Chapter Twenty-One

Hope?" called Twyla as she walked through Wade's front door. She heard rustling sounds coming from the kitchen and was surprised to find her son therein rather than her daughter. "What are you doing home?"

"I work the afternoon shift on Saltsdays." Wade was turned away from her, but the aggressive manner in which he wound the crank and punched down the lever on the toaster led Twyla to suspect that he was angry.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothing much. My mom stormed off last night and never came home. The usual."

Guilt oozed its way into Twyla's conscience, a familiar feeling but not one generally inspired by her second born. She grimaced apologetically.

"Where have you been?" he exploded, turning for the express purpose of yelling at her.

"I stayed at Frank's."

"Did it occur to you to let your family know where you were?"

"Well… no?"

"I have been worried sick! I stayed up half the night waiting to make sure you got home okay, except you never came home!"

"I assumed Hope would have told you we argued."

"Yeah, but how was I supposed to know that you planned to stay out the whole Bones-loving night?"

The toaster sprang, and two reheated pancakes popped up. Wade plated them, and as he poured a staggering amount of syrup over them, he haughtily informed his mother, "Maybe next time, you can model more mature and responsible behavior for your grandchildren."

"Will do. Did you make pancakes?" The thought of Wade creating anything edible in the kitchen threatened to alter her perception of reality.

"Anita made them before she got the kids off to school and dropped Teo off at day care. She left me these to reheat in the toaster."

"That tracks," said Twyla, relieved that the universe hadn't shifted while she maybe possibly chatted with a god at temple this morning. "Is Hope around?"

A high-pitched keen answered this question. Twyla turned to find her daughter right behind her, red-faced and blubbering.

"I'm so so-o-o-orry!" Hope wailed before grabbing Twyla in a crushing hug.

Twyla tried to give her daughter a comforting pat, but it proved difficult given the strength of the embrace.

"It's okay," she said, although she was finding it difficult to breathe.

"It's not oka-a-a-ay!"

"Honey—"

"I said the most horrible things to you, and I didn't mean them! You're the best mom ever, and I am a bu-u-u-utt!"

"You're not a butt."

"Yes, I a-a-am!"

"You're not a butt, but… can't… breathe."

"Sorry," Hope said wetly, finally relinquishing her mother.

Twyla cupped her daughter's precious face in her warm hands, desperately relieved that all was not lost between them. "You want to talk about it, sweetheart?"

"Mm-hmm." Hope sniffed, and then she turned and snatched the plate and fork away from her brother before following Twyla to the patio.

"Hey," Wade protested in her wake as if he were the one who was nine years younger.

Twyla sat across from her daughter as Hope tearfully shoved a forkful of syrup-drenched pancake in her mouth. "You're not entirely to blame for last night. I didn't do a good job of saying what I needed to say."

"I mean, you did tell me not to marry the love of my life."

"That's not exactly what I said."

"That's pretty much what you said, though."

That was pretty much what she'd said. Twyla cringed at the memory of how badly she had flubbed her big marriage talk with Hope.

"Do you have a problem with Everett?" Hope asked warily.

"No, I do not have a problem with Everett. Everett is lovely. I have a problem with me. I'm my problem." Twyla's stress and her lack of sleep were finally catching up to her. She drooped in her chair. "You were right. I wasn't happy being married to your dad. I wasn't happy being married, period. But I didn't hate your father. He was a kind and decent man, and I loved him. Do you believe me?"

Hope nodded, her face tearstained and puffy. "I'm sorry you weren't happy, though."

Twyla waved this away. "Your dad and I had plenty of good times. Plus, I had you and Wade and DJ, and what could be better than the three of you?"

Hope gave a watery laugh. "I don't know about DJ and Wade, but I'm pretty great."

"You are better than great. You are my heart and my soul, which is why I'm worried that no matter how much you love Everett and no matter how much he loves you, marriage might bring you more sorrow than joy. And the thought of you being trapped in that life kills me."

"But that was your experience. It doesn't have to be mine."

"I know that. I swear I do. But I don't think any woman hands her birth key to a man thinking, Golly, I hope he turns me into his personal servant. And yet it happens. All the time. To lots of women. Lots and lots of us. So all I'm asking is that you don't let it happen to you."

"Would it make you feel better if I tell you that I refuse to let that happen to me?"

"It might."

"I refuse to let Everett turn me into his personal servant."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good. I believe you." Twyla reached across the table and put her hand over Hope's. Her daughter's skin was sticky with syrup, as if the universe were reminding her that this young woman would always be her baby girl.

"So you'll be happy for me, even though I'm getting married."

"Whatever and whoever makes you happy makes me happy. And I already love the snot out of Everett, so that helps."

Hope's face crumpled, but in a good way. "Thank you, Mom."

"You're welcome." Twyla came around to Hope's side of the table to hug her. She pressed her cheek to the top of Hope's head and smelled the strawberry scent of her shampoo. "But I'm also going to remind you that you said some awful things to me last night, and I think you need to know how much that hurt me. I freely admit that I'm not winning Mom of the Year, but I did not deserve that."

"I'm so sorry," said Hope as Twyla gently rocked her. "I didn't mean any of it. I was pissy because I thought you were shitting on me getting married."

Twyla straightened and put her fists on her hips. "Honestly, language!"

"You taught Teo how to say fucking. He's not even three years old yet. People in glass houses, Mom."

Twyla opened her mouth to fire off a retort, but what could she say? She had, in fact, taught her youngest grandchild how to drop an f-bomb.

Hope remained seated in the black metal chair, but she hugged her mother around the middle and gazed up at her. "You're so badass, Mom. I would be lucky if I turned out like you."

"That's sweet, but I'd say there's plenty of room for improvement. Why don't you turn out like me but better?"

"It's hard to be better than the best."

And now Twyla was tearing up. "Oh, honey, I love you!"

"I love you, too!" cried Hope.

When they finished hugging and dripping sentiment all over each other, Twyla sat again, taking the chair next to Hope, not opposite her.

"So I guess you're not going to marry your cute professor someday?" asked Hope. "You're just going to use him for the hot loving?"

Twyla waved her hand dismissively. "We broke up."

"Oh no."

"And then I… made things complicated with Frank."

"As in, you slept with him? In a sexy way?"

Twyla bit her lip and nodded.

"Oh. Oh!" Hope sat up straight and slapped Twyla on the arm. "Oooooooooh!"

"I can't believe I told you that."

"This is amazing!"

Wade stepped outside, carrying a laundry basket. "What's amazing?"

Twyla turned to Hope with wide eyes. "No, do not tell—"

"Mom finally got it on with Frank," Hope announced to her brother.

"So when you told me you stayed at Frank's last night, you meant that you stayed at Frank's last night?"

Twyla could feel herself physically shrinking in horror as her children discussed her sex life. "I wonder if this is what Old Hell felt like?"

"Finally," said Hope.

"Took you two long enough," Wade agreed. He walked to the clothesline and began to wrestle with a damp shirt.

Twyla couldn't believe what she was seeing. "What are you doing?"

"Is this a trick question? I'm hanging clothes on the line."

"Someone raised you right."

Hope clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Would you congratulate me or Anita if we were out here hanging up the laundry?"

"Excellent point," conceded Twyla. "Someone raised you right, too."

"Anita left me a note saying that if I didn't do it, she'd kill me." Wade hung the shirt on the line, but it immediately came free of its pins and landed in the grass.

Hope cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, "Weak!"

"You do it, if you're so smart."

"I am smart, which is why I'm not going to help you. And neither is Mom, because she doesn't need to enable your learned helplessness." Hope shot Twyla a quelling look, as if she knew that her mother was ready to leap up and show Wade how it was done. "It's not rocket science. Let him figure it out. For Anita's sake."

Twyla clutched her chair's arms but forced her butt to remain in the seat.

"Be strong," Hope encouraged her.

"Hello! Mail delivery!" called the cheerily stentorian voice of Eternity's new nimkilim, an elephant named Portia. While she was significantly nicer than Horatio, the former nimkilim, she was also significantly louder and significantly more likely to crush one's garden beds under her massive feet. She stood at the gate, waving a letter in her long trunk and singing "Yoo-hoo!" Twyla was fairly certain that the zinnias Anita had planted last year in that general location were toast. Oblivious to all things floral, Wade went to greet Portia at the gate, which was just as well since he doubtless would have mowed over the zinnias on accident anyway.

"Hi, Portia, whatcha got for us today?"

"Wade, it's the darnedest thing. I reached into my satchel and pulled out this letter, but it's addressed to Twyla Banneker, who doesn't even live here. Yet lookie-loo, there she is. Hello, Twyla!"

"Hi, Portia." Twyla joined the elephant and Wade by the gate. "Darling child, will you tip the nimkilim for me?"

"Why do I have to tip? It's your mail."

"My purse is inside, and I gave you life."

"How is anyone supposed to argue with the I-gave-you-life line?" he groused, but he dug into his pocket and handed a coin to the nimkilim.

"Much obliged!" trumpeted Portia before she moseyed away on her mail route, shaking the earth beneath her.

Wade returned to his laundry and Hope's teasing, and Twyla opened her mail. There was no return address on the envelope, and the note inside was composed of words and letters cut from newspapers and magazines and pasted onto the page. It read:

We have Frank. If you ever want to see him alive again, meet us at the following coordinates inside Tanria no later than 5:00 this evening. Come unarmed, and tell no one about this note, or Frank dies. Thank you. Bye.

Latitude: 37.849; Longitude: -106.926

Blood rushed to Twyla's head, and her ears rang. Someone had Frank. Frank was in danger. And Twyla needed to ransom him. Except, was this a ransom note? There was no demand for money, only a request that she show up at a specific location inside the Mist. Twyla gripped the fence post to prevent herself from tumbling to her knees. She could barely hear Hope say "Mom?" through the thundering of blood in her ears.

She reread the letter.

Frank.

They had Frank.

They were going to kill Frank.

"Mom? What's wrong?"

She knew that Wade was speaking to her, but his words didn't register. The only words she could focus on were the ones in front of her, a mismatched jumble of fonts and papers that formed a threat to her neighbor, her partner, her best friend, the man she loved from the depths of her soul.

Hardly knowing where she was going or what she was doing, she walked into the house to get her Gracie Goodfist backpack.

"What did that letter say?" asked Hope as she followed Twyla into the room they were, in theory, sharing at Wade's house, even though Twyla had yet to spend a single night in it. Wade himself hovered at the door, an expression of grave concern painted over his face.

"It's classified," Twyla answered. She had taken next to nothing the last time she went to Tanria, and with her home destroyed, she still had next to nothing. What she did have was a compass and a map, and that was all she needed. She slung her mostly empty bag over her shoulder and made for the door.

Wade hurried in front of her to stop her from leaving. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, honey. This is Tanrian Marshals business. I have to go."

Reluctantly, he let her slide past him, and both he and Hope watched Twyla hop into her duck and drive off.

As she sped along the highway, kicking up a cloud of dust in her wake, all she could think about was Frank and how on earth she was going to rescue him. Her plan, such as it was, did not include her autoduck breaking down five miles from the West Station.

"No!" she cried as a cloud of steam, or possibly smoke, billowed out from underneath the hood. She managed to pull the duck off the road before it completely died, and she got out to stare at the engine, as if she knew how to fix it. If only she had let Wade come with her. He was a mechanic, for gods' sakes.

The sound of another duck in the distance caught Twyla's attention. She stood in the middle of the highway and waved her hat in the air to flag down the driver and beg for help. The duck came to a stop, its glossy red exterior and white racing stripes blinding in the Bushong sunlight. It must have been driven straight off an auto lot, since the windshield hosted the staggering price tag. The engine growled with power, even as it idled, the sort of vehicle that could only be described as a muscle duck.

The driver's-side window rolled down, releasing the heavy bass of a popular song playing within the confines of the cab, and to Twyla's amazement, Penrose Duckers poked his head out of the tricked-out autoduck.

"Twyla! Need a lift?"

"Duckers?" She could not believe her eyes. Or her luck.

"What do you think? I'm test-driving it! You hear this?" He bobbed his head in time to the music blaring from the autoduck's interior. "It comes with a transistor, so I don't have to listen to you and Frank sing your shitty songs anymore!"

A surge of hope sang through Twyla's veins. If Duckers had made it out to the auto lots today, surely that meant Frank had taken him and the ransom note was someone's sick idea of a joke. "Is Frank with you?" she asked desperately.

"No. I ran into Dr. V. on Main Street, and he offered to take me duck shopping. Have you seen his ride? It's smokin'."

"Hallo, Twyla," Quill called through the passenger-side window.

Despair set in. Twyla fought the urge to lie down on the road and curl into a ball. Curling into a ball wouldn't help Frank, and helping Frank was what she needed to do more than anything.

"Can you give me a ride to the station?" She didn't wait for an answer. She opened the passenger-side door, and since it was a one-bench duck, she set her pack on Quill's lap and pushed him into the center of the bench to make room for her.

"I say," he exclaimed, startled by her behavior, but she didn't care. There were more pressing matters to attend to than Quill's ruffled feathers.

"Uh, okay," said Duckers, turning down the volume of the transistor and putting the duck into gear. "Why are you going to work? You have the next couple of weeks off, don't you?"

"Just drive!" she cried, adding a more subdued "Please" to make him malleable to her needs.

"Is something the matter?"

"Of course not! Nothing's the matter. With me. Obviously there's something the matter with my duck. Ha!" Twyla knew she was talking way too quickly as a fake smile cracked her face.

Quill smiled blandly at her, but she could see that Duckers wasn't buying it. Eager to deflect his skepticism, Twyla turned his attention to the ridiculous autoduck he was test driving. "I think you need to look at something more practical. This thing screams ‘breakup duck.' You're better off cutting bangs."

"First of all, this duck kicks ass. Second of all, why do you need to get to the station again? Are you going to beg the chief to take Frank back? Or, shit, are you going to put in for retirement, too? Are you abandoning me?"

"No, I just need to… uh… do a Marshals in the Community thing."

"Ugh. Sucks to be you."

Twyla would have breathed a sigh of relief at redirecting Duckers's perceptiveness if she weren't tied up in knots over Frank.

Duckers nudged Quill with his elbow as he drove. "Hey, Dr. Vanderlectable, do you think Twyla's right? Is this duck too much of a flex? Because, lemme tell you, it handles like a dream."

"What did you call me?" asked Quill, bemused.

"Vanderlectable. Vanderlirious. Vanderlightful. I could go on all day."

"Thank you? I think?"

"You're welcome. So wait, Twyla, if you're doing a Marshals in the Community thing, why are you going to the station? Shouldn't you be, you know, in the community?"

"Or does it have something to do with this ransom note for Marshal Ellis?" asked Quill, holding up the letter that Portia had delivered to Wade's house less than a half hour ago.

"How did you get that?" Twyla demanded, horror-struck.

"It came out of the pocket of your charmingly childish backpack when you set it on my lap and shunted me to the side."

"A ransom note?" asked an incredulous Duckers. "What the fuck? Is Frank in trouble?"

"It would seem so," said Quill, who then proceeded to read the note aloud for Duckers's benefit, finishing with "Who says thank you and bye in a ransom note?"

"Who cares?" snapped Twyla, although she had wondered the same thing. "I need to get to this place before five o'clock. And I wasn't supposed to tell anyone."

"How will these people know that we found out about it? You should have gone to the authorities."

"I don't want to risk Frank's life."

"Don't be a ninnyhammer. You're risking his life by not involving trained law enforcement officers."

"I am a law enforcement officer!"

"So am I," said Duckers, "and I'm here to tell you that I agree with the professor. You're being a total ninnyhammer, which is a great fucking word, by the way, and I am using it forever. The point is, we need to tell the chief."

Twyla took a cleansing breath. Frank needed her. She refused to care whether or not Duckers and a man she had dated for two seconds thought she was a ninnyhammer. And, much as she hated to admit it, they had a point (about involving the authorities, not about her being a ninnyhammer).

"You're right. We need all the help we can get. Okay, here's the plan. I'm going to enter Tanria through the portal at the West Station, unarmed. Duckers, you are going to arm yourself to the teeth at the weapons lockers and follow me at a distance, in case they've got eyes on me. You'll be my backup, but don't interfere unless it's absolutely necessary."

"You got it, Twyla."

"Quill, I need you to track down Chief Maguire to let her know what's going on."

"I'm afraid we're supposed to return the autoduck to the lot in thirty minutes," Quill informed her apologetically.

Twyla gaped at him. She was tempted to take him by the ascot and shake him until his tweed unraveled. Fortunately, Duckers piped up and saved her the trouble.

"Pretty sure saving a man's life is more important than a duck, Dr. Vander-lickin'-good." With that, he put the pedal to the metal, sending up a furious cloud of dust in their wake as they blazed down the highway.

When they arrived at the West Station, Twyla went straight to the stable, while Duckers and Quill went into the building to carry out their tasks. She looked over the stalls, and while there were several equimares to choose from today, she knew the stallion for the job when she saw him.

"Time to save Frank, Saltlicker. Do not let me down."