by Mg Gardiner
She looked at the reborn doll. Its head was dented and its stomach sliced from Fell’s knife.
Welcome to the fight, Little Weirdo.
She made her way toward the cab, her chest heaving, and pounded on the back window. Zoe squirmed around and slid the window open.
“Mommy, are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m climbing in.” She tossed the reborn inside.
She wanted to get to the wheel. Teresa was steady but Sarah feared that she was overwhelmed. Through the window she called, “Get someplace where we can swap places. I’ll take over.”
“You watch Zoe. Let me handle this.” In the mirror the nun’s expression flickered, briefly turning wry. “I’m good. I was a rally driver in a previous life.”
“A what?”
“This truck is nowhere as tight as the Subaru Impreza I drove,” she said. “But it’ll have to do.”
“Rally driving? Like races through forests and across the outback?”
“And the Inca Trail.”
Teresa kept the pedal down. Through the open tailgate Sarah saw the silver SUV coming at high speed. Reavy and Grissom were bearing down on them.
33
Teresa called, “Sarah, come on. Get inside.”
The truck raced through a yellow traffic light. As they cleared the intersection the light turned red. Behind them in the silver SUV Grissom and Reavy ran it.
“Shit,” Sarah said.
She squirmed her head and shoulders through the narrow window into the back of the pickup’s crew cab. Zoe reached up and tried to pull her in.
They were in a suburban neighborhood of sprawling ranch homes. Teresa veered across a vacant lot, vaulting the truck over the curb. Sarah shunted through the window on momentum and landed in a heap against the front seats.
Zoe’s bottom lip was trembling. Sarah scrambled onto the seat and hugged her.
“It’s okay.”
Zoe buried her face in Sarah’s chest. “That lady … she had a knife. What was wrong with her?”
“She’s gone. She’s gone now.” Sarah thought: Lying so automatically has become a bad habit.
Teresa said, “Hang on.”
She spun the wheel left and turned down an alley. The truck hit one trash can, then another. The cans banged like kettledrums and flew as they battered past.
Huddled under Sarah’s embrace, Zoe went quiet. Sarah looked out the back window. The SUV was still behind them.
Harker followed the path of the car chase, vectoring thanks to information he heard on the police scanner. “Heading northwest toward U.S. 380. Reported that a woman in the back of a pickup truck is beating another woman with a baby.”
“Repeat that?”
Eyewitnesses: notoriously unreliable. On the other hand: The clan brought out the most extreme in everybody.
He angled through morning traffic, past piñons and billboards, vacant lots and houses hunkered under the broiling sun. He didn’t have a gumball light—the Bureau didn’t go for sirens and flashing things; it wasn’t running a disco—but if any local bubba in a black-and-white tried to stop him, he had his FBI wallet and would tear the guy’s nuts out through his throat.
“Black pickup with Louisiana plates, heading into the Barnett neighborhood at high speed.”
Barnett. Southwest Roswell, not more than two miles away. He laid a hand on the horn and cut the corner at an intersection.
Ninety seconds later he spotted the pickup. Two hundred yards ahead of him it flashed past, big Dodge Ram with performance tires, powering west into a residential neighborhood. He stomped on the gas just as a silver SUV raced after the Dodge in pursuit. Harker kept his hand on the horn. He keened around a corner and saw the Dodge and the SUV disappear into an alley.
He could get ahead of them. In the alley they had to slow for obstacles—if they didn’t, they’d pinball off the concrete walls on either side. But he was on the blacktop. He could beat them to the far side of the alley and cut them off. He accelerated.
Sarah stared out the back window of the pickup, watching the SUV bearing down. At the wheel was Grissom Briggs. His face looked like a block of iron. Reavy was beside him in the passenger seat, blond hair hanging tangled in front of her face. She was loading a shotgun.
Sarah’s chest caught. “Teresa, they’re armed.”
Teresa shot a glance in the rearview mirror. Her expression didn’t change, but she seemed to shift in her seat—to focus and stretch, like a racehorse being asked for a new burst of speed. This woman, Sarah thought, was braver than anybody she’d met in a long time.
The engine roared, a steady drone. They exited the alley back onto the blacktop.
Sarah felt dizzy. She wanted Zoe on the floor to protect her from gunfire, but the truck was going at death metal speed. She needed Zoe belted in, tight.
She pushed Zoe’s head down. “Lie on the seat. Head in my lap.”
But Zoe glanced around, a 180-degree sweep of the horizon. Sarah pushed her down again and bent over her.
“There’s another man,” Zoe said.
“Say again?” Sarah said.
From beneath Sarah’s embrace, Zoe pointed out the window. “There’s another man coming. In a brown car.”
Sarah turned. The road was headed toward a fork, and they were on one of the prongs. Coming down the other one was a brown sedan. At the wheel was a man with short hair and sunglasses, wearing a suit.
A suit. Out here, the only people who wore suits were bankers and undertakers. And federal agents.
Teresa, voice strained, said, “Sarah?”
“I think it’s an FBI agent.”
“In pursuit?”
And I thought this couldn’t get any worse.
“Of us. I presume so.”
The truck bucketed over a dip in the road. Teresa steadied the wheel and kept racing toward the fork.
“Sarah? He’ll have firepower.”
“What are you asking?”
“Little backup wouldn’t hurt.”
Teresa was asking if they should turn themselves over to the FBI to save their lives. In Sarah’s lap, Zoe huddled, tense and small.
“SUV’s gonna be in range here in a second,” Teresa said.
Surrender. That’s what Teresa was talking about. Surrender and stay alive.
A cry escaped Sarah’s lips. Teresa didn’t know. She couldn’t—could she? Could Teresa understand why she was hesitating?
The brown car drew nearer. The two roads were converging on a barren intersection of scrub and dirt. His side of the fork had a stop sign. He didn’t look like he planned to stop.
“Sarah.”
She was asking permission. Sarah’s throat caught, because she realized that Teresa had thrown all in: She was willing to risk everything, including herself, to run for it if Sarah only said the word.
Sarah clutched Zoe. If she died in a wreck or from a gunshot, what was any of this worth?
Teeth clenched, Sarah looked up. “Okay—”
To their left, the brown car was on a collision course. And with a high revving sound, the baby-blue Pontiac Bonneville reappeared between them and the FBI agent, accelerating like an arrow. Sarah gaped.
“The hell …”
Fell was at the wheel. Jesus, she had carjacked her rescuers. And how big an engine did that ugly old boat have under the hood? It was skiing along like it was on fire.
“Teresa …”
“See it.”
The truck raced straight toward the intersection. Teresa was still waiting for Sarah’s instructions. Stop, or go?
Then the blue Bonneville swung away from the pickup. It arced across the road, across the patch of dirt between the two forks of asphalt, and sideswiped the FBI agent’s car.
It hit with a crunch and forced the brown car onto the far shoulder. Side by side, the two vehicles veered into the scrub.
Amid swirling dust, the agent’s car slid sideways into a drainage ditch and dropped sharply to a stop. It was out of commission.
The blue Bonneville limped away, the left side of the vehicle flattened, tires out of true. It could no longer give chase.
Behind the pickup, the silver SUV kept coming, lights ablaze.
Throat dry, Sarah said, “Drive.”
Driving east along U.S. 380 into the morning sun, Lawless saw the first shimmering signs of civilization ahead: trees, dust, billboards on the empty highway. He saw a fork where the highway split in a Y. Left toward central Roswell, right toward the airport and music festival grounds.
Then he saw something else, coming straight at him. He saw three cars abreast, headed for him in all lanes on the highway. Fast.
A black Dodge Ram pickup. A pale blue big-ass sedan. A brown compact.
“No damn way …”
He turned the wheel and drove off the highway into the dirt. With a roar the three-car chariot race blew past him going the other way. His car slid sideways under a pale scrim of dust. He grit his teeth and steered into the skid. Dammit—
He braked to a stop on the sand near the fork in the road. Mouth dry, he looked west and saw the brown car canted into a ditch. The blue sedan was half-smashed but rolling away from the crash. It had no intention of stopping.
The black pickup was half-gone down the highway, headed west at top speed. Behind it followed a hulking silver Navigator.
Sarah was in that black truck.
He turned the wheel to give chase, but gave a last glance at the crashed brown car. The driver was still inside. He jumped out, ran to the ditch and pulled open the passenger door. And he saw Curtis Harker.
Lawless hung in the open doorway, one arm on the frame.
Harker sat tilted against the driver’s door, which lay half-buried in dirt. He looked like he’d had his bell rung. With one hand he was fumbling with the seat-belt buckle. With the other he was trying to make a phone call.
He turned. His eyes were unfocused, his teeth bared. But when he saw who was standing in the doorway, he seemed to snap to, like he’d been splashed with water.
“You,” he said. “Don’t look so unhappy to see me alive.”
Still the same Harker. Bristly and brittle, even wrecked in a ditch.
“No head injury, then,” Lawless said.
Harker groaned and popped the seat belt. He shook his head violently, trying to orient himself.
Lawless leaned in. “You okay?”
Harker batted his hand away. “What are you doing here, Lawless?”
“Are you all right?” He put a hand on Harker’s shoulder and examined his eyes. They were clear and focused. His words were clear and focused. Lawless saw no blood or any sign that the man was in pain. “What’s your name?”
“Screw you.”
Lawless let him go. “I think you’re fine.”
Harker grabbed his arm. “She’s not getting away.”
Lawless pulled free. “I’ll call the locals. They’ll get you a tow truck.” And something to stanch the bile, maybe.
He pulled back through the passenger doorway. Harker tried to climb over the center console and follow him.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Harker said.
Lawless turned and jogged toward his car.
Harker called, “Wait for me, you bastard.”
“You shouldn’t leave the scene of an accident,” Lawless called back. In the air he heard the faint wail of sirens. “Help is on its way.”
Lawless jumped into his rental. Harker lurched from the wrecked car, tripped and went down on all fours. He grunted to his feet and staggered toward the U.S. marshal.
“You leave without me and I’ll have your star,” Harker shouted.
Lawless fired up the engine. Harker broke into a sloppy run.
He yelled, “You can’t save her, Lawless. She’s mine. She’s done.”
Lawless spun the wheel. The back end of the car slid on the sand, scattering dust at Harker. Lawless took his phone from his pocket and thumbed Teresa Gavilan’s number. He would bet his life savings that she was driving the black pickup. He straightened the wheel and punched it back onto the highway.
34
Under the heavy growl of the pickup’s engine, Sarah bent over Zoe in the back seat. At the wheel, Teresa’s face was set, lined and fierce. She drove down the center of the blacktop, straddling the line.
Out the window Sarah glimpsed the SUV. Grissom Briggs’s dark bulk filled the driver’s seat. Reavy’s pale blondness and white shirt were bisected by the black gash of the shotgun.
Sarah climbed over the center console into the front passenger seat and hauled the lockbox onto her lap.
Teresa said, “What are you doing?”
“Defending us.”
“I—”
“With a show of force if nothing else.” God, not now, not pacifism—what kind of cast-iron balls did this nun possess?
Sarah said, “If I show them a loaded gun, they might back off.”
“Good. Show it. Show them they can go to hell if they keep at it.”
It sounded like a battle cry. Fingers trembling, Sarah fumbled with the lockbox. She could hardly see the combination. Another glance back: The SUV was closing in.
Teresa had her foot to the firewall. The road ran on into the endless desert, straight as a measuring tape. Here past the edge of town there was no cover. Sarah saw no out, no rescue, no sign of an off-ramp or any way to confuse their pursuers. The once-fearful sight of police lights had sunk below the horizon behind them. They were completely exposed.
She took out her Glock. It was loaded, but she followed procedure. Cleared the chamber, ejected the magazine, checked that it was fully loaded. Reinserted it with a flat whack with the palm of her hand to drive the magazine into place. She pulled back the slide to load the chamber.
She climbed over the center console again into the back of the crew cab.
“Mommy …”
“Stay down.”
She knelt on the bench beside Zoe and braced her back against the front seat. She raised the Glock so it could be clearly seen through the rear window of the cab.
Grissom Briggs stared straight at her. The distance between the vehicles held steady.
Then began to diminish.
Reavy raised the barrel of the shotgun. Her hair whipped in the wind. The SUV veered into the opposite lane.
“They’re coming.” Sarah gripped the Glock two-handed.
The grille of the Navigator appeared outside her window. Then Reavy’s pale form. The shotgun protruded out the window.
Teresa said, “Brace yourself.”
Sarah pressed against the seat back. Teresa turned the wheel left and sideswiped them.
With a grinding crunch the Navigator veered, the sudden swerve causing Reavy to hit the doorframe. Grissom straightened out. Reavy lowered the barrel of the shotgun.
Sarah dived to the seat just as Reavy pulled the trigger.
The back passenger window shattered. Glass spalled and spewed into the cab.
Zoe screamed and grabbed Sarah’s shirt. “Mommy …”
Get up. The gun was in her hand. The Worthes were right outside. You’ve been here before. Get up. Shoot back.
She pushed herself up, aimed the Glock through the window, and pulled the trigger.
Just as Teresa turned the wheel left even harder. Her shot went wild. They slammed into the Navigator again. It caromed onto the shoulder. For a second Sarah thought Grissom was going to hold it, but he hit a bump and the Navigator fishtailed. He lost control, careened into a stubby pine tree, and bounced off. The SUV spun and wobbled to a stop.
Sarah’s vision pulsed. “You got them.”
Then she was shaking all over.
They crested a rise and the dust from the Navigator’s spinout disappeared. Sarah dropped to the seat and pulled Zoe into her arms. Zoe clung to her like a spider monkey, shoulders jerking. Nuggets of shattered safety glass covered the back seat. Shotgun pellets were embedded in the back of Teresa’s headrest. Sarah became aware that her face was stinging.
Her forearms were stinging. Blood freckled her skin from tiny shards of embedded glass.
She called to Teresa, “You all right?”
Teresa kept the truck rolling like a freight train down the road. “Anybody behind us?”
“Empty blacktop.”
Teresa braked, spun the wheel, and cut sharply through a break in a barbed-wire fence. She raced through a gate and over a cattle guard, tires ringing against the steel, and onto a furrowed dirt track. They barreled into the desert, blowing a rooster tail of dust behind them.
Five miles later they came upon an abandoned barn and trailer. Teresa finally stopped and killed the engine. She slumped back against her seat. Sarah put a hand on her shoulder.
Zoe said, “Are we there yet?”
“I don’t know where we are. But we’re all here together,” Sarah said.
She reached into the Snugli, pulled out Mousie, and handed him to her.
35
Danisha was at the Avis counter at the Roswell airport when the tow truck pulled up, hauling a smashed rental car. She signed the rental documents absentmindedly. The car was wrecked but good.
She did a double take. Out of the tow truck climbed FBI Special Agent Curtis Harker. He grudgingly took some paperwork, slammed the door, and stalked toward the building.
Danisha grabbed the keys to her rental and hoisted her duffel onto her shoulder. Harker approached the door, his face a block of annoyance behind aviator sunglasses. She scooted around the corner before he could spot her.
She felt as if she had come down with a sudden fever. Harker—he had screwed with her phone. She’d suspected, but this proved it.
She’d found the cell phone in her ruined office, under a pile of debris. A pile she had already sifted through. Yeah, the office was a disaster, but phones don’t dissolve and reappear out of empty air.
Harker. The asshole had taken it when he came to gloat and sniff. He was fanatical, like a dog with its teeth sunk into somebody’s hamstring.
