“Stop!” Poesy shouts. She jumps in front of my shot and slaps my hands. “Let him go, Lowen. We’ll never make it out of town if you kill the man who had our car towed.”
I keep my aim on him, because knowing his life is in my hands somehow makes me feel better, but the feeling quickly fades, and I lower my gun.
“We’re fucked,” I say, watching the old man roll out of sight.
“Do you think they’ll search the car?” Poesy asks, running her hands through her hair.
“Yes.”
Nature’s stillness covers us like a heavy blanket, and the sun’s last light filters through the trees, casting patchy shadows across the road. In less than an hour, we’ll be stuck in the middle of nowhere, blinded by utter darkness.
“There has to be a house around here somewhere, right?” My girl walks past me, alongside the road. “Are you coming or not?”
The temperature drops with the sun, and as early evening crawls into late night, not a single car or another human graces the road. We’ve run from a skunk and after a deer, but two hours since we started walking, our feet hurt, and it’s freezing.
Poesy rubs goose bumps from her arms, walking slowly as exhaustion settles muscle deep.
“I don’t know how much farther I can go,” she says. Her breath turns white in the air, and her stomach growls.
I stop and kneel so she can jump on my back. Camping with the bears isn’t an option, and the woods are pitch-black. If we try to find a tree to sleep under, I’m afraid we’ll get lost and never find our way out. At least we have a half-moon guiding our way roadside. Civilization will come eventually.
“You can’t be serious,” Poesy says with a small laugh. “My hero.”
She’s on my back for twenty yards before somehow becoming one hundred pounds heavier and thirty degrees warmer. My girl comments on how I’m a natural heater and inhumanly strong. Meanwhile, I have shin splints, sweat dripping down my temples, and I’m pretty sure I’ve slipped a disk.
When I’m convinced I’m going to drop her and keel over, a dog barks.
“Did you hear that? It came from over there.” Poe points toward the other side of the road. She falls to her feet and walks toward signs of life.
Disrupting darkness is dim orange light coming from a trailer window, hidden behind a maze of pine trees. Relief floods my senses, refueling my strength and unclouding my mind. I don’t bother looking both ways before running across the street, and dive right into the ocean of trees toward hope. Low branches and rough bark scratch my arms, and exposed roots slow my pace, but nothing stops me once I see the pickup.
“Lowen, what if someone is there? Slow down,” Poesy calls out, chasing behind me.
I stop and catch her in the dark, covering her mouth with my hand to keep her from screaming. We take cover behind a fallen, moldy tree trunk and scope out the truck and trailer. With the exception of one light inside what I assume is the bedroom, the place is as dark and quiet as the woods.
“I don’t think anyone is there,” I whisper, slowly removing my hand from Poe’s mouth.
“You scared me, jerk.” She elbows me in the side before peeking over the tree trunk. “I should knock first. Someone is going to be more willing to open for a woman in need of help than if we both go.”
Instinct and the simple need to protect my girlfriend from harm make me feel like I should tell her to stay behind while I go inside alone. But we’re in this together.
“Do you still have the gun?” I ask, even as the words burn my lips.
“Of course, I do.” Bravery stands and dusts off her dirty knees and straightens her tangled hair. “Don’t take your eyes off of me, okay?”
Watching her walk over pebbles and through wild weeds toward a dismal trailer in the middle of the woods without me is the worst type of torture. A twig snaps under her foot, cueing the dog of her presence. My girl stops in her tracks when the mutt starts to bark, but continues once she realizes it’s inside.
She knocks on the metal door three times, sending an echo into the night.
“Hello, is anyone home?” she calls out, knocking twice more. “My car broke down, and I need help.”
No other lights turn on, the trailer doesn’t move how it would if someone were inside, and Poesy’s only welcome is from the pup. I stand when I feel certain we’re alone in the woods, but pull out my weapon before abandoning safety behind the collapsed trunk in case I’m wrong.
“Should I go inside and look for the keys to the truck?” my girl asks. She walks toward the sky-blue Chevy.
“Not yet. I’m going to check around back.” I hold my weapon out in front of me and press my finger to the trigger, ready to fire.
Eroded bicycle frames without seats and flat tires are stacked against the back of the small trailer, covered in cobwebs and dead leaves. Broken lawn chairs sit around a wooden table, cluttered with empty beer cans and ashtrays full of cigarette butts. The half-acre of land is covered in junk: a rowboat, an empty claw bathtub, car parts, and spare tires. Everything’s exposed to the elements, aging under a layer of rust and grime.
“There’s no one here,” I say, reappearing around the opposite side of the trailer. “Let’s go in.”
Unlocking the door is as easy as breaking the window and reaching in for the handle. A black Chihuahua snaps at our feet and growls when we enter its home, but besides our four-legged friend, no one is here.
The first thing Poe does is search the closet for a sweater, and I open the fridge, thankful to find two bottles of cold water. We don’t have to look long for the truck keys; they’re hanging on a hook magnetized to the freezer door.
“Should we bring the dog with us?” my girl asks, slipping a gray hoodie over her head. She tosses me a red one.
I look down at the little black-haired monster, all vicious tiny teeth and snarls. It has a purple collar and name tag in the shape of a bow around its neck, with Bella engraved on the surface. The small dog has its own bed under the kitchen table and squeak toys scattered everywhere.
“We’re already taking the truck. How about we don’t steal the dog, too.” The yappy mutt sounds off on another round of mini roars and woofs. “Put that fucking thing in the bathroom before I kick it outside.”
“Fine.” Poesy pouts, lifting the dog into her arms. She kisses the top of its head. “But I’m raiding the fridge. I’m starving.”
Before I step out to start the truck, I ask, “Do you have any money on you?”
Poe digs into her pocket and presents a crumbled hundred dollar bill and a few dimes and nickels. “This is it.”
“Leave it so they can fix the window.”
The truck has bad brakes and bald tires, but it runs and gets us to town in one piece while we snack on string cheese and Arizona iced tea. Instead of going straight to our room for our belongings, we drive around in search of the tow company, in hopes we can get the car back before we leave town.
“It’s after midnight. Do you think it’s open?” my partner in crime asks, sipping tea straight from the bottle.
“I hope so. We have to get rid of this truck by morning.” This town is too small to go unnoticed in a vehicle that doesn’t belong to us. If things go my way, we’ll have the Mazda back tonight, drive until the sun comes up, and catch a plane out of the country in a day or two.
“I guess that means sleep is out of the question.” Poe tilts her head back and closes her eyes.
Unfortunately, police sirens lead us to the location of the tow yard. We park down the block, kill the engine and turn off the headlights, and watch our future crumble in the hands of the local sheriff’s department. All four Mazda doors are wide open, as is the trunk and hood. JT, the man who hauled our car off private property, stands a few feet back while the boys in blue search our vehicle with their flashlights and evidence bags.
“What are we going to do, Low?” Poesy asks in a tearful voice.
We only made it four states away from the scene of the crime before
everything fell apart. By daybreak, this town will be crawling with FBI agents and media. Our faces and new identities will be aired through Wyoming television, and that information will be released nationwide at prime time. Bus stations, airports, post offices, and banks across the country will know who the Four-Four Bandits are.
There will be no escaping the scrutiny.
“We need to get our things and book it out of here,” I say, as a police officer lifts the rifle with Jonathan Henning’s blood on the handle from the trunk of the car. “Then we’ll figure it out after we’re gone.”
Poesy closes her eyes again and mumbles, “Fuck it. Who needs the trees, anyway?”
“THE FBI IS looking for two suspects out of Southern California for the murder of bank security guard, Jonathan Henning, 35, and the theft of more than two hundred thousand dollars during the span of eight months and three bank robberies, triggering a nationwide manhunt.
“Lowen “Low” Seely and Poesy “Poe” Ashby, are facing a charge of first-degree murder, as well as multiple counts of armed robbery and felony weapons charges.
“After fatally wounding Henning, Seely and Ashby fled the scene and were believed to have left the state, producing sightings of the pair, dubbed the “Four-Four Bandits,” across the country, with no confirmed leads until last night.
“JT Strait, from Strait Tow, in Sanlow, a rural town with a population of less than five hundred people, sixty miles south of Rock Springs, was called to tow away a 2009 Mazda from private property Thursday evening. After conducting a routine search of the vehicle, Strait got more than he bargained for. On-site anchor Bentley Williams is live at Strait Tow for more on this breaking news. Bentley?”
The broadcast breaks to the second journalist, an older man with stark black hair and white eyebrows. JT is beside him, wearing the same oil-stained dark-gray button-up shirt he wore when he took our car. He squints against the rising sun, standing in front of his truck, blinking too fast and forcing a smile.
“Thank you, Ken,” Bentley greets, confident in a cheap wool suit in front of the camera. “The tiny town of Sanlow doesn’t even have a bank, but up until yesterday, it was home to the nation’s most wanted bank robbers. I’m on location, where FBI agents as well as local sheriffs, are still searching the vehicle believed to be the Four-Four Bandits’ getaway car.”
A shot of forensics dusting the Mazda for prints shows on the screen before returning to Bentley and JT.
“This is the first confirmed sighting of the duo since the deadly Hollywood robbery a week and a half ago.” The anchor turns toward JT. “You had a run-in with the suspects. Did you know who they were right away, and what can you tell us about the bandits?”
“Umm … I don’t know nothin’ about no killin’, but I tow a lot of cars from the highway out there in the woods. It’s law that I search the vehicle for any illegal activity after it’s in my possession, and that there is when I found the guns and money. I called the police,” the Wyoming native mumbles, leaning toward the microphone.
“Did you actually see the suspects?” Bentley asks.
“I guess. Wasn’t really payin’ attention, to be real honest. Just doin’ my job, sir. I’m not too keen on the cameras, you know.” JT shrugs.
“Can you give us any information on what they looked like? Did you ever feel like you were in danger? What did they say?” Bentley presses further.
“No,” the tow driver answers quickly. He looks into the camera and blinks.
Bentley Williams pivots away from Strait and smiles, displaying a mouthful of super white teeth that are too large for his face.
“We’re waiting on an FBI spokesperson to release more information, but we can confirm that a rifle belonging to one of the security guards from First Division Bank in Hollywood, California, and a duffel bag with an undisclosed amount of cash were confiscated from the Mazda during the search. We also know the sedan was not registered to either Lowen Seely or Poesy Ashby, but to Bobby and Chloe Bryne, the outlaws’ presumed aliases. Guests under the same names checked into a local motel three days ago and have since left without warning.
“A press conference will be held this afternoon, where it’s rumored the reward for information leading to the capture of the Four-Four Bandits will rise from one hundred thousand dollars to one hundred ten thousand dollars after the family of Henning, the guard killed during the First Division heist, held a fundraiser over the weekend.
“Sympathy for Jonathan Henning has sparked a rare public outcry for the capture of these heinous criminals and has spread like wildfire, resulting in an outpour of support from cities across the country. Count on Wyoming’s own CBS 5 News to continue to update new developments on the nationwide manhunt for the Four-Four Bandits. Back to you in the studio.”
WE LEFT WYOMING two days ago with a little over a thousand dollars and what we were able to grab from our hotel room in a hurry. By morning the next day, we ditched the Chevy and stole a Honda from a carpool lot and continued east. Truck stops and dives have been our only source of comfort outside each other, giving us a chance to clean up and rest without being noticed amid the commotion of travelers.
“You know what I’m dying for?” Poesy asks. She bites the end of a stick of licorice and continues to talk with candy between her teeth. “A home-cooked meal.”
With a stomach full of gas station and vending machine food, it twists in pain. The road has taken us from Wyoming, through Colorado, and now we’re approaching Junction City, Kansas. Momentum is slow, and I’m tempted to stop for a night’s rest in an actual bed.
“I’d literally give my left hand for mashed potatoes.” My girl takes another bite and chews slowly, blinking dreamily as she ponders about real food. “And A.1. Sauce.”
There’s a blemish on her chin, and Poe’s hair is lifeless and oily. Neither one of us has had a decent shower since the afternoon before we left Sanlow. She’s barefoot, with her legs curled under her bottom on the passenger seat, wearing her last pair of clean clothes.
“At this point, Low, I’d settle for a microwave dinner.” She pushes her shampoo-thirsty hair behind her ear. “I’m serious. Salisbury steak sounds really awesome right about now. What would you eat if we were home?”
Home.
I clear my throat and rub the back of my neck, working away both exhaustion and regret. Every muscle and bone inside me is sore from lack of use. With the exception of a few hours along the way, I’ve sat behind the wheel of this car, driving distance between the authorities and us.
One Colorado radio news station mentioned the Four-Four Bandits and our confirmed aliases—Bobby and Chloe—as well as a comment from an eyewitness.
Courtney K. Renner-Cox, mother of three, claims she spent an afternoon poolside with the wanted criminals.
“Except, that girl wasn’t blonde. She’s definitely redheaded now,” mother-of-the-year was quoted as saying. “They killed someone? Really? Wish I would have known about that reward two days ago. What’s the world coming to? I blame video games … and pesticides.”
While I drive, Poesy’s in charge of checking updated media coverage every couple of hours. Nothing new was reported today, and not one Kansas state media outlet covered the homicide or robberies.
“Top Ramen. Beef flavor,” I say, smirking.
“Typical, inmate.” She rolls her eyes.
Junction City is the next off-ramp, and a weatherworn billboard for the Dreamland Motel advertises hourly, daily, weekly rates, and vacancy.
“I could use a shower,” I say, nodding toward the approaching exit sign. “What do you think, Poe? We can get a few hours of sleep.”
Our journey on the run has taken us through the Nevada desert, between Utah canyons, in the Wyoming woods, and up Colorado Rockies. Kansas is flat and covered in prairie grass for as far as I can see.
I’ve experienced more of the United States as a fugitive than I ever did as a hood kid on the block in Los Angeles.
“How much money do we
have left?” Poesy asks reluctantly. She looks out the window at cottonwood trees and tall yellow-green pastures.
“Enough,” I say, coasting toward the exit.
How did we find ourselves in this predicament again? I’ve lied, stolen … killed to get us out of poverty, but here we are, struggling to get by. What cash we have left will only get us so far. Leaving the country without identification or funds is out of the question. Catching an international flight with our mugs on the No Fly List would have been near impossible with documentation.
Strapped for cash, our gas tanks are limited, and there are only so many places in fifty states we can hide.
It won’t be long before we’re searching for our next meal as the law closes in on us.
“Do you think the rooms will have a microwave? I was serious about that frozen dinner.”
The motel is a single-story building not far from the highway. Painted red and white, it’s topped with a tin roof and hums like a florescent bulb. COMFORT IS OUR BUSINESS, a neon light glows from the front window. The Os flicker as we walk by.
“That’s terrible, hun,” Marla, the yellow-haired woman behind the desk at Dreamland says. She pats Poesy’s hand and smiles sympathetically. “I can’t believe someone broke into your car and stole all of your belongings. Is nothing safe anymore? You must feel violated.”
Religious trinkets and plastic flowers layered in dust decorate the particle board counter between my liar and the motel employee. A line of grocery store patron saints candles burns beside Marla’s nameplate. St. Judge flickers beside Our Lady of Guadalupe, who twinkles by St. Peter. He melts alongside St. Michael, which glimmers near the only saint without a flame, St. Leonard.
Protector from burglary.
My girl nods. “They took our IDs and credit cards, but thank goodness I have cash on hand. And I know it’s probably against policy, but if you’ll let us check in for the night, we can call my bank in the morning and verify any information you need. We just don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Marla’s holier-than-thou eyes soften. She smacks her lips and slides Poe a room key, past a wooden crucifix and plastic statue of The Virgin Mother. “Don’t worry about that right now, sweetheart. We’re all God’s children, and He sent you here so I can help you. We’ll get that other stuff sorted out tomorrow. There’s a phone in the room. Feel free to use it to cancel your stolen cards, mmmkay?”
Low (Low #1) Page 19
