by Chris Rogers
Dann watched the motel-room door open and close, Flannigan striding toward the car, carrying his plastic bags, stun gun clipped to her belt. Have to stay clear of that thing.
The inmates all agreed on a couple of points. Said if Flannigan got on your trail there was no shaking her. Someone said she used to be a hotshot ADA, had a good chance at the top job. Then one day she up and quit, no explanation.
Dann heard her pop the trunk, toss his bags in, close it. When she strode around to the passenger side, he caught a brief full-length profile, and an unexpected stir of appreciation gave him a start. The woman was a looker, no denying that. The cut of her curves awakened carnal appetites that had gone woefully dormant these past few months.
She opened the front passenger door, leaned in, and slid a panel open in the steel mesh separating the front and back seats. Parker got his first unobstructed view of her face: full mouth, well-shaped lips, sunny complexion over fine bones, no-nonsense chin. But it was the lusty brown eyes that gave her away. This bitch might walk, talk, and kick butt like a man, but inside she was all woman. And women had soft hearts.
“Here’s a shirt and coat, Dann.” She shoved them through the opening. “And some dry socks.”
The rolled-up socks bounced off his chest, hitting the chain with a thud and a rattle.
“Guess you think I’m Houdini.” He jiggled his cuffed wrists with just the right amount of impotence. Wasn’t a woman alive could resist male helplessness. “How am I supposed to put them on?”
She motioned him to turn around. Parker suppressed a smile as he heard a click and felt the cuffs separate.
“What about my shoes?”
“Packed.”
“Guess you didn’t notice the snow. Guy could get frostbite.” He grinned his most puppyish grin.
“You won’t be walking anywhere until we get to Houston.”
So much for charm.
“Well, what about my car?” It was a wreck, sure. He’d bought it to get by until the city released his impounded Cadillac. Paid hard-earned money for it. “Can’t just leave it here in the parking lot.”
“You won’t need any wheels where you’re going.”
Shit! “Tell me, lady, were you born a bitch, or did it come with your training bra and pubic hair?”
She cocked an amused eyebrow, then snapped the mesh panel shut and slammed the passenger door.
What a lousy friggin mess. Bracing one foot against the door, as high as he could lift it, Parker studied the shackle lock.
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” Thoreau had written. Parker had never felt desperate until the day he was arrested and charged. Mostly, he took life as it came, hard or easy. Never accomplished much, but then he hadn’t aimed at making any great marks in the world. He had lusty appetites, and he was unashamed of those. “In the long run men hit only what they aim at.” Henry David Thoreau hadn’t minded jail, but then he wasn’t facing twenty years. Parker aimed to stay out of jail. No way he was going back to court. He’d watched the jurors’ faces that last day. If the trial had ended there, he’d be in Huntsville now, staring at up to twenty years behind bars. He’d rather they shot him.
Chapter Seven
Thursday, December 24, Grandin, South Dakota
Dixie swallowed another caffeine tablet and pulled off the highway to look for a coffee shop. The noonday sky had muddied up with storm clouds. The snow fell harder now, a blinding white curtain that stretched miles into forever. She barely felt safe going sixty. If she could drive far enough south, she’d leave the storm behind, but that meant staying awake a few more hours. No matter how it kicked and sputtered in her stomach, coffee was a must.
Spying a red neon DINER sign, its message softened by a snowy scrim, Dixie coasted to a stop and pulled on her gloves. The Mustang’s feisty heater kept the car toasty, but from the buildup of fresh snow outside, she figured the temperature had dropped considerably.
“Hey!” Dann called from behind the steel mesh. “Where you going? Don’t leave me in here. I’ll friggin freeze.”
“How do you want your coffee?”
“Coffee? What the hell happened to breakfast?” He rattled the chain that shackled him to the Mustang’s floorboard.
“You won’t starve and you won’t freeze, so don’t get your panties in a wad.”
“Come on, lady, I’m not going to run. How far would I get in this weather?”
“You think I intend to find out?” She zipped her jacket and turned up the collar. “That backseat is your home all the way to the Harris County lockup, so you may as well get comfortable.”
“Yeah? Suppose I have to take a leak?”
“See that plastic bottle back there? Label says ‘Fresh Mountain Water? Consider that your personal urinal.” Dixie tucked her thermos under one arm and flipped the door latch.
“Aw, come on, lady—”
A blast of icy wind wrenched the door from her hands, flung it wide, and peppered her skin with snow and sleet like gravel. Turning her face from the wind’s force, she wrestled the door shut, then fought her way down the sidewalk to the front of the diner. She had parked away from the windows to avoid curious eyes. Glancing back now through the swirling snow, she could barely see the car. Surely no one would notice Parker Dann in the backseat. In this squealing wind, if he yelled, no one would hear him, either.
A wave of heat and the smell of hamburgers greeted her when she stepped inside the diner. Her taste buds snapped to attention. Around midnight, she’d stopped at a drive-through burger stand. She hadn’t eaten since.
Raking snow from her hair, she scanned the diner. The ambient noises dropped a notch. Dishes slowed their clatter; voices leveled to a hum. Local citizens sized up the wayfaring stranger.
A somewhat crooked Christmas tree decked with tinsel and candy canes twinkled in one corner, while Elvis crooned “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” on a vintage jukebox. To be home for Christmas, Dixie would have to cross three states and half of Texas in less than thirty hours.
She sighed and slid onto a stool at the counter as she checked out her fellow customers. Two young couples sat at a square table across the room, thick down-filled ski jackets padding their chair backs. At the counter, a pair of middle-aged men in plaid flannel shirts drank coffee, and in a booth on the back wall, an elderly couple had just finished lunch. They shoved their plates aside and stared openly at Dixie.
The waitress, twenty-odd, with bouncy chestnut hair, pushed through a swinging door from the kitchen. Her gingham uniform had a loose button dangling from the top buttonhole, a long run marred her stockings, and an artistically penned card Scotch-taped to her name tag said “Smile, it’s almost Christmas.” She set plates of food in front of the plaid-shirted men, then turned a ready smile at Dixie.
“Yes’m. What can I get for you?”
Dixie eyed the wall-hung menu. “Four burgers, two orders of fries, a large milk, and a thermos of black coffee to go.” She didn’t plan to stop again anytime soon. “I’d also like a coffee to drink while I wait.”
The waitress wrote it all down, then flashed the smile. “We have some fresh cherry pie. You guys want to take some of that along, too?”
Dixie checked the stool beside her to make sure she was alone. So much for anonymity. Everybody in town had probably watched the Mustang pull in, spotted the Texas tags even through the snow, and, with their keen country eyes, noticed Dann in the backseat. Smalltown folks didn’t miss much.
“Cherry pie sounds real good,” Dixie said.
The waitress jotted that on her pad, too, and scurried off to the kitchen. Minutes later she was back with Dixie’s coffee.
“We got a room vacant if you guys want to bed down for the storm. Weatherman says the roads north of Hillsboro are closed. Expect they’ll be closed farther south inside an hour.”
“Hillsboro? I just came through there. The roads aren’t closed.”
“Yes’m, they are now. Storm’s coming in fast.” She
slid two generous slabs of pie into a foam carrier.
One of the men at the counter said, “Your first time up this way, is it?” His flannel shirt was red and green plaid.
“First time and a quick trip at that,” Dixie told him. “I was hoping to make Omaha before stopping for the night.” Driving up early that morning, even with light snowfall, and the muddy remnants of earlier snowfalls along the shoulders, the roads had been clear. She couldn’t believe the highway would shut down completely.
“Blue Norther’s pushing a ton of snow and ice down from Canada,” the man said. “Wet front’s moving up from the southwest. Be the devil of a mess when they get together—”
“—and tougher’n the devil to outrun,” said the man beside him in blue flannel. “You got chains for that Mustang, have you?”
“Chains?” Dixie had left sixty-degree weather in Houston the night before. Even if there’d been time, she wouldn’t have thought to bring chains.
Blue plaid shook his head doubtfully. “Those roads will turn to ice before you get five miles.”
In Texas, a favorite small-town pastime was teasing the tourists. She couldn’t help wondering if these South Dakotans were pulling her leg.
“I don’t suppose you have a spare set of chains I could purchase, do you?”
The two men looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Harold would have some up at the Texaco,” said red shirt. “Only he shut down at noon.”
“Good set of snow tires might do,” said blue shirt. “You guys have snow tires on that Mustang, do you?”
Dixie was beginning to regret she’d even stopped. Ten minutes wasted here would’ve taken her ten miles farther south. But the snow snaking across the road in hypnotic waves had started her nodding off.
“No snow tires,” Dixie admitted. Her tires were the best for driving through mud and sand. This time, she’d have to trust them on ice.
The waitress reappeared from the kitchen, to-go bags already turning dark where grease from the fries seeped through. At home, Dixie dosed up on salad greens every day to compensate for the junk food she couldn’t avoid on trips. She dropped some bills on the counter when the waitress presented the check, then eyed the loose button and ruined stockings, dropped another bill, and told the girl to keep the change.
“Watertown’s about a hundred and fifty miles,” red shirt said. “You might make that before dark, if the storm doesn’t close the road south.”
The clock above the counter said twelve thirty-five. Even poking along at fifty, Dixie could make Watertown in three hours. “What time does the sun go to bed around here?”
Red shirt scratched his unshaven jaw. “Four, four-thirty, this time of year. Earlier, maybe, with this storm.”
“Sisseton’s only a hundred miles,” the waitress said. “In case the road gets really bad, you might want to stop there. It’s only three miles off the interstate, and they’ll have a room. Emma Sparks will be sure to stay open for late travelers.” She smiled encouragingly. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks,” Dixie said. “I hope you don’t have to work through yours.”
“No, but thanks for asking. We close at one.”
“I was lucky, then, to get here when I did.” Dixie waved at the two men. “Cheers!”
“You guys take care,” blue shirt said.
The elderly couple were still staring, as if Dixie’d walked in naked. Pulling the door shut behind her, she shivered at the shock of frigid wind and started back toward the Mustang.
Her leather boot soles hit a slick of ice. Without warning the sidewalk zipped out from under her. She whumped down on concrete, jarring her spine, tailbone to teeth. Bags and thermos scooted away as tears of pain welled in her eyes.
“Damn! How did it get so fucking cold so damn fast?”
During the few minutes she’d spent in the diner, the sidewalk had iced over. The cold pierced her light jacket as if it were cheesecloth.
Groaning under her breath, Dixie struggled to her knees and clamped a gloved hand around the thermos, thwarting the gust that threatened to roll it into the street. She clutched it to her chest, scooped up the bags, then stretched a hand to a windowsill to pull herself to her feet. The Mustang was only twenty paces away, but looked like a mile.
Head down, she moved off the sidewalk onto the snow-covered dirt and, testing her footing with every step, fought the wind back toward the car. She couldn’t recall ever being so cold. Why the hell did people live with such weather? She wanted to holler back into the diner, tell all those folks to come on down to Texas where a body can breathe without freezing her pipes.
When she finally ducked into the car and shut the fierce wind outside, Dixie fought down a shock of trembling that was only partially due to the cold. She couldn’t help wondering if she was courting disaster to try to drive in the coming storm. Stalling out anywhere along the highway would likely mean freezing to death.
She considered taking the room the waitress had said was available here at the diner. But in the backseat of the Mustang, Dann hadn’t a prayer of escaping; in a motel room, with space to maneuver and Dixie asleep, he might get free. People could get hurt—the men in their plaid shirts, the helpful waitress with her dangling button. Dann was big enough to do some serious damage if he took a mind to hurt someone.
She could always call the Houston judge trying Dann’s case and let him know Dann had violated the terms of his bail agreement. But if the judge managed to get him back to Houston, Dann stood a good chance of being convicted—precisely the situation Belle had hired Dixie to avoid. Sure, she’d be able to look at that Christmas photo of the Keyes girls, knowing she’d done her part in avenging Betsy, and Ryan would still think of his Aunt Dixie as a hero, tracking down bad guys, but she’d forever hear Belle’s yammering scold: Innocent until proven guilty, Flannigan.
Dixie could argue that she hadn’t bargained for hauling the bail jumper across four state lines in a raging snowstorm. It was dangerous. Crazy as bungee jumping.
So when the job gets tough, Flannigan, you quit? What kind of hero is that? Dann wasn’t a murderer, after all. He was a useless, thoughtless drunk driver, possibly guilty of vehicular manslaughter, but not murder. She could handle him. And she had no choice but to brazen the storm.
As she eyed the lowering clouds, Dixie started the Mustang. Once she put the weather behind her, she could park at a roadside camp and grab a few winks. She didn’t feel a bit sleepy at the moment, with a roaring fire of caffeine in her belly, but she wasn’t fooled. Out on the highway, swirling snow and droning tires would work on her like a snake charmer’s flute.
Chapter Eight
Thursday, December 24, Interstate 29
The Mustang’s tires felt solid enough on the snow-covered gravel stretching back to the highway, but the icy blacktop was less forgiving. When Dixie stepped on the gas, the big engine surged and the car’s rear end fishtailed all over the road, swerving inches from an oncoming pickup truck.
She fought for control, panic snapping at her. Suddenly the tires grabbed the pavement and the car settled into the lane, steady and straight.
Dixie filled her lungs, waited a beat, then let the air seep out between her teeth, countering the surge of adrenaline that tensed her muscles.
“Let me guess,” Dann said. “Got your driver’s license by mail order.”
It’d happened so fast, everything fine one minute, out of control the next. Usually, she was a good driver, facing tricky situations with a cool head, but she was tired, wired, and sleepy—the worst driving conditions she could imagine. Loosening her grasp on the steering wheel, she flexed her fingers, mentally counting to ten.
Losing control was a special fear of hers, a deep-rooted fear. As a youngster, she’d played football with the tough kids on the block, but roller skating left her hugging the rail. Where was the logic?
Just now, though, she’d done all right. Both truck and Mustang sped unmarred toward their destinations. B
y midnight or bust, she’d make Omaha, even without chains or snow tires.
Easing up on the gas, she relaxed into a comfortable cruising speed a hair over forty-five. Driving would be a damn sight easier if she could give her eyes a rest from the blinding whiteness. Squinting made her head ache, yet her sunglasses were too dark. Their comforting shade would coddle her right to sleep.
A silent barrage of snowflakes flying straight at the windshield was sleep-inducing enough, every bit as mesmerizing as the glistening ribbons snaking along the highway in front of her. Dixie cast her gaze into the distance and tapped her foot to an imaginary rock band, refusing to be lulled.
“No ketchup for these fries,” Dann groused.
“Look in the other bag.”
Dixie heard a rustle of paper followed by the crinkle of plastic packets. She’d tossed everything to the back except the thermos of coffee.
“Damn good burgers. Don’t you want one?”
“Later, maybe. Not now.”
Her stomach felt as empty as a winter ballpark, but tanking up on food would only encourage sleep. With the lane stripes buried under the snow, she had to keep sharp to stay on the road. Luckily, the highway was straight and flat.
“Saw you thump your bumper back there at the cafe. Nasty fall. Surprised you didn’t break something.”
Dixie ignored him. Conversing with skips made as much sense as laundering bullshit. Skips bitched about how the cops handled their investigation, bitched about their own attorneys, and bitched about the system in general. They could spin heartrending stories asserting their innocence, but anyone guppy enough to listen would be broadsided later by the truth.
If she made a list of people to scrape off the face of the earth, drunk drivers would crowd right up near the top. Dumb, self-centered, and lethal. She could understand anyone getting snockered—hell, she’d been snockered a few times herself, had even curled up in the backseat to sleep it off. But a drunk behind a steering wheel turned a car into a weapon. Parker Dann might as well have held a gun to Betsy Keyes’ head and pulled the trigger.
