He shifted the rearview mirror back into place, just in time to see another car coming up fast. At least this time he’d spotted it ahead of time so it wouldn’t frighten the crap out of him when the car whipped past. Francis drifted to the edge of his lane to give the other driver plenty of room.
Francis glanced back again. The car approached at top speed, rapidly filling the rearview mirror until—
The car slammed hard into the back of the Pontiac.
The GTO fishtailed all over the road, and Francis wrestled with the steering wheel to get it back on course. The right tires went off the shoulder, kicking up dirt and rattling the car violently.
Francis yanked the Pontiac back onto the road just in time for the car behind him to fly up and slam him again.
The Pontiac spun, the world in the windshield distorting into a muddle of light and color, tires squealing. The smell of burned rubber filled the car. Francis went rigid, knuckles white on the wheel, and waited to die.
When the car lurched to a stop, Francis faced the opposite direction back east. He saw the other car in the rearview mirror. It had blown a hundred yards past him when he’d gone into the spin and was now making a three-point turn in the middle of the road to roll back through its own cloud of dust and get after Francis again.
Francis cracked his knuckles, then gripped the wheel at ten and two, his jaw set.
Then he mashed the GTO’s gas pedal flat.
For a split second, the tires spun in place, rubber burning, and then an instant later, the Pontiac rocketed down the highway, Cavanaugh’s car shrinking rapidly in the rearview mirror. Francis thought this might be how a bullet felt being shot out of a gun. He’d had the car up at a pretty high speed a few times, but this was his first go at taking it flat out. The acceleration pressed him back into the leather seat. His entire body hummed with the GTO’s power.
The Pontiac ate up the miles, the scenery on each side of the road melting into a blur. Francis thought the car might actually take flight at any second. At this speed, Francis was afraid even to twitch. He wanted to glance down at the speedometer, but he didn’t want to risk taking his eyes off the road. Sweat trickled down his back. Just a little longer, just until he could find a place to turn. The more distance and zigs and zags he put between himself and Cavanaugh, the better.
Francis couldn’t understand how they’d found him in the first place. He was literally in the middle of nowhere. And they’d found him fast too. A pang of hopelessness made his gut clench. Was there no place they could go? Nowhere to hide?
No. He’d bested these assholes already. He’d do it again.
He hoped.
Francis passed back through an area with more trees. It had stood out when he’d come through before because the rest of this area was just brown fields stretching forever. The road took a long lazy bend toward the south, and if he remembered correctly, there was some kind of little crossroads on the other side. He eased up slightly on the gas pedal going into the turn.
At these speeds, the Pontiac guzzled unleaded like Kool-Aid. Francis had no idea where the next town might be, and the idea of running out of gas this far from—
There was a tractor in the middle of the road.
Not just a tractor. It was pulling a trailer stacked twelve feet high with square bales of hay. A couple had fallen as the tractor had tried to make the turn at the very crossroads Francis had been gunning for. An old man in faded jeans and a work shirt stood over them, seemingly in no hurry to rectify the situation. His head came up at the sound of the Pontiac’s engine, eyes going to the size of dinner plates. The old man could not have looked more frightened if the grim reaper himself were the GTO’s hood ornament.
A jolt of alarm went through Francis at the sight of the blocked road, and he slammed the brakes too hard. Tires squealed, the back of the GTO fishtailing and clipping one of the hay bales as it slid past. The car bumped front wheels and then back as it left the humped-up asphalt and spun halfway around in the semi-tall grass, finally coming to a stop in a cloud of brown dust.
Francis sat for a stunned moment, still gripping the wheel and breathing hard, heart thumping against his insides. Going from full speed to a sudden stop was an odd sensation.
“Hey, boy,” called the old man. “You okay?”
Francis ignored him, turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
He took the key out, put it back in and twisted again. The engine didn’t even cough. At the edge of his vision, he saw the old man hobbling toward him. Francis kept turning the ignition key, hoping something different would happen.
Come on. Come on.
The old man was right at the driver’s-side window now. “Hey, boy.”
Francis heard the distant engine and didn’t have to look to know it was Cavanaugh. He looked anyway. The sedan was coming around the long curve.
Francis slammed the dashboard with a fist. “Start, you piece of shit!”
The old man knocked on the window. “You’re in drive, boy.”
Francis rolled the window down. “What?”
The old man pointed at the gearshift on the steering column. “You need to put it in park first.”
Francis shifted into park and turned the key again. It cranked immediately.
“Thanks,” Francis told him. “Sorry if I startled you.”
The old man took a step back, flipped a two-finger salute. “Good luck.”
Francis cut across the corner of the field, heading for the road that went south. The ground wasn’t as flat as it looked from the road, and the Pontiac swayed and bounced. A quick glance back showed Cavanaugh following his path down the gentle slope from the road. The old man waved as the sedan with the thugs rolled by, kicking up dirt.
The slope back up to the other road was steeper, and Francis felt and heard the Pontiac scrape bottom. The sedan made it up the slope with less trouble, and in an eyeblink, both cars were flying south down the narrow county road. The sedan swung around to pull up next to him.
Francis was about to mash the gas pedal again, but the road curved in and out of an area of low hills and scattered farmhouses. He couldn’t rocket away like he did before on the straightaway, and he wasn’t a good enough driver to outmaneuver the other car.
So when the other car came around the back and started to pull alongside, Francis jerked the wheel. The Pontiac veered toward the other car. Cavanaugh was doing the same thing, coming right back at Francis.
Both automobiles met at the dotted yellow line down the center of the road, the scrape and crunch of metal on metal sounding like the end of the world. The cars bounced off each other, both going off the road, then careening back and meeting in the middle to collide again.
It took all Francis’s focus to steady the Pontiac and keep it on the road.
He chanced a glance at the other car and saw the passenger-side window roll down. Cavanaugh held his little silver pistol and was aiming it out the window not ten feet away, and now Francis was going to die.
Something stretched out from the car at the farthest limit of Francis’s peripheral vision, and Francis realized it was Emma’s arm reaching out the window behind his seat, her slender fingers curled around—
Cavanaugh’s eyes shifted, going wide with alarm—
Three sharp cracks of thunder exploded behind Francis’s left ear. He flinched and swerved. Three new holes bloomed in Cavanaugh’s door, and they hit the brakes, swinging back behind the Pontiac.
Francis’s left ear rang, felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
Emma climbed over the seat, the smoking revolver in her hand. She clicked the seat belt into place.
“You could have grabbed me some pants.” She still wore only panties and a T-shirt.
“We sort of left in a hurry,” Francis said.
Three loud pops drew Francis’s attention to the rearview mirror. Cavanaugh was leaning out of his window, his little automatic spitting fire at t
hem. Francis ducked his head, his shoulders hunching up. He swerved back and forth across the blacktop, trying to make the GTO a difficult target. More pops chased him down the road.
Emma unbuckled her seat belt again. “Don’t crash.”
She rolled down the passenger-side window, leaned out, and fired the revolver back at Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh’s car mimicked the Pontiac’s evasive maneuvers. The two cars roared down the highway, bullets flying.
They came out of the hilly area, the road curving into low ground and another crossroads. But here there was a scattering of buildings, a mom-and-pop gas station, post office, and feedstore. A collection of old clapboard houses spread out in a circle from the crossroads, some little rural community God had dropped out of the sky and into the middle of nowhere.
“You’ve only got one shot left!” Francis shouted over the engine racket and the wind howling past.
“Two,” she said. “I’ve been counting.”
Francis thought briefly of the man he’d killed, those wide eyes staring at nothing. “One.”
“Fuck.” She climbed halfway out the window, her butt resting on the edge of the door.
“Are you nuts?” Francis shouted, trying to grab for her. “Get back in here!”
“I got one shot, Frankie.”
“Francis!”
The little gas station ahead sat at a gentle bend in the road. Francis slowed the GTO but not enough. The car slid, tires screaming, the GTO’s back end coming around.
Emma’s hand flailed inside the car looking for something to hold.
“Emma!” Francis’s hand shot out to grab hers, only just preventing her from flying out of the car.
She hung on tight. Francis steered the Pontiac through the curve one-handed. Sweat soaked his shirt at the neck and under his arms, panic jolting his system with adrenaline.
Please please please.
He made it through the curve without losing control of the car or letting go of Emma. Cavanaugh’s car hit the turn right behind them.
Emma extended her shooting arm, closing one eye tight, sighting along the barrel of the revolver. She held her breath. Let it out slowly.
And squeezed the trigger.
The pistol bucked in her hand, and Cavanaugh’s front passenger tire blew.
The sedan slid into the curve just as the Pontiac had before, but with the blown tire, it slid halfway around and went off the road, its back end sweeping into the single gas pump at the mom-and-pop filling station. A crack and crunch of metal and glass, and the pump went over, banging against the cement. Gasoline fountained up from the new hole in the ground.
Francis watched the calamity unfold in the rearview mirror.
Two people fled from the filling station—a middle-aged guy and a freckled girl who looked like a teenager. A second later, Cavanaugh and the henchman with the shaggy mustache stumbled from the sedan, paused a moment to take in what was happening, then started running.
They got clear a second before the whole thing went up. Francis felt the Pontiac shudder with the explosion, fire and roiling black smoke reaching into the sky.
Emma climbed back into the passenger seat, refastened her belt. “We’ll need to ditch the Pontiac.”
Francis forced himself to breathe more slowly. He nodded. “Right.” He forced his grip on the steering wheel to ease. His fingers ached. All of him was sore. He let out a long, ragged breath.
“And we’ll need a store,” she said. “I packed another pair of jeans, but I don’t have shoes.”
“Right. A store. Okay.” Francis glanced in the rearview mirror one more time, the fiery orange glow shrinking behind them. “Where do we find a store?”
“Go west, young man.”
22
They spooned under the comforter in Middleton’s king-sized bed.
Middleton realized he’d dozed. How long? Not more than a few minutes, surely. He remembered what had happened with an easy smile. The kissing had gotten earnest, then had become frantic, each of them pulling at the other’s clothing. They’d moved to the bedroom, and Meredith had pulled him down on top of her, legs wrapping around him, both of them so eager, months of wanting this finally coming to fruition.
In spite of some fumbling on his part, it had been energetic and glorious. And extremely brief.
He pulled her closer, nuzzled his face into her neck. She made a low kind of purring sound. She wiggled herself back against him, and he slipped a hand under the comforter and cupped a breast. Everything about her was so soft. She was perfect.
She kept wriggling herself back against him until he took the hint.
When he’d grown ready again, Meredith reached back and guided him in. He pulled her close, and they found a slow rhythm.
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s … nice.”
He paused.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Do you … have you taken precautions?” It occurred to him that it was an extremely tardy question.
“The pill.”
“Oh. Good. Is that because … I mean are you…?”
“I’m not seeing anyone else,” she said. “I started in college. Seemed like part of the independent woman thing.”
“Oh. I never thought to ask. Obviously, you could have been seeing somebody. I mean, why not?”
“It turns out my boss is a real slave driver, and I don’t really have time for a social life.”
Middleton laughed.
“Weren’t you in the middle of something?” she reminded him.
He resumed.
Every time his instinct was to speed up, he forced himself to maintain a steady, slow pace. He wanted to prolong the moment. He wanted it to last forever.
She took his hand from her breast, slid it down her belly to a spot between her legs. Middleton understood what to do. He wasn’t completely without experience, and had a working knowledge of the necessary mechanics. Still, it had been a while. Perhaps he could make up for being rusty with raw sincerity.
With two fingers, he massaged tight little circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusting hips.
He sensed her getting close and picked up speed.
She went rigid, legs trembling, her head going back. Her mouth fell open, no sound coming out, and squeezed her eyes closed tight. He finished with her.
They both went slack again, breathing heavily.
They lay there for several minutes, not talking, just dreamily enjoying the afterglow. Then she scooted over to the edge of the bed, reached for the smartphone. She looked at the screen and frowned.
“Fifty-eight. Shit.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and bounced up, began circling the room, grabbing her clothes off the floor.
Middleton sat up. “Fifty-eight what?”
“Emails.” She stepped into her panties, looked around. “Where’s my bra?”
“On the chair.” Middleton pointed. “Is something going on? An emergency or something? How long were we in bed?”
“Not that long.” She waved the smartphone at him. “This is standard. You realize I’m the gatekeeper between you and the rest of the world, right? If I don’t start answering these emails soon, they’ll send out a SWAT team and search dogs.” She shrugged into the bra. Hooked it in back.
“Don’t sweat it,” Middleton told her. “I happen to know you’re on the boss’s good side.”
She sighed, sat on the bed, and pulled on her stockings. “Okay, we need to talk about this.”
“You don’t need the stockings,” he said. “Your legs are perfect.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “You need to listen to me.”
“Uh-oh.”
Meredith shook her head. “Not uh-oh. Nothing uh-oh. We just need to … compartmentalize things.” She shimmied into her skirt.
“Compartmentalize.” Middleton said the word out loud, hoping he’d understand her meaning better. He didn’t.
“We’ve just got to keep things separate. This thing, whatev
er this thing is”—she gestured back and forth between herself and Middleton—“it can’t overlap with work. I still need to do my job, and not have this”—she gestured at the bed—“somehow become my new job.”
Middleton sat up straighter in bed. “No, oh, I mean, of course. I never meant—I hope you don’t think—”
“I know, I know.” She slipped on her blouse, began buttoning. “I just needed to say it. I’ve always wanted to be professional, you know? I mean, I am professional. I’m good at my job, I think. Aren’t I professional?”
“You are.”
She held up the smartphone and headed for the door. “I have to start answering these. Tell your kitchen to make me some more coffee.”
* * *
Cavanaugh sat across the table from Ernie in a nearly empty cowboy saloon called the Bull Market Beer & Grill in Valentine, Nebraska. Even a casual observer would have recognized at a glance that the two men were beaten down and defeated. They slumped in their chairs, not speaking.
At last, Ernie said, “I don’t think we’re doing this right.”
Cavanaugh waved him away. “Not yet. Just … not yet.”
They sat and waited.
The beers finally arrived. The place had just opened, so it was taking a while to get things cranked up. A waitress left menus in case they wanted food later.
Cavanaugh sipped beer. It was cold and yellow.
When they’d set out after Berringer and the girl, they’d kept generally south and west on Bryant’s suggestion. Once over the line into Nebraska, Cavanaugh had sent the guys in the other two cars down different highways to cover more ground. Fortunately, one of them had only been two minutes away, and after a quick call, they’d come to scoop up Cavanaugh and Ernie and take them away. On their way out of town, there had still been no sign of the local cops. Score one for being in the middle of nowhere.
One of the new guys entered the saloon and came over to Cavanaugh’s table. “The SUVs are all gassed up. What now?”
Cavanaugh sighed, then gestured at the empty tables across the room. “We’re figuring it out. You and the boys grab a table, get some burgers or whatever. Just have the girl send the check over here.”
“Okay,” he said and left.
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