“It’s done,” she answers, taking off the oven mitts. “I hope shepherd’s pie sounds good, because that’s all there really was to make.”
We eat by candlelight, until our stomachs stretch, but then we devour half of the tray of brownies and lick our fingers clean. The rest of the night is spent in front of the television with our feet up, watching basic cable romance movies.
“I love our life, Lowen, but I really needed this,” Poesy says. She tilts her head against my shoulder. “It’s almost like we’re normal.”
We have a bagful of cash, and the cops can’t keep up with us, but the truth is, we’re trapped between US borders and can’t spend the money on anything more than fast food and hotel rooms. Our lives are lived day-to-day, with no real place to call home and nothing to our names but the clothes on our back. Nothing has made that more apparent than a good shower and shepherd’s pie.
“As soon as we settle somewhere, I’ll give you this life,” I say softly, kissing the top of her head. “There’s nothing I want more in the world.”
My girl snores softly, becoming heavy in my arms. I reach along the top of the couch for an old throw blanket and cover her legs. One by one, the candles lit across the fireplace mantel go out, leaving only the light from the infomercials I stopped watching a while ago.
I stare at the phone.
Leaving Poe on the sofa alone, I take the cordless handset onto the front porch and dial my mom’s number.
Even crooks need comfort.
My heart beats so violently, I can feel it in my teeth and through my fingernails, throbbing. A bolt of electricity jets down my spine each time the telephone rings in California, turning my nerve endings to live wires. Heat blasts through my palms and reddens my face, beading sweat above my lip.
“Hello?” my mom answers in a tone thick in exhaustion.
I sit on the porch steps, suddenly unable to breathe.
“Is anyone there?” she asks. Her voice is clearer.
Tears sting my eyes, and my jaw aches. I’m about to hang up, still unwilling to get her involved … I only wanted to hear her voice.
“Hello?” Mom continues.
Her voice soothes my soul, speaking to the wounded boy in me. She’s a mother’s touch and lullabies whispered in the dark, comforting, safe, and the only constant since the day I was born. It’s a connection so strong—time and distance have done nothing to lessen what simply hearing her speak does to me.
I lower my head between my knees, unable to drop the phone.
There’s a pause.
“Low, is this you?” she asks cautiously.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I clench my teeth to keep from answering. Sadness pools on my lashes before falling down my cheeks, darkening spots of sun-bleached wood between my feet. The tip of my nose is bitter cold, and I sniff.
“Don’t say anything,” Mom cries.
Entire conversations rest on the tip of my tongue, confined behind my lips. I want her to know everywhere we’ve been, and all we’ve seen in the last year. She should know clam chowder is best in Massachusetts, and cheesesteak should only be eaten in Philly. She’d never believe I kissed Poesy at the top of the Empire State Building, or that my girl agreed to marry me.
My mother and Gillian need to know that one day, when Poe and I are gone and the chase ends, I’ll be able to take care of them again.
“You shouldn’t have called, baby. I think they’ve tapped the phone.” The striking of a lighter echoes through the phone, and then I hear the crackle of red-hot tobacco. “There’s this white van that parks in front of the house. It follows me sometimes, even though I told the fucking police I don’t know where you are. I told them you’d never intentionally kill anyone, too. I know my son.”
I dry my eyes on my forearm, staring blankly out to acres and acres of farmland while Patricia Seely’s voice puts my heart on a spike.
“We shouldn’t stay on the phone for long. We’re safe, okay? Your sister and I are fine. Ned’s giving us a wonderful life. But we miss you, and we want you to be safe,” my mother cries out, breaking her voice into a million pieces. “You’re still my man, Lowen Joshua. You’ll always be my favorite part.”
I run my hand over my head, letting tears free-fall.
“Low,” she whispers. “Run for your life.”
POESY AND I leave the farmhouse an hour before sunrise, after finding an old two-door Ford truck in the barn. We leave Oakheart and don’t stop, heading west through the state of Alabama toward Mississippi.
“Where are we going now?” my girl asks, tucking her feet under her bottom on the passenger seat. The box of hair color is in her backpack, along with a few bottles of face cleanser and moisturizer.
She left a hundred dollar bill in the bathroom drawer.
“California.” I blink stinging sleeplessness from my eyes. They feel heavy like guilt.
“Wait, what? Why would we go back there?” Poe sits straight and faces me. She shakes her head. “I’m in this just as far as you are, Low. If you think you’re just going to drop me off—”
“I’m not leaving you there,” I say harshly, slamming on the brakes when a rig pulls in front of me without signaling first. Traffic is completely stopped.
“We can’t go home. That is the one place where we won’t be able to hide out in shitty hotels.”
I rest my head on the steering wheel between my hands and sigh, looking at the odometer with over two hundred thousand miles on it. As we wait in traffic, bumper-to-bumper, the temperature gage starts to move up.
“We can’t leave the US without a passport. My old celly’s in California, and he can get us papers again. I can’t trust anyone else to do it with this reward money hanging over our heads.”
“And you think we can count on a guy you met in prison not to turn us in?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s rich, Low.”
“If he wanted the money, he could have gone to the cops by now. He’s the only other person who knew who we were.”
The screaming sounds of police sirens stiffen my spine, and I sit straight to look over my shoulder. A line of cruisers speeds up the right shoulder, flashing blue and red, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake.
This isn’t the first time we’ve seen cop cars in our time on the run, but the drop in my stomach only grows every time.
“There must have been an accident,” Poesy says breathlessly, watching the law.
One by one, black and white cars surge past us, juddering the truck with the force of their momentum. We don’t take a breath until they’ve all passed, including an ambulance on the tail end.
My face warms as adrenaline blesses me with a second wind, ramming energy through my veins, triggering my sense of fight-or-flight. The temperature gauge wavers below red, and three other vehicles and the shoulder box me in. I can’t see how far ahead the accident is, but we can’t let the truck break down and chance a highway patrol coming to our aid.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask as smoke starts to seep from around the hood.
“Pinella Pass,” my girl answers quickly, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Right outside of Montgomery.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” I ask, turning the wheel toward the right. “How far up is the exit? Can you see the accident?”
Poesy rolls down the old window manually. She sticks her head out the window to get a better look. “I don’t see an exit, Low. And the cops are about a half a mile away.”
Once the Ford starts to shake, I know it’s more of a burden than a help, and we need to leave it behind. I pull to the side of the highway, now able to observe the three car wreck, and turn off the engine.
“We have to make a run for it.” I grab all of my things while Poesy wipes away our fingerprints from the pickup in a hurry.
“You have to move. A fire truck is coming.” Poesy’s voice shakes. She grips on to the headrest and looks out the back window.
The emergency vehicle wails
its horn and slows behind us, flashing its lights. Criminal blood I was born with urges me to grab my girl and jump out of the pickup, but if I don’t move out of the way and a life is lost as a result, that blood will be on my hands.
As I fire up the overheated motor, a highway patrol officer runs toward us from the crash site. The red fire truck doesn’t lay off the horn, popping its sirens. Dense white smoke floods from the Ford’s engine, blowing hot air out of the vents, and there’s not enough room for me to fit back into traffic.
Highway patrol is only a dozen feet away when the big rig we were originally behind rolls forward, making it possible for me to squeeze in. Fire and Rescue accelerates pasts us, letting out an earsplitting honk as it passes.
“Run,” I say, finding it impossible to swallow.
I follow Poesy out of the passenger side door, inhaling a lungful of exhaust from the gridlock when my feet land on the asphalt.
“Stop right there!” the officer shouts, after he jumps back into view once he’s let the fire truck by.
People stuck in their vehicles, aimlessly searching through their cell phones or singing along with music, suddenly find a distraction in the commotion on the side of the highway. One by one, commuters turn their attention toward Poesy and me, looking back and forth between the officer and us.
I capture Poe’s hand in mine and hurry down the shoulder, against traffic. Idling engines generate a sea of heat waves above the highway, causing the autumn day to feel like the hottest summer. Beads of sweat drip down my back, and my girl’s palm slips between mine.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” the law commands.
Looking back to see if it’s a threat or a promise, I see the officer pointing his weapon at us, and five more oncoming behind him.
I skid to a halt, pulling Poesy behind me as five red kill lights appear on my chest. I slowly lift my hands in surrender.
“Down on the ground—now,” the good guys demand in unison, all aimed and ready to fire.
“Poesy,” I say calmly. She clutches on to my backpack. “Jump.”
Praying the law will choose not to put innocent lives at risk, Poesy and I take a chance and hurdle onto the concrete divider. We balance twelve feet over a dirt field below, only hesitating for a split second before we leap, hand-in-hand. Gunfire doesn’t follow us down.
We plummet to the dry earth, scraping our elbows and bruising our bodies. Oxygen’s knocked from my lungs, and I can’t see with all the sand in my eyes. Airless and blind, I help my girl to her feet and drag her under the bridge.
“We have to go,” I force out, gasping for air. “You have to run, Poesy.”
With a face caked with dirt and limping, she follows me out from under the protection of the bridge toward an empty street. Law enforcement didn’t immediately trail us, but it’ll only be a matter of time before they do. We’re bloody, black and blue, and in a town we’re not familiar with; they will catch us.
“Go.” I push Poe toward the road. She stumbles over her feet. “Run as fast and as far as you can, Poesy.”
She instantly tugs on my shirt, unwilling to leave me behind. Tears leave streaks of clean skin from her eyes over her cheeks. Saliva flies from her lips as she cusses and spits, kicking more dirt and struggling.
“I’d rather die!” she screams, practically climbing onto my body. My other half claws at my chest, wrapping her legs around mine. “They have to kill me, too.”
I hold her in my arms and look around, searching for a place to go. We’re surrounded by junkyards and concrete buildings, all guarded by high fences and barbed wire. There’s nowhere for us to hide, and entering the maze of industrial businesses would leave us trapped and in the mercy of the law.
“Poesy,” I say, blinking tears from my lashes. My chest fills with dread. “I don’t know what to do.”
This is it…
I bury my face in Poe’s neck and kiss her skin with my dusty lips. Our chests are pressed against each other’s; I can feel her heartbeat against mine.
If this is how it ends, I want every part of me touching every part of her so God knows we can’t be separated, not even in the afterlife.
“Y’all need a ride?” a bleach-blonde woman, popping chewing gum between her teeth, pulls up and smiles. She reaches over and opens the car door. “Better get in before they getcha.”
WE MET EMMA once before on a bus ride to Barstow after our first bank robbery in Inglewood. She’s why Pinella Pass sounded familiar.
“I caught somethin’ about the Four-Four Bandits on the police scanner and got right up to save y’all.” Our savior hands Poesy and me two bottles of cold water. She sits on a chair across from us. “Saw y’all’s photo on the television, but they said y’all’s name is Lowen and Poesy. I thought to myself then, didn’t they tell me their names are Casandra and Ian? Thought the police had just caught a case of mistaken identity or somethin’, but then I saw the cross tattoo on your face.”
She’s taken us to her mobile home on the other side of town and cleaned us up, but I don’t trust her.
What are the chances that we’d run into this woman again?
“Well, thank you for your help.” Poesy’s hair is wet from a shower, and she’s dressed in a pair of Emma’s clothes.
“Of course, sweet thang. Make no more fuss about it, okay?” Emma grins. Her trailer smells like cat litter and lemons. “I know we don’t know each other real well, but I’d like to think we’re friends. Travelin’ sisters.”
“We’ve only met you once,” I say. My lip is cut and swollen.
“Yeah, but I feel like I know y’all. The Four-Four Bandits are celebrities, or didn’t you know? I’ve been following y’all’s story since … well, since that poor boy died.” She waves us off. “Not that I think that was done on purpose. Accidents do happen, unfortunately.”
Emma suddenly stands and turns toward the small kitchen. She opens cupboards and places pots and pans onto the stove, lighting the flame. I scope out her body language, looking for signs of nervousness, but don’t sense anything is off besides the anxiety deep in my gut.
“Y’all must be starvin’. Why don’t y’all take the bed while I cook somethin’ up.” She drops Hamburger Helper into the large pan. “After we eat, we’ll come up with a plan to get y’all out of Alabama. I have a friend who can probably make up some fake IDs and such.”
My plan is to stay awake while Poesy rests. She’s cut up and sore from the fall, and doesn’t fight to keep her eyes open the moment her head hits the pillow. I lie beside my partner in crime with the .44 on my chest, finger on the trigger.
Emma hums a tune that’s easy to hear through her thin walls, soon followed by the salty scent of processed noodles and sauce. Combined with Poe’s soft snoring, a sense of relief covers me like a blanket, and my heartbeat finally slows to a normal rate.
“Lowen.”
“Yeah, baby.” It feels like I’ve only blinked my eyes and no time has passed, but as I look around, it’s apparent I fell asleep. The sun is gone with Emma’s hum, and the only thing I smell is citrus. “Shit, is everything okay?”
Poesy lifts her finger to her lips and nods toward the bedroom door. I get out of bed and step cautiously toward the front of the room, not making any sudden noises or hinting that we’re up.
The hammer of my gun click, click, clicks as I pull it back.
“I’m positive it’s them,” Emma whispers. “They’re sleepin’ in my bed. If you come now, they won’t get away. I think they’re hurt, to be real honest.”
“Up,” I mouth toward Poe.
My girl steps beside me with her weapon, nearly pressing her ear to the door.
“I’ll be gettin’ that reward, right? I didn’t put my life in danger for nothin’,” the traitor negotiates her terms with the police. “Great! See y’all in five minutes.”
I wait until she hangs up the phone before I kick down the door and press my pistol to the center of her forehead. Emma slowly drops to her knees, losing the
smirk on her lips and the light in her eyes.
“You fucking bitch,” I say through gritted teeth. “I should put a bullet in your brain.”
Poesy’s scrambling behind me, changing back into the clothes she arrived in and gathering our backpacks.
“Please don’t.” Color drains from Emma’s face, and her lip trembles. “Take my car. My wallet is in my purse. Take whatever y’all want, but please don’t kill me.”
“He’s not,” my getaway driver says, appearing at my side.
Poe slams the handle of her weapon into Emma’s left temple, knocking her out on impact. Her large body collapses with a hollow thud, shaking the mobile home and leaving us in a pulsating silence.
“I have her keys.” My girl holds the key ring out for me.
“We won’t have a chance in her car.” I tuck my gun into the waist of my jeans and hold Poesy’s face between my hands. “The FBI’s going to circle this place in a few minutes. Our only chance is to split up.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I shake my head.
“Run east as far as your feet will carry you.” Pressing my lips to the top of her head, I inhale the clean scent of soap on her skin. “I swear on my life, we’ll be together again.”
“Low,” Poesy groans, grabbing my wrists.
“Trust me.”
I watch her sprint down a back alleyway until she disappears around a corner, bag of money on her back and weapon in her hand. The sounds of a helicopter in the sky and the entire local police department in route buzz like a swarm of bees in the distance. I stand in the doorway until the dust storm their tires create is sky high, and I can hear helicopter blades rotate with perfect clarity.
My heartbeat pounds, pulsating in the palms of my hands, around the grip of my pistol. I wait until everything’s drowned out by screaming sirens, and the first cruiser pulls into the trailer park.
Then I run.
Racing in the opposite direction Poesy took, my feet beat into the hard dirt path, pushing forward. Barking dogs follow me as far as their yards allow, and a black cat hisses and swipes at my ankles when I step past it. My lungs burn, taking in and letting out harsh breaths, and pain in both knees intensifies with every lunge. But I push forward, harder until every muscle in my body stretches and aches.
Low (Low #1) Page 22
