The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(18)

I nodded, clutching the envelope to my chest. It struck me that this would likely be the last time I would ever see Bernadette—a stranger who was sticking her neck out, at no inconsiderable risk, to help a woman she’d just met. And why? Was the goodness of her heart that profound? Or was her desire for revenge against Jim that deep?

Maybe it was a mix of both, and if so, that was fine by me.

“Wait—how do I get in touch with you? How do I thank you?”

Bernadette didn’t answer. She swung onto the bike and kicked it to life. She punched the throttle twice and the big engine growled back in response. Laurel covered her ears as Bernadette laughed. Then she nodded in my direction. “Adiós, hermana!”

She accelerated hard, her rear tire raking the edge of the lawn, spraying grass and dirt behind. The front of her bike was airborne for a second; then it squealed on the pavement as she raised a hand in salute, barreling back toward Wheeler.

“She’s loud,” Laurel said in wonder. I laughed as I dried my face on my sleeve.

“Yes, sweetie, she is that. How do you feel about going for a drive?”

For us, it was an outrageous idea. I might as well have asked if she wanted to sprout handlebars and spoked tires and go bicycling on the roof. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t ask questions. I fetched the car keys from the hook inside the front door.

The air was warm; the sun was shining. The engine started right up. I felt giddy, and so weightless I could have floated up like a hot-air balloon. Laurel was studying my face so earnestly that I laughed. She smiled back, but her eyes were still so anxious I felt a pang of guilt.

No matter. I was doing this for her. For both of us.

It was four miles to that first gas station on the outskirts of town. I gave the attendant a twenty from Bernadette’s envelope and began to tank up, the meter clicking away.

It was clicking for a minute or so before I noticed the choking odor of gasoline getting stronger by the second. It was then that I saw liquid running out from underneath the car, streaming toward the road.

I froze—fairly sure what it was, but not daring to believe it.

I forced myself to pull the pump handle from the filler neck of the car and set it back in its cradle. Then I dropped to my hands and knees and peered under the chassis. I saw the gas tank and understood: a hole had been punched in the side of it, near the middle. Gasoline had chugged out onto the pavement.

No wonder Jim never kept more than a few gallons in the thing. No wonder he never took it in for service, but maintained it himself or had a friend tend to what he couldn’t.

A starving gas tank meant a short leash on me. And this was his insurance policy.

I pushed myself back to my feet, rocking on legs ready to buckle. I could never make it to Albuquerque on just a few gallons. There were gas stations along the way, sure, but not many. And in between were long stretches of nothing. I couldn’t begin to guess if I could make it from one filling station to the next, or if I’d end up stranded on the interstate waiting for Jim to track us down—which he surely would, and most efficiently. Then there’d be nothing left but to get hauled back to the house, and what was waiting for us in the shed.

Jesus, I’d even handed him the perfect story to tell anyone who asked—his miserable, mental wife had taken their child and run off to distant parts, never to be seen around here again. He’d play the abandoned husband as skillfully as he’d played the doting one.

I groped for options. First was giving up—abandoning hope like the fickle cheat it was and driving back to the house. Chasing this last hour, these last two weeks, out of my memory. Burning the envelope and its contents, swearing Laurel to secrecy. But Jim would be checking the car’s mileage after his shift, and how would I explain the extra miles? An emergency trip to the grocer’s?

“Joanna?”

I turned toward a familiar voice, guts twisting. There stood Deputy Munoz in civilian clothes, tanking up an SUV with two kids inside. There was genuine concern on his face.

“You okay? You’re shaking like a leaf. Is that gas coming from your car? Let me take a look.”

“No!” I barked as he flinched. I caught myself, pitched my voice to something less full-on crazy. “We’re all right. We’re fine. We’re . . . going home now.”

I was backing away as I spoke, till I collided with the Toyota. Then I turned and snatched at the door handle. I fell into the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition, Laurel watching, her eyes as big as hen’s eggs. Munoz was heading toward the car, leaning over to peer inside. I pulled out so fast the tires squealed.