Carron has threatened to sue, and unless the FBI has a solid explanation beyond “no comment,” she might have a case. When asked about it, Carron said, “Crooks. There was no crime. I made a deal, fair and square, and those bastards took my money.” Schwarz seems to agree. “Grace was just trying to help me out. We talked about how hard it is to get going again once you get down on your luck. She was cool, really cool, and she’s going to be bummed when she finds out they took the money. It sucks. It really does.”
It’s unclear what set off the shoot-out outside the restaurant. Witnesses say the women and kids seemed to be enjoying themselves when something happened that caused the group to leave abruptly. No one was hurt in the altercation, and it is unclear whether the shots Torelli took were aimed at anyone or merely warning shots.
The two women and their kids fled in a Chevy truck with California plates.
These women might not be Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis, and there may not be a ’66 Thunderbird convertible or an Oscar nomination, but there is no doubt of the similarity in these women’s story with the fictional Thelma and Louise’s, and we hope for their sake and their children’s sakes that the ending is happier than that of the movie.
Mark sets the paper down, puts his elbows on the table, and, for a long time, sits silent, massaging his temples with two fingers on either side. The media storm around this is going to blow up. He can already see a Lifetime Original Movie being made. Hell, the motel clerk, that scrawny kid at the desk who went white as the walls around him when Mark showed his badge, probably has six marriage proposals by now and a dozen benefactors willing to give him a new smile. Every damn person in the article is going to be a celebrity and a hero, while the FBI is being painted as the Big Bad Wolf hunting Little Red Riding Hood and taking money from little old ladies and young men who need dental work.
He pushes to his feet and goes to the coffee station for a refill. A little girl around Shelly’s age stands on her tiptoes very carefully pouring creamers into her mother’s cup, as if it’s the most important job in the world. He sighs. Tonight was supposed to be his night with the kids. Marcia sounded relieved when he called to tell her he wasn’t going to make it: one less hassle for her to deal with.
Stan the Insurance Man will be around. He’s always around, ever since he became a part of Marcia’s life, less than a month after she told Mark she wanted a divorce. He doesn’t think they were having an affair. Marcia’s too righteous for that. But he suspects a not-so-innocent flirtation that gave her the confidence to ask Mark to leave.
Together they will take Ben to his baseball game, have pizza at Artie’s after, then go home and watch The Simpsons on the couch together until it’s time to tuck the kids into bed. Then, when the kids are asleep, they will go upstairs to have sex in his room, in his bed, his life stolen from him and given to Stan the Insurance Man.
He waits for the familiar fury to wash over him that makes him want to put his fist through the wall or through Stan the Insurance Man’s wide-chinned face. Instead, surprisingly, all he feels is strange resignation. Perhaps he’s tired. Or perhaps it’s because of what happened between him and Hadley. Whatever the case, he just doesn’t have it in him this morning to rage.
He rubs the bandaged cuts on his right wrist. Damn woman. What possessed her to shoot at those bikers? Mattie. He knows it, and his hate for the bastard in the photo is raw.
The door to the café opens, and he turns to see his boss, Garrett O’Toole, filling its frame. When he sees Mark, he scowls with an expression of disapproval and impatience as if irritated, though he is the one who is fifteen minutes late.
He wears aviator sunglasses propped on his bald head, a cream button-down dress shirt that probably started off white, and brown slacks that ride high on his gut and that are cinched too tight with a worn leather belt.
“Wilkes,” he says.
“O’Toole.”
Neither man extends his hand.
O’Toole sits down, then leans forward in his chair, the seat straining with his weight. A large man in both height and girth, he uses his size well, intimidating people by crowding their personal space and making everyone he comes in contact with uncomfortable.
Setting his elbows on the table, he leans in a fraction more, his breath surprisingly fresh, as if he’s just popped a mint. “A full APB, a roadblock delaying millions of gamblers from reaching their weekend destination, half the Las Vegas police force, and every California and Nevada FBI agent on full alert and pulling round-the-clock shifts—not many agents can lay claim to inconveniencing that many people and costing taxpayers that much money because they were dumb enough to be hijacked by two broads and driven away in the trunk of their car.”
Mark holds his ground, his face two inches from his boss’s. “Don’t worry, Garrett,” he says. “I’m fine. Really. But thanks for your concern.”
O’Toole grins a toothless smirk. “On the inside I’m dying of worry.” Then he leans back a smidge, and Mark leans back as well.
Surprisingly, this is the first time Mark’s gotten any grief for what happened. Last night, when he walked into the field office, he was greeted with hearty handshakes and pats on the back, everyone, to a man, relieved he had turned up safe. Guilt lined their faces—confession to their failure to find any lead as to where he was and testament to their waning hope of finding him alive. The only ribbing he got was a few hours later, when a couple of guys joked about not minding being taken hostage by two outlaws as hot as Torelli and Herrick, and wondering aloud if Mark might not have resisted as much as he could have.
But O’Toole is not congratulating him on being found alive or on his escape; nor is he bewitched by Hadley and Grace in the least. “Wilkes, you know what I hate worse than schlepping my ass to Nevada?”
Mark says nothing.
“It’s having to explain to a horde of bloodsucking press why the lead agent on the case went Lone Ranger and tried to apprehend two dangerous criminals without waiting for backup.”
“They weren’t considered dangerous at the time,” Mark says, immediately regretting it when O’Toole’s face darkens.
“Even better,” he says, “to have to explain to a swarm of asshole reporters why the lead agent, a seasoned veteran, who should know better, went after two women holed up in a motel with their three kids, triggering a tornado of mother-bear instincts and causing them to suddenly become armed and dangerous.”
Mark’s skin turns warm, his screwup impossible to defend.
“You’re on thin ice, Wilkes,” O’Toole says, his eyes glinting, and Mark feels his glee. Since Mark began working with O’Toole two years ago, there’s been no love lost between them. Leaning back, he says, “You’re off the case.”
Mark tries not to flinch but does a poor job of it, and O’Toole’s smile twitches.
“That’s a mistake,” Mark says. “I know these women and this case better than anyone. Hadley and Grace are not—”
“‘Hadley and Grace’?” O’Toole interrupts, arching his eyebrow as if he’s caught Mark at something sinister.
Mark exhales slowly through his nose. “Fine. Torelli and Herrick. These women are not your typical criminals. They’re two moms who accidentally stumbled into trouble and who are now trying to avoid being caught and ending up in prison.”
“Really? My mom isn’t real keen on ending up in prison either,” O’Toole says. “Then again, she didn’t steal millions of dollars, kidnap a federal agent, then go on a shooting spree in a parking lot, not to mention mowing down some very fine machinery.”
Mark’s skin prickles as his concern grows. O’Toole is the kind of guy who follows the path of least resistance no matter the case, his only objective to clear his desk with as little effort as possible. Combine that with O’Toole’s complete lack of empathy, compassion, and common sense, and Mark knows he’ll have no problem issuing a shoot-to-kill directive on Hadley and Grace, extenuating circumstances or not.
Realizing how much rests
on this moment, he tamps down his emotions and, in as level a voice as he can manage, says, “Garrett, please, these women are not violent, and I can reason with them. I spent time with them, and they trust me. I can bring them in, safely. Taking me off is a mistake.”
O’Toole grins, an ugly sliver of malice, and Mark realizes his mistake, whatever chance he had obliterated by O’Toole’s long-standing grudge against him. O’Toole knows Mark cares and has been waiting a long time for an opportunity just like this.
“Nothing to reason with,” he says. “These women think they’re above the law, and they’re not. You had your chance. Now it’s my turn.”
Hadley’s laugh and then Grace’s smirk fill Mark’s brain, and his heart lodges in his throat with fear. With all the humility he can muster, he makes one final plea. “Then put Fitz in the field,” he says. “He knows the case, and he can help.”
O’Toole squints his beady eyes, and Mark lowers his, praying complete submission will help. If he thought it would do any good, he would get on his knees.
For a long minute, O’Toole studies him before finally offering a nod, like an emperor throwing a beggar a bone. Silently Mark releases his breath. It’s not much, but at least he’ll have eyes and ears in the field. A feather in a hailstorm, but it’s something.
O’Toole glances at the paper on the table. “Our very own Thelma and Louise,” he says with a chuckle. “Damn, I liked that movie. That Geena Davis was something.”
“That movie didn’t end well,” Mark says.
“Really?” O’Toole says, leaning back and lacing his hands over his wide belly. “I liked the ending.” His gaze levels on Mark’s, letting him know he would be perfectly fine with Hadley and Grace driving off a cliff—case closed, no messy paperwork, no loose ends.
44
GRACE
The mustard’s fallen off the hot dog. It’s a Jimmy-ism. Jimmy has a saying for everything, most of them involving food: Cake can’t cure everything. It takes both hands to hold a Whopper. Think outside the bun. The man loves food.
Grace drapes her arm over her eyes to block out the morning sun streaming through the curtains she forgot to close. Though she barely drank last night, she feels hungover—her head throbbing and her stomach churning.
It’s hard to believe how quickly things have unraveled. One minute she was dancing with Burt, laughing and having a good time, and the next, she was dodging bullets and running over motorcycles.
“We need to go,” she said to Hadley when she returned from the movie theater, where she’d swiped the purse of a woman lost in a movie about aliens abducting pets to use as hosts.
Hadley was in the exact spot she had left her, the only change being that she had fallen from her knees to her butt, the vomit now beside her.
“Leave me alone,” Hadley answered, and Grace considered it. The keys for the truck were in the ignition; the keys to the woman’s car whose purse she had stolen were in her hand. The decision was as simple as grabbing Miles and walking away.
“Where are we going?” Mattie said, stepping from the truck with Hadley’s crutches and slamming the door shut on any possibility other than continuing on together.
Grace leaned into the truck. “Hey, Skip, we need to go,” she said.
He sat frozen in his seat beside Miles, his eyes staring straight ahead and his face pale.
“Listen, buddy, I know this is tough—”
His hands flew to his ears, and his head shook to block her out.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Okay, buddy. It’s okay.” She looked at Mattie. “We need to go.”
As if on cue, sirens, thread thin, sounded from somewhere to the left, then grew louder as they traveled closer.
Mattie dropped the crutches beside her mom, then climbed back into the truck beside Skipper. “I hope Posey is catching tomorrow,” she said.
Grace watched as Skipper took his hands from his ears, then turned to face her, his eyes flicking left and right, searching for traction.
“He’s my favorite,” Mattie went on. “You think we’ll get to see him?”
Skipper’s focus moved in and out, and Grace watched as Mattie searched for the next words. “Plus, he can hit. Posey’s a heck of a hitter.”
A sideways twist of the mouth as Skipper said, “Posey doesn’t catch for the Rockies.” And Grace nearly gave a cheer. It was remarkable.
“Well, then, who’s catching?” Mattie said, undoing Skipper’s seat belt and taking him by the hand to lead him from the truck.
Grace looked at her with awe, and Mattie shrugged like it was no big deal.
“Either Iannetta or Wolters,” Skipper said.
“Did you ask Coach about the trade for Wolters?” Mattie said.
“I sent it. Do you have my PlayStation? I need to check.”
Suddenly he was frantic again, but not about what had happened at the restaurant, his concern entirely on his fantasy baseball team and the trade he wanted to make.
“I do,” Mattie said. She grabbed the backpack from the front seat. “It’s in here. We’ll check it when we get in the new car.”
She led him toward the theaters, and Grace grabbed Miles and the diaper bag; then she kicked Hadley’s crutches toward her and walked after them.
Two hours later, they were checked into this hotel under the name Blaire Butz, the name of the woman whose car they were driving, a woman who looks enough like Hadley for Hadley to get away with pretending to be her.
Ten minutes after that, Grace fell into a deep, horrible sleep. And now, eight hours later, she has woken up, and the reality of what’s happened has descended on her. She drapes her other arm across her eyes as well, wishing she could return to unconsciousness.
The door to the adjoining room opens, and Grace turns her head to see Hadley in its frame. She is not using her crutches and instead hobbles gingerly on her injured ankle. Her eyes are bruised, and Grace can practically see her hangover pulsing.
“Nice digs,” she says, her movements and words slow as she walks toward the bed, as if any sudden movement might rupture her brain.
“Yeah, I figured why not?” Grace answers.
In light of the increasing probability that she is going to be spending the remainder of her life sleeping on a prison mattress, Grace upgraded their hotel to a Sheraton. During her research of hotels that accept cash, she discovered Sheratons are among them, as long as you show ID.
Carefully Hadley lowers herself to the mattress beside Miles. She caresses his thigh and says, “I have a plan.”
“Me too,” Grace says. “We need to turn ourselves in.”
Hadley flinches.
“I mean it,” Grace says. “It’s our only option.”
Grace has thought it through. Because of last night’s unfortunate turn of events, the chances of her walking away from this are gone. That kid who posted on Snapchat already knew about them, which means their photos and story are out there. Then, last night, dozens of people witnessed what happened at the restaurant, some even snapping photos. There’s no way she is going to be able to just waltz across the border with Miles and start a new life. She wouldn’t be surprised if a reward was now being offered for information leading to their arrest.
“But before we do,” she adds, “we need to get our story straight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about cutting our losses. Look, last night was a disaster. We just went from being everyday fugitives to probably being on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, along with warnings about us being armed and dangerous . . . and crazy.”
Hadley looks down, and Grace feels her regret. But none of that matters now. Grace is over being angry. What’s done is done, and all that matters now is where things stand and how they deal with them going forward.
“The thing is,” Grace says, her voice growing tight, “I have a record.” She waits for surprise to register on Hadley’s face, and when it doesn’t, she says, “You knew?”
&
nbsp; Hadley nods, and Grace swallows, deeply ashamed, as she always is about her past.
“You, on the other hand, are clean,” she continues. “So, the deal is we spin it so it’s all on me.”
Hadley’s head is already shaking. Grace ignores it. She’s thought this through. It’s the only way. She is going away regardless, but if they play their cards right, Hadley could walk away from this.
“We’ll tell them I’m the one who came up with the plan to steal the money, and that I blackmailed you into it—”
“Stop,” Hadley says, cutting Grace off. “We are not turning ourselves in, and if we do get caught, I’m telling the truth—”
“You can’t. Hadley, you need to listen to me. I know how these things work. The system, it isn’t fair. It’s not about what’s right, and it’s not like, if you play by the rules, they reward you. If you play by the rules, you get screwed. The only chance we . . . you . . . have is for us to lie. You’re a good liar, and we can make up a story that works. We can negotiate a deal ahead of time, before we turn ourselves in. We’ll promise to turn over the money and explain I planned the whole thing. You’ll claim you were acting under duress, that I had a gun and that the kids were with me when the agent showed up—”
“No!” The word is a roar. “Stop. We are not turning ourselves in. I told you, I have a plan.”
Grace grits her jaw shut and waits for Hadley to explain her plan, which, knowing Hadley, will involve beguiling border guards with fake French accents so they can sneak into Canada or chartering a private jet to fly them to Spain—some ludicrous idea that doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of working. When she’s done, Grace will continue to explain the best way to spin this. Best-case scenario is Hadley walks and Grace manages to plea-bargain her sentence down to something reasonable: ten years or less. With good behavior, she’ll be out in five. She looks at Miles and pushes back the tears that fill her eyes with the thought.
“I know how to get us . . . well, you . . . out of this,” Hadley says. “I called Melissa this morning, and it’s all set. She’s sending her passport to the post office in Omaha, and I reserved a plane ticket in her name to London. You look like her. Well, not your hair, but the rest of you—your height and weight and eye color. She’s older than you, but not so old that you can’t pretend to be her. From London, you can continue on to wherever you like. The flight leaves Thursday.”
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