Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(78)

Francesca watched as Dallie and Holly Grace disappeared into the house. For a fraction of a moment, the very best part of her hoped they would find some comfort with each other.

Naomi had never been to Texas before, and if she had anything to say about the matter, she would never come here again. As a pickup truck sped past her in the right lane going at least eighty, she decided that some people were not meant to venture beyond predictable city traffic jams and the comforting scent of exhaust being belched out by crawling yellow cabs. She was a city girl; the open road made her nervous. Or maybe it wasn't the highway at all. Maybe it was Gerry huddled next to her in the passenger seat of her rental Cadillac, scowling through the windshield like an ill-tempered toddler.

When she had returned to her apartment the night before to pack a suitcase, Gerry had announced that he was going to Texas with her. “I've got to get out of this place before I go crazy,” he had exclaimed, thrusting one hand through his hair. “I'm going to Mexico for a while—live underground. I'll fly to Texas with you tonight—the cops at the airport won't be looking for a couple traveling together—and then I'll make arrangements to cross the border. I've got some friends in Del Rio. They'll help me. It'll be good in Mexico. We'll get our movement reorganized.”

She had told him he couldn't go with her, but he refused to listen. Since she couldn't physically restrain him, she had found herself boarding the Delta flight to San Antonio with Gerry at her side, holding her arm.

She stretched in the driver's seat, inadvertently pressing down on the gas pedal so that the car accelerated slightly. Next to her, Gerry plunged his hands deep into the pockets of a pair of gray flannel slacks he'd procured from somewhere. The outfit was supposed to make him look like a respectable businessman but fell somewhat short of the mark since he had refused to cut his hair. “Relax,” she said. “Nobody's paid any attention to you since we got here.”

“The cops'll never let me get away this easy,” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder for the hundredth time since they had pulled out of the hotel garage in San Antonio. “They're playing with me. They'll let me get so close to the Mexican border that I can smell it, and then they'll close in on me. Frigging pigs.”

The sixties paranoia. She'd almost forgotten about it. When Gerry had learned about the FBI wiretaps, he'd believed that every shadow hid a cop, that every new recruit was an informer, that the mighty J. Edgar Hoover himself was personally searching for evidence of subversive activity in the Kotex the women in the anti-war movement tossed into the garbage. Although at the time there had been reason for caution, in the end the fear had been more exhausting than the reality. “Are you sure the police even care?” Naomi said. “Nobody looked at you twice when you got on the plane.”

He glared at her and she knew that she had insulted him by belittling his importance as a fugitive—Macho Gerry, the John Wayne of the radicals. “If I'd been by myself,” he said, “they'd have noticed fast enough.”

Naomi wondered. For all Gerry's insistence that the police were out to get him, they certainly didn't seem to be looking very hard. It made her feel strangely sad. She remembered the days when the police had cared a great deal about the activities of her brother.

The Cadillac topped a grade, and she saw a sign announcing the city limits of Wynette. A spurt of excitement went through her. After all this time, she would finally see her Sassy Girl. She hoped she hadn't made a mistake by not calling ahead, but she felt instinctively that this first connection needed to be made in person. Besides, photographs sometimes lied. She had to see this girl face to face.

Gerry looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. “It's not even nine o'clock yet. She's probably still in bed. I don't see why we had to leave so early.”

She didn't bother answering. Nothing ever had any importance to Gerry except his own mission to save the world single-handedly. She pulled into a service station and asked for directions. Gerry hunched down in the seat, hiding himself behind an open road map in case the pimply-faced kid standing by the gas pumps was really a crack government agent out to catch Public Enemy Number One.

As she pulled the car back out onto the street, she said, “Gerry, you're thirty-two years old. Aren't you getting tired of living like this?”

“I'm not going to sell out, Naomi.”

“If you ask me, running off to Mexico comes closer to selling out than staying around and trying to work inside the system.”

“Just shut up about it, will you?”

Was it only her imagination or did Gerry sound less sure of himself? “You'd be a wonderful lawyer,” she pressed on. “Courageous and incorruptible. Like a medieval knight lighting for justice.”

“I'll think about it, okay?” he snapped. “I'll think about it after I get to Mexico. Remember that you promised to get me over closer to Del Rio before nightfall.”

“God, Gerry, can't you think about anything but yourself?”

He looked at her with disgust. “The world's getting ready to blow itself up, and all you care about is selling perfume.”

She refused to get into another shouting match with him, and they rode in silence the rest of the way to the house. As Naomi pulled up in the Cadillac, Gerry glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the street When he saw nothing suspicious, he relaxed enough to lean forward and study the house. “Hey, I like this place.” He gestured toward the painted jackrabbits. “It gives out great vibes.”