He put the gear in park, then just sat while she pounded on him. The sounds coming from her had deteriorated into wordless screaming, the raw, wounded sound of unbearable pain that started from deep inside and tore its way out of her throat. She wanted to destroy something, she wanted someone else, anyone else to feel just a portion of what she was feeling. She felt as if she would burst from the force of it, as if her heart would give out under the immense pressure.
Then she collapsed forward on herself, sobbing so hard she couldn’t draw a breath. She hadn’t known she could cry like this, not even in the early, desperate days. She’d had a goal then, a cause. Now she had nothing. Her voice broke and she choked, began coughing convulsively. Diaz seized her shoulders and hauled her upright, propped her against the door. Distantly she heard him say “Drink this,” and he put a bottle of water to her lips. She managed to swallow a sip, though she was vaguely surprised at how difficult swallowing was with her throat so raw and swollen.
The storm passed as abruptly as it had come on, and she slumped in exhaustion, her eyes closing. She heard Diaz on the phone, talking quietly, but she was too numb to listen. She wanted to go to ground somewhere and die, because there was no way she could live with this pain.
She didn’t die. Instead she sank into a stupor, so emotionally drained that she was unaware of anything except being on the move again, Diaz driving in silence. She thought they stopped once, maybe twice, but she wasn’t certain. She slept, starting awake occasionally to stare out the windshield in total blankness, not knowing where they were now or where they were going, not caring, not even fully comprehending.
Darkness fell, and the headlights of oncoming traffic hypnotized her to sleep again. She roused when he stopped the Jeep and got out, watching dully as a man got out of the car parked beside them and handed something to Diaz, then gave a tiny salute and got back into his car and left.
Diaz came around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Come on.”
Milla got out, moving slowly, like a very old woman. They were parked at what looked like the tiny back porch of a small clapboard house. A cold wind whipped at her legs, went through her clothes. The ground beneath her feet was fine and gritty, and there was a strange roaring sound in her ears.
She had no idea where they were. She said, “I have a six o’clock flight,” and was surprised at how raspy her voice was.
“You didn’t make it,” Diaz said briefly, taking her arm and leading her up the three steps to the door. He opened the storm door and held it open with his body while he unlocked the wooden one, pushing it wide and reaching in to feel for a light switch. He found it, and bright light from an overhead fixture made her blink. He ushered her inside and she found herself standing in a smallish kitchen. Permeating everything was a peculiar smell that was somehow familiar, a not unclean smell, just . . . peculiar.
Diaz went back outside and she stood there, too tired and beaten and apathetic to care where he was going. She heard doors slam; then he was back, carrying both his duffel and her suitcase.
He walked through the kitchen into another room and more lights came on. Milla closed her eyes and waited for him to come back. He always came back. . . .
He took her arm and led her forward. “I figure you need the bathroom,” he said.
Vaguely surprised, she realized she did. The bathroom she found herself standing in had green and gray ceramic tile on the floor and in the rather large shower. Diaz closed the door and let her have the necessary privacy, but he must have been standing right outside, because as soon as she began washing her hands, he opened the door again.
“I’ll put on some soup to heat,” he said, and led her back to the kitchen.
She sat at the table and looked vaguely around while he poked through the cabinets and found what he needed. After a while she said in her croaky voice, “Where are we?”
“The Outer Banks.”
For a moment she had no idea where that was. A tiny frown knit her brow as she tried to get her tired mind to sort through the available information. Finally she remembered that she was in North Carolina, and the Outer Banks was part of the coast. In another moment, she realized that the roaring sound was the ocean. They were right on the beach. The peculiar smell she’d noticed was the tang of salt water.
Diaz set a bowl of steaming vegetable soup and a glass of milk in front of her. Dipping a bowl full for himself, he sat down across from her and dug in.
Cautiously Milla dipped her spoon into the soup and sipped at the broth. It burned her raw throat, but at the same time the heat felt good. She had never before in her life lost her appetite, but the very act of lifting the spoon was almost too much effort and she had to make herself continue. She kept her head down, her gaze focused on the bowl of soup. She couldn’t let herself look at anything else, think about anything else; right now she was numb, but the pain waited just on the edge of her consciousness, ready to consume her again.
When she was finished, Diaz cleaned the kitchen, then led her back to the bathroom, where he’d laid out a couple of towels and washcloths. “Strip,” he ordered. “Get in the shower. I’ll bring your nightgown.”
If she’d had more energy, she might have argued with him, or even locked the door while he was gone. Instead she ran the water in the sink and obediently took off her clothes while it was getting hot, then turned off the faucet and stepped into the shower. The glass door was clear, which gave no privacy at all. She couldn’t bring herself to care.
She had just finished drying off when he returned with his hands full, carrying everything she could possibly need. He set her toiletries and cosmetics on the vanity, put her blow dryer in one of the cabinet drawers, laid her nightgown on the vanity stool.