opened, and Brad returned.

"We're going to stay here," he said. His voice said, I am the leader. It said, I am in control. But something was shifting.

""Tomorrow morning, I want you to take me to rent a car," I said.

"We're staying here," Brad repeated.

"Maybe you are, but I'm going home."

"Take your daughter back home, and we can't be responsible for what might happen. You knew the rules when you signed on, Keri. You knew what we're doing is illegal."

"I'm not going to surrender our lives to you, Brad. Listen to me: The police are looking for all of us. That's not some vague hypothetical thing. It doesn't make any sense to stay here. I'm leaving."

"Trina's not in any shape for you to travel alone with her."

"You let me worry about my child."

"The best thing for both our girls is to stay right here," Bethany said, looking at me. "We had a reason for doing this, and that hasn't changed."

"Maybe nothing's changed for you, but it has for me. What good am I to Trina if I'm in jail?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Bethany said. "Nobody's going to jail. Some hick cop gets a little overzealous, and all of a sudden you're talking about jail. That's crazy."

"Black people go to jail in this country for bullshit every day. So don't tell me nobody's going to jail. The way it works in America is, I'd be the only one to go."

They all got quiet for a moment.

"If it's possible for you to go to jail, it's just as possible for Trina to be jailed or killed because she's in the middle of an episode," Brad said. "Not too long ago, the LAPD shot a schizophrenic man right in your neighborhood. Killed him. Do you want that to happen to Trina?"

It took a minute before I realized he was talking about Crazy Man, another minute before I allowed myself to be persuaded by the logic of what Brad was saying. "Never run my train off de track, and I ain't never lost a passenger." That was Harriet Tubman's claim to fame. She was always in charge. My conductor wasn't prepared; his train was in danger of derailment. The North Star couldn't guide him. How could I let him lead me? But what choice did I have?

"Let's just get the fuck out of here," Bethany said. "You're coming, right?"

I sighed, then nodded slowly.

Bethany turned to Brad. "Then we should go now. Let's stick to the plan."

As we walked to the car, Trina was alert and perceptive beside me. She knew that something was up. I could tell by the focus in her eyes, the arch of her pliant back. My child glanced at our faces, saw the tension there, knew things had changed, and sensed an opportunity.

"Will I be out of here in time to go to school?" she asked me. Her tone was conversational and casual.

"I don't know."

"Wherever you were going to take me, you don't have to anymore. I just want to go back home. I'll stay on the meds and go to school. Why are you trusting these strangers? It's not necessary. I'm already better. My good judgment is back."

Trina's clear voice with its reasonable tone was seductive, particularly given the changed circumstances. She wouldn't try to run away again. She'd take her meds and never cheek them. She kept talking, her voice a long-playing CD that soothed and lulled, as the words kept coming without a break in sentences that rolled from one to another without pause. I listened without being persuaded. Mania is a spinning top. Sometimes it looks as though it has run down, but just a little wind can get it going again.

24.

THERE WAS NOTHING ON THE HIGHWAY BUT LONG-DISTANCE haulers, rushing by with a whoosh of air, oil drips, and prodigious honks. Brad kept to a moderate speed. Not too slow. Not too fast. Not too noticeable.

If I had to put a tag on the mood in the car, it would be regretful. The station wagon was full of unspoken woulda-shoulda-coulda's, sentiments that don't travel well on a mission. Jean was close to tears, but she kept them in; I'll give her that. Brad was stoic and stern, a displaced captain who might have been scheming for a comeback. Only Trina was upbeat, chattering into the night to no one in particular, jumping from thought to thought, each sentence a trapeze she could swing on to the next one. Flying high. One sleepless night, one missed pill, one glass of wine, one joint, one hit of crack or meth or Ecstasy, or one false move could take her back over the edge.

Brad took a dark road. Jean leaned over the seat, retrieved a battered map from the glove compartment, and began navigating. Rather, she attempted to navigate. When we passed the same apple orchard twice in an hour, we were officially lost. Bethany didn't venture an opinion, but Jean, Brad, and I whispered back and forth, hissing and spitting through our teeth until we veered onto a two-lane highway that was a little more traveled.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Trina said. She'd been napping, and now she yawned and stretched.

"I have to go too," Angelica said.

Angelica had been quiet for so long that the sound of her voice startled me. The fact that she could string two coherent sentences together at times and say something absolutely normal struck me as an incongruity of the highest order. After living with her for more than two weeks of baring her breasts, slicing her legs, and talking to invisible people, I had lost sight of her capabilities. Maybe her medication had started working also. I'd been so absorbed with my own child that I hadn't paid attention to Angelica. But now as I looked at her, I could see that her face was fuller, her skin smoother. The hair that had seemed so stringy before was softer looking. The most recent cuts on her legs had already started to form scabs. When she saw me staring at her, Angelica smiled.

"We'll have to find a gas station," I said.

Brad made a little noise in his throat, a slight clenching motion with his hands, his silent no. I understood his apprehension. Anything could happen in a public place. But my bladder was calling, and the thought of three women peeing in the bushes was depressing.

The sun was coming up. An old man in a pickup directed us to a convenience store attached to a gas station. We followed him to a narrow road and beeped our thanks. A mile later, we pulled in and filled up. Brad, Bethany, and Angelica got out first. Ten minutes later, when they returned, a grim-faced Brad motioned that it was Trina's and my turn. We were halfway between our car and the store when the police drove up. There were two cops, a man and a woman. Behind them, separated by a wire barrier, was a huge German shepherd. The woman eyed us as we walked past the car. I smiled; she didn't. The dog began barking when I passed, as though my scent had indicated that I was prey.

I glanced back at the Volvo. Jean's neck was craned toward the police. She was rubbing her pointer finger across her top lip, back and forth, back and forth.

Brad waited outside while Trina and I went into the bathroom. On our way out, he bought some snacks. As we were all walking toward the door together, the cops were coming in, each wearing a holstered gun Brad and I inhaled at the same time. My breath was nose-stinging sharp. I tried not to look at Trina, who was between us.

From the car, the dog was still barking, the sound louder and angrier than before.

"Wonder what's wrong with him," the man said.

"Maybe he's hungry," Trina said. She stood still and smiled at the police.

The police looked at Trina and then at each other.

"Did you feed him?" the woman asked.

"Yeah, I fed him," the man said.

"Did you feed him poison?" Trina asked. "They try to poison me all the time."

The barking was deafening. For a moment that was all I heard.