The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(19)

My one thought was the Palomino. Bernadette would know what to do. Maybe we could hide out there. Sleep on the floor if we had to.

It was a stupid idea, and I knew it. Selfish, too, because it would put her in more danger than she already was. But in the end it didn’t matter—at the motel there was no sign of a motorcycle anywhere.

Bernadette and Sam might be back any second, or they could have checked out already and left for good. There was no time to wait and find out. And no way I’d ask at the motel office and implicate Bernadette even further.

One thing I was absolutely sure about: Munoz would be calling Jim up by now. Munoz was a good guy. He’d figure Jim would want to know his wife was having car trouble and needed help. That she looked really upset. Maybe she was sick. Maybe someone could call the motor club. Maybe Jim could swing by in his unit and help her out himself. Wives appreciate that sort of thing.

I sat idling in the motel parking lot, gripping the wheel, weighing terrible options. But the one image that crowded out every other was that of the shed behind the house and what was buried behind. The machete on the wall.

Laurel was staring at me. Willing me to do the right thing. More than ever, I felt the weight of her little life in my hands.

As I looked back into those frightened eyes, it was clear what I had to do. For her sake, if not for mine. She’d lived long enough in the shadow of a psycho.

I shoved the car in gear and pulled from the lot, beelining for the highway.

For Albuquerque, for freedom, one way or another.

The insurrection was still on.


*

The gas got us to the big truck stop near Continental Divide, about halfway to Grants. Grants is a good-sized town, and there’d be more stations once we got there. By now I was beginning to believe we might.

I bought three plastic gas cans, gallon size, and filled them. I loaded them in the trunk, then started to tank up.

It’s a popular truck stop along Interstate 40. A family-style restaurant inside, and a bank of showers for truckers and long-distance travelers. The pumps were busy. I glanced around uneasily, trying not to stand out. Laurel’s face was fixed on me through the rear window.

There was an undersized, tinny-looking car at the next pump. The driver gassing up was a young man who looked sixteen trying to pass for thirty. He wore a torn T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black skinny jeans. His red hair was cropped close, except where it spiked into a cowlick at the crown like a rooster, or some ironic Dennis the Menace. He was wearing earbuds, listening to music on a player that was bulging in his back pocket. His leg jiggled to a beat only he could hear. The lobes of his ears looked freakishly large, till I realized they were stretched out by plugs the size of wine corks.

Red Dennis pulled his music maker from his pocket and was glancing down at it when something on the ground caught his eye. He looked over at me and pointed under my car.

“Whoa, lady!” he said. “You’re leaking!”

He said it loud enough to hear himself over his own music. Loud enough for half the people at the pumps to hear. Some of them turned to stare.

I yanked the nozzle from my car and shoved it hard back on the pump cradle. Red Dennis was heading toward me, tugging out his earbuds. His T-shirt had a Rolling Rock beer logo and a big picture of a baby in a diaper lying on its back sucking on a beer bottle. No harm here, the shirt read. The kid’s already shittin’ green.

Before he could get anywhere close, I was in the car slamming the door and locking it, cranking the ignition and aiming for the highway.

A quarter tank and three gallons extra would get us to Grants. Yes, yes, I was sure of it.

I checked the speedometer, determined to stick to the limit and under. I noted the mileage. I gripped the wheel with sweating palms, holding it steady, smack in the center of the right lane. I wouldn’t give a patrolman any excuse to pull me over.

Two miles out, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

And there in the distance I saw it: flashing lights, red and blue. Far off, but coming up fast as a bullet train.

And I heard it: the scree and whoop of a siren.

It was eating up the distance between us with a vengeance. And I knew exactly who was behind the wheel.

Laurel heard it, too. She twisted in her seat to peer through the rear window and started to whimper.

I could barely draw a breath.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered. “Help.”





Part II


   Borne Away