But I continue my methodical sweep, growing more and more appalled and frustrated when all the women look the same except their size and the color of their hair.
I’m about to give up when the view through the binoculars catches the smallest glimpse of pink hair.
Pink hair.
Micah told me last night that Burgundy had pink streaks in her hair when he last saw her. Depending on the product she used, they might still be there. I cut back to find the person I just passed over, but I have trouble locating her again.
There’s a whole group of women sitting around in a courtyard near the largest building. Their dresses areworse than the others I’ve seen. As shapeless as potato sacks. They’re positioned in almost a circle and appear to be sewing.
I make a choking sound in bitter amusement at what appears to be a nightmare sewing circle.
I move my view from face to face, but I can’t find that pink hair again.
Maybe I imagined it.
I’m in the middle of doing a second circuit to double-check when another woman comes out of a nearby building and sits down at an empty spot in the circle.
I check her. Her face is pretty with strong, even features. Her hair is long and dark brown, and the bottom half has a few streaks of faded hot pink, the color grown out and dimmed but still recognizable.
Burgundy.
It has to be.
Iknewit.
Now I can drive home and tell Micah. From there, we can figure out what to do.
I only have a few minutes left of the hour I gave myself. I inspect her only long enough to confirm that she’s healthy, her face is similar to what I remember from the photo, and the bottom half of her hair is indeed streaked with pink.
I straighten up and am leaning over to retrieve my rifle, which I set on the ground so it wouldn’t get in the way, when I hear someone shouting.
It’s close. Way too close.
I drop my binoculars and pull out my handgun, clicking off the safety as I peer down the hill.
A group of three men have seen me. Holy Rollers from their neat shirts and khakis. They’ve all got automatic weapons.
I have only half a second to make a decision. If I shoot one, the other two will kill me before I can pull the trigger again.
On a different day, in a different situation, I’d rather die than be taken by those men.
But Burgundy is inside the outer wall down there, and Micah is waiting for me at home.
If I let myself get killed, both of them will be left alone.
I’m not going to do it. Not while there’s a chance of getting out of this mess.
Instead, I holster my gun and raise my hands above my head, walking toward them with the tentative hope they won’t notice my binoculars and rifle out of sight in the tall grass.
“Oh thank God!” I exclaim in a wobbly voice I’d never use for real. “Thank God! You’re good men, aren’t you? You’re from down there? You’re not going to hurt me?”
All three men have beards. The oldest has white hair. “No, young lady,” he says. “We won’t hurt you unless you misbehave. What are you doing with that big gun?”
“It was my daddy’s. I took it for safety. But I don’t really know how to use it. Do you want it?” I take it out ofthe holster again and offer it to the men on an extended palm.
I wouldn’t normally consider myself much of an actor, but adrenaline sure helps. My hand and voice are both shaky. I’m doing a good job here.
They’re buying it.
