Authors: Cindy Davis
"You think it's them?"
"I don't know. Could be coincidence. There're lots of cars on the road that travel long distances. Sometimes we're together so long, we sort of watch for each other, get kind of familiar with each other's driving habits. I see a change in their driving and can tell if they're getting tired. Sometimes the CB helps. No sense taking any chances.” They drove in nervous silence for a few miles. “They're moving up on us now, one in each lane.” Chris handled the wheel grimly as he divided his attention between the highway in front and the two vehicles, which were now on the rear bumper of the trailer.
The Suburban veered from its position of last in line until it was beside Chris’ door. It held steady there. His window glided down silently and Chris leaned his head down trying to see inside the Suburban.
"Don't do that, they might have guns."
"Shit.” He let off the throttle. “One female driver is all. I can't tell anything much besides that."
"Maybe it's the woman from the truck stop. What's she wearing?"
He let his eyes rove downward. “Can't tell. Er, now she's waving."
"Like to say ‘hello’ or ‘stop you have a flat tire'?"
"Flat tire."
"Do you have one?"
"No."
"How do you know without stopping?"
"I know."
"Well, maybe the trailer door is open."
"It's not."
"I don't know how you can be so sure without checking,” she muttered. “Where's the other car?"
"Just behind us. Can you see it in your mirror?"
"No."
"Now, this one's flashing her lights. Sure lady, I'll stop so you can kill us or hold us till your associates show up. No freaking way that's going to happen.” Chris jerked the steering wheel to the left, mashing the right side of the Suburban with a crunch that sounded to Paige like someone stepping on a whole bag of potato chips. She winced and found something to hold onto. This was shaping up to be like the ride she took with Habib.
After the collision, the Suburban held steady in the lane for several seconds, seconds that seemed like an eternity as the driver fought to keep the vehicle straight.
There was a hollow popping sound as the right front tire exploded. The Suburban bounced like some huge white beach ball, turned over, and rolled on its side, then almost instantly, rolled once more back onto its wheels. It landed in the driving lane directly in the path of the black SUV, whose tires squealed as the driver attempted to keep the vehicle from crashing into the Suburban.
Paige undid her belt and leaned across to see out Chris’ side mirror. The SUV hit the Suburban. The rear window popped out and shot into the air, flipping over and over like a giant Frisbee. Then it thudded to the pavement, bouncing several times before finally stopping in the median. One of the vehicles exploded in a ball of orange and yellow. Paige couldn't tell which one.
Chris slowed the truck so he could watch in his mirror. His voice came like that of a football broadcaster at the beginning of a drive. “The black one ran into the white one. One of them exploded. A woman jumped out of the car. Another person is beside her. Someone stopped to help them."
He upshifted and then announced in a self-congratulatory voice, “I guess that'll put them out of commission for a while."
Paige sat back in her seat and buckled up. The smell of fear hovered around them like smog. She unclenched her aching fingers from the armrests and flexed them. Her knuckles glowed white in the darkness of the cab. She dropped them to her lap and rotated her head to placate her protesting neck muscles.
The roar of the tractor's motor lowered several octaves as they stopped at the bottom of the next ramp.
"Which way are we going?"
"Right, takes us to the west side of Fort Smith."
"Are we still in Arkansas?"
Chris erupted in a deep-throated chuckle that Paige figured was more a release of tension than a reaction to her ridiculous question. “Yes. There's a station I stop at sometimes. We can drop the trailer and be a little more mobile.” He watched closely in the mirror. “No sign of them."
"Chris, what if...."
"They were just tourists? I thought of that too late, of course. But then, why would she be waving that way? Why did she stay back and then, when reinforcements came, race up beside us? No, they were definitely after you—us."
"I'd feel awful if it turned out we just trashed some tourists and left them on the highway to die."
"Don't think the thought makes me happy. It didn't look like anyone got hurt if that makes you feel any better. You're my only concern right now.” He turned into the lot of a large gas station and waved to the attendant, a tall painfully thin man with long stringy hair and dingy overalls. One hand was invisible inside the bib section.
Chris backed the trailer expertly into a spot between a rusted Ford that looked like it hadn't been moved in years, and a border of elms at the back. “I want to check the damage to the truck and unhitch this thing. Climb on out, stretch your legs a little."
"Okay. In a minute. I have to do something."
"Me too, but I'll get this done first,” he said with a grin.
She used the porta-potty, washed her hands, then hunted for a hairbrush. In the drawer that held the cell phone, she found one with nylon bristles and hounds-tooth handle. She fluffed her natural hair into shape. As Paige returned the brush to the drawer, a grunt of satisfaction escaped her lips. Checking for Chris whereabouts, she drew out two keys tied together with a thick string, and dropped them into her jacket pocket.
Paige stood to the side watching Chris while he worked. His eyes kept roving between her and the roadway. She wondered if he was looking out for their pursuers or waiting for her to make another dash for freedom.
They walked to the front of the station building where he greeted the attendant. “Hey buddy, what's shakin'?"
"Not much Christian, my man,” the thin man answered, one hand fumbling around inside the overalls, scratching upward along his collar bone, neck, and then to a spot just behind his left ear. “Major busy lately. They don't build cars like they used to. Guess I should be happy. Keeps the kids in sneakers.” His tinny laugh resounded inside Paige's head.
"Tom, this is Tracy Wilson. She's riding with me for a while."
"Tracy Wilson, eh?” He stopped scratching to greet her, and for one horrific moment, she feared he'd stick the hand out for her to shake.
"I went to school with a Tracy Wilson."
She feigned interest. “Did you?"
"Yep, one of the most popular kids in school, too. You know the type: always the center of attention, a big fancy car when the rest of us're driving old beaters. Trace, as they called him, had a fire engine red..."
Trace? A male? How did that compare to her?
"Old Trace wouldn't give me the time of day. Still doesn't. He owns the pharmacy downtown. Inherited it from his grandpa a coupla years ago."
Tom's roving hand reached out and pointed in what she assumed was the direction of town. She had a glimpse of black half moon fingernails and greasy crease lines as distinct as highways on a map, as the hand again traced a path to the bib area of his pants. She couldn't contain the shiver, disgusted by his mannerisms, but unable to look away, fearful that whatever he was scratching would somehow leap the four-foot distance between them.
She took a half step backwards.
"Tom helped me out of a big jam a while back,” Chris explained.
Tom's laugh rang out. “Like I suspect I'm going to again. Am I right?"
"Might be. Might be.” Chris took hold of Tom's sleeve—which made Paige wince—and the two stepped a few paces away. Chris turned so his back was to her. The men bent their heads together.
She shrugged and turned her concentration to the road in front of the station while the men chatted, Chris obviously discussing some sort of plan with his old buddy. A plan that either entailed more henchmen on her tail, a way to escape from them, or a better way to keep her under his thumb a little longer.
Traffic was heavy. She watched with one eye while surveying her surroundings. Across the street was a restaurant sporting an enormous peeling sign, SPORTS BAR RESTAURANT. The door opened, allowing a glimpse of subdued lighting and the sound of raucous cheers. Paige wondered what sort of sport garnered such a crowd at ten in the morning.
To the left of the sports bar was a flower shop, whose owner was obviously more concerned with what went on inside the shop than the impression created outside. Weeds grew tall through cracks in the pavement and between heavy heads of orange marigolds and purple and red petunias, the flowers’ colors clashing with each other yet lending an air of hominess to the scene. Paige recalled a time about a year ago when she'd spotted a weed in her roses. She'd fired the gardener on the spot saying it wasn't the appearance of the weed itself, but the fact that he had allowed it to grow to its full height without tending to it.
Deciduous trees lining the fringes of the surrounding Ozarks showed the first signs of the coming autumn. Pointed mountain shadows lay over the town, a sharp punctuation to the rolling country space and freedom, a thing Paige wished she could feel, or even define properly. There was no sign of the white Suburban or the black SUV, whichever one hadn't burst into a ball of flame.
"Are you ready?” Chris’ voice made her start.
Tom stood beside Chris, his hand roving somewhere inside the back of the overalls, an expression of whimsy on his face.
She cast a suspicious frown in his direction. “I guess. Where are we going?” she asked as they climbed into the tractor.
"You'll see.” Chris winked.
It wasn't a wink that inspired confidence.
They were on the road again, this time bob-tailing through town.
"Stop that scratching, will you? You're driving me crazy."
"Sorry, your friend really got to me. How did you ever meet someone like that?"
"Met him right there. I had a flat tire and stopped to get it fixed. Tom's a nice guy."
"He needs to be fumigated.” Paige pointed at a large white sign with black letters. “What's in Greenwood?"
"Nothing. That's the point. It's off the beaten path, a place they probably won't think to look for us. I warned Tom that someone might come around asking about us."
"What's he going to say?"
"That he didn't see any woman. That I talked about going to Missouri: Springfield, to be exact. I'm banking they haven't found out who my dispatcher is. If they've contacted him, they'll already know we're headed for Memphis."
"Okay, what's in this Greenwood that caused so many sly looks between you two?"
"Er, I thought we could do a little shopping, get a real meal or maybe two, spend the night..."
Spend the night? “What about your schedule?"
He laughed. “It's all blown to hell now, isn't it?"
"So, why was that schedule so all-fired important yesterday and now you don't seem to give a damn?"
Chris gave an exasperated grunt. “Sometimes other things take precedence.” He stopped at a red light and leaned forward, looking first behind and then left and right. “And, sometimes things happen to put your own life in perspective."
"What are you looking for?"
"The...” At that second, a flash of white screeched out of the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot to the left.
"Shit.” Chris yanked the wheel right, and jammed his foot on the throttle.
The tractor shot into the intersection, pitching Paige to the left. Her seatbelt locked in response. “What the—"
The Suburban, for which Paige had been so diligently watching behind them, slewed to a halt just inches from the driver's side door of the tractor.
"Damn! It's them!” Chris yelled.
"Shit, they got past us?"
He didn't answer, just slammed the truck into gear, wrenched the wheel left and bashed the front of the Suburban. The SUV pulled into the path of an oncoming pickup innocently making its way through the intersection. Chris alternately pressed a foot on the clutch and the gas, and shifted gears as if he was playing some weird video game.
Paige put a stranglehold on the door handle, then remembered her suitcase and handbag in the bunk cabinet. She got up and lurched between the curtains as Chris took a right turn at forty miles an hour. She tumbled to the floor, banging her head in the corner of the bathroom door.
"What are you doing?” Chris hollered.
She lay dazed as the truck careened and squealed its tires along the streets of Greenwood. By the distance and sharpness of the turns Paige assumed they'd entered a residential neighborhood; not much of a place to hide a bright yellow rig such as his.
Finally the truck slowed to a sedate twenty-five miles an hour, and Paige was able to stagger to her feet and stumble to the cabinet holding her belongings.
"Will you sit down!"
As she opened the door, Chris took another turn. She fell again, this time the corner of the cabinet tore into her rib cage. While down, and clutching one arm around her ribs, she took out the purse and suitcase. Paige staggered onto her knees and one hand, and then to her feet. She climbed back to her seat, jerking and pulling her belongings between the seats.
"What the hell are you—” Chris shook his head in disbelief.
He got the truck stopped in a small neighborhood of tract houses, the colors all that differentiated them from one another. It was mid morning and most of the driveways were empty.
"Damn!” He pounded his fist on the steering wheel and repeated the curse twice more.
"What?” The word came out in a pained whoosh of air.
"Damn,” he said a fourth time, then turned and started to say something, “What the hell were you—Holy shit, you're bleeding. What happened?"
"Fell against ... the cabinet door,” she wheezed.
He moved to the bunk area and gestured for her to follow. “Come here and let me look at it."
"Not now. I'm all right. Get rid of them first."
"Don't have to."
"What?"
Chris gently hauled her into the back of the cab and unbuttoned her blouse, peeling it tenderly away from her skin. “That Suburban wasn't the one from the highway."