Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(82)

Francesca had shaken her head and announced in her haughtiest voice that she had already made plans. Then, before she could further humiliate herself by clinging to Miss Sybil's thin chest and begging her to tell her what to do, she had grabbed her case and run out the door.

The Cadillac hit a rut, jolting her to one side, and she realized that they had left the highway. She stared out at the rutted, unpaved road that lay like a dusty ribbon across the flat, bleak landscape. They had left the hill country behind some time before. Shouldn't they be close to San Antonio by now? The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. The Cadillac bounced again, and the cat shifted its weight on her feet and looked up at her with a baleful glare, as if she were personally responsible for the bumpy ride. After several more miles had slipped by, she said, “Are you certain this is right? This road doesn't look very well traveled.”

The man lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of his old one, then snatched up the map that lay on the seat between them.

Francesca was wiser now than she had been a month before, and she studied the shadows thrown by a few scraggly mesquite. “West!” she exclaimed after a few moments. “We're going west. This isn't the way to San Antonio.”

“It's a shortcut,” he said, tossing down the map.

She felt as if her throat were closing up. Rape... murder... an escaped convict and a mutilated female body left at the side of the road. She couldn't take any more. She was heartsick and exhausted, and she had no resources left to deal with another catastrophe. She fruitlessly searched the flat horizon for the sight of another car. All she could see was the tiny skeletal finger of a radio antenna standing miles in the distance. “I want you to let me out,” she said, trying to keep her tone normal, as if being murdered on a deserted road by a crazed fugitive were the furthest thing from her mind.

“I can't do that,” he said. And then he looked over at her, his eyes hard black marbles. “Just stay with me till we get closer to the Mexican border, and then I'll let you go.”

Dread coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach.

He took a deep drag on the cigarette. “Look, I'm not going to hurt you, so you don't have to get nervous. I'm a completely nonviolent person. I just need to get to the border, and I want two people in the car instead of one. There was a woman with me earlier, but while I was waiting for her, this cop car turned onto the street. And then I saw you walking down the sidewalk with that suitcase in your hand....”

If he had meant to reassure her with his explanation, it didn't work. She realized that he truly was a fugitive, just as she'd feared. She tried to suppress the hysteria creeping through her, but she couldn't control it. As he slowed the car for another rut, she grabbed for the door handle.

“Hey!” He hit the brake and caught her by the arm. The car skidded to a full stop. “Don't do that. I'm not going to hurt you.”

She tried to twist away from him, but his fingers bit into her arm. She screamed. The cat jumped up from the floor, landing with its rump on her leg and its front paws on the seat. “Let me out!” she screeched.

He held her fast, talking with the cigarette clamped in his mouth. “Hey, it's okay. I just need to get nearer the border before—”

To her, his eyes looked dark and menacing. “No!” she shrieked. “I want out!” Her fingers had turned clumsy with fear, and the door handle refused to give. She pushed harder, trying to throw the force of her body against it. The cat, disturbed by all the activity, arched his back and spat, then sank his front claws into the man's thigh.

The man gave a yelp of pain and pushed at the animal. The cat yeowed and sank his claws deeper.

“Leave him alone,” Francesca shouted, turning her attention from the door to the assault on her cat. She slapped at the man's arm while the cat maintained its bloody grip on his leg, hissing and spitting all the time.

“Get him off me!” the man yelled. He threw up his elbow to defend himself and accidentally knocked the cigarette out of his mouth. Before he could catch it, the cigarette wedged itself inside the open collar of his shirt. He swatted at it with his hand, yelling again as the burning tip began to sear his skin.

His elbow hit the horn.

Francesca pounded on his chest.

The cat began to climb his arm.

“Get out of here!” he screamed.

She grabbed for the door handle. This time it gave, and as it swung open, she vaulted out, the cat springing after her.

“You're crazy, you know that, lady!” the man screamed, yanking the cigarette from his shirt with one hand and rubbing at his leg with the other.

She spotted her case, abandoned on the seat, and raced forward with her arm extended to claim it. He saw what she was doing and immediately slid across the seat to pull the door shut before she could reach it.

“Give me my case,” she yelled.

“Get it yourself!” He flipped her his middle finger, threw the car into gear, and hit the accelerator. The tires spun, spitting out a great cloud of dust that immediately engulfed her.

“My case!” she yelled as he peeled away. “I need my case!” She began running after the Cadillac, choking in the dust and calling out. She ran until the car had faded to a small dot on the horizon. Then she collapsed to her knees in the middle of the road.

Her heart was pumping like a piston in her chest. She caught her breath and laughed, a wild, broken sound that was barely human. Now she'd done it. Now she'd really done it. And this time there was no good-looking blond savior to come to her rescue. A deep-throated rasp sounded next to her. She was alone except for a walleyed cat.