2,000 Miles to Open Road (Barefield)

by Trey R. Barker

  At the computer, Theresa was still banging away, loading and unloading the disk, tapping away at the keyboard.

  He watched for a moment, then tried to memorize the route through to Mexico. Down through Navasota and Bastrop. Maybe Blanco or Stonewall. After San Antonio, he'd get back on 90 and hit Brackettville, Spofford, and Quemado, and then cross near Jimenez. Janice's truck would be a few days late with a few hundred more miles on it than she'd thought, but at least she'd get it back.

  Hal looked at his watch. "Theresa, let's go."

  "Damnit, it won't burn." She stared at him, her face lost.

  "Excuse me?" the clerk said. He headed toward the computer.

  "Uh…no, we're fine," Hal said quickly.

  But the man was already at Theresa's side, staring at the screen. His eyes were wide, his mouth open a bit.

  "It's nothing," Hal said. "Not what you think."

  Theresa snatched the disk from the computer and stared primly at the clerk. "My husband likes to watch two women and I don't have a problem with that. Do you?"

  The man's mouth flapped like ripped skin hanging from an arm. "Uh…uh…no, ma'am. I like…uh…watching, too. Women, I mean." His face flooded with red.

  "Let's go," Theresa said. She stuffed Hal's disk into his shirt pocket. The man had seen the beginning of Shawn's sister's murder.

  "Uh…least it's a nice night," the clerk said, still trying to recover. "Nice and warm for your friends there."

  Theresa kept moving as though she hadn't heard the man. But Hal's head rang like a church bell. Friends?

  Two people sat on the tailgate of the truck. Shawn looked toward the far edge of the parking lot. The man, gun in full view against her head, looked toward the copy shop.

  "Shit," Hal said. He pushed open the glass door and stopped at the edge of the parking lot. Theresa stopped just behind him.

  "That's him," she said.

  "Well, well," Trenton said. "Fancy meeting you here."

  "Oh, God, Hal," Shawn said. "Don't let him kill me."

  Hal couldn't breathe. As though someone, some fat-ass son of a bitch, had stepped right the hell on his chest and was pressing his lungs down further every time he exhaled. Pretty quick and there wouldn't be dick left in him. Pretty soon and he'd suffocate.

  Hal's mouth flapped a few times. "You ain't dead." He moved slowly toward the truck, stopped when Trenton shook the gun.

  "No, I managed to get out."

  "Yeah, you ran outta there like a sissy girl. I figured maybe you got shot in the ass. Probably bled out in the alley."

  "I'm a little tougher than that."

  Hal tried to catch the man's eyes, tried to see if he was tougher than that. But the man's gaze kept moving. Eyes to Shawn, to Theresa, to Hal. They never rested for a moment. In the laundromat, it hadn't been that way. In the laundromat, he had stared just at Hal.

  Which means exactly what? He nervous or relaxed? He scared or ready to go?

  "You sure you wanna do this in a parking lot?"

  "Works for me," Trenton said.

  "The middle of a residential area? At a strip mall? Who knows who might be watching."

  "I couldn't possibly care less about where we are, Hal. I want that disk." Trenton turned Shawn's head slowly. The street lamp lit up a bloody face. "I had to break her nose to get her out of the truck."

  "Seems like every time we meet, you beating on women."

  "Well," Trenton said. "This woman anyway. But then, she's just a junkie whore, isn't she? A junkie whore who lied to you, almost got you killed, and in fact did some killing of her own."

  "You make my skin crawl," Theresa said.

  "Shut her up." Trenton shook his head. "Shouldn't let women talk to you that way, Hal."

  "She wasn't talking to me."

  "Another word from her and I'll give Shawn a lobotomy." He cleared his throat. Beneath the gruff sound was a softer whimper coming from Shawn. "Now, where's the disk?"

  "I've got it."

  "Give it to me."

  "Can't do that, Trenton, it'll prove my innocence."

  "As it'll prove my guilt. Guess who I care more about?" He pressed the gun harder into the back of Shawn's head.

  Hal laughed. "Wait a minute. First you tell me Shawn's just a junkie whore, now you expect me to give you my entire life to save that junkie whore's life."

  "You guys," Shawn said weakly. "I'm right here. I can hear you."

  Trenton grinned. "That's exactly what I expect." He craned his head toward the sound of the sirens. "I guess someone has called the police." Roughly, he shoved Shawn to her knees.

  Hal held his hands out, palms toward Trenton. "Take it easy, Mr. Trenton."

  "Ah, now it's Mr. Trenton." The gunman looked at Shawn. "See, regardless of what is on that disk, as soon as the cops figure out the bullet in your head is from his gun, he'll be done."

  Hal grabbed at his waistband but he knew already he'd left the gun in the truck. Hadn't wanted to carry it into a Kinko's.

  "Done?" Hal said. "Don't'choo think I'm already pretty well done? They got me for killing a thirteen-year-old girl and she matters a whole lot more than a junkie whore."

  It was at least two cars, maybe more. Summoned by the clerk, who was still on the phone, his eyes big as an RV. The man's thin mouth moved a hundred miles an hour and his head bobbed up and down.

  "First of all," Hal said. "It ain't my gun. Shooting her with that will prove to the Houston cops that a rogue security guard from Nevada was in Texas. Secondly, if you gonna get to shooting, you best get to it. I don't think we got too much longer before 5-0 rolls up."

  The sirens got louder, growing each second like a kid was turning up the volume on a TV cop show. Shit, maybe Joe Friday or Andy Sipowicz was going to climb outta the Houston cars.

  "Hal, please." Shawn's words were thick through the blood and broken nose. "Just give him the disk. I don't want to die."

  "Give it to him," Theresa said. She stood just behind Hal and whispered to him. "Give it to him and let's go to Mexico."

  "What about Tyler?" he asked. "I hand over this disk and Tyler dies. And maybe, someday, they catch me, too."

  "You can't let her die, Hal."

  "It's me or her, Theresa. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

  "I don't know."

  "You get a plan, I'm all ears." He said it more harshly than he'd intended but he supposed that didn't really matter, all things considered. The truth was he didn't want Trenton to whack Shawn. But as the sirens grew louder, he knew if he handed over the DVD, Trenton would be gone and he'd never find a copy of that disk again. If he handed over that disk, his life was over.

  Theresa's eyes pleaded with Shawn. "We tried to copy it. Just your sister's murder. We were going to give it to you. It wouldn't copy."

  Shawn said nothing. A tear ran down her cheek.

  "Of course it wouldn't copy. Anti-piracy technology. You think I want people to make a copy of a disk that has me killing some stupid chick?" He pressed the gun harder into Shawn's head. "Give me the fucking disk. Do you hear those cops? They'll be here any second."

  "I got no problem with cops," Hal said. "Shit, they might be the only ones who can save me, now that I think about it." He tried to plaster a nice, confident grin on his face. "Shit, they look at the DVD, they got you cold and they ain't got me. I get my warrant vacated before daybreak while you're headed to the pokey. Plus, Tyler don't get smoked by the state."

  Trenton sighed. "All the assholes in the world and I get a guy wants to do the right thing." He gave Shawn a kiss on the cheek and jammed his gun into her mouth. "Last chance, Hal."

  Into a desert-dry throat, Hal swallowed. "Hang on, can't we talk about this?"

  "It's all talked-out, dumbass. There's no time left."

  "Wait, we can figure--"

  "Thank you, Theresa," Shawn said. "I'm sorry, Hal. I didn't mean--"

  "Shawn, no--" Theresa began.

  The shot, when it came, sounded like one of those fucking
supergun howitzers to Hal. It exploded into the early morning air, reverberated off the buildings, and came back over and over. It was all the other gunshots since Nevada.

  Shawn slumped to the ground, most of her head gone.

  "Oh, my God," Theresa said.

  Hal ground his teeth but didn't even look at Shawn's slumped body. Nor did he throw up. Or retch or gag. You don't think you getting harder, he asked himself. First time you see somebody whacked you cry for a week. Now you don't even blink.

  "Now," Trenton said. He turned the gun toward Hal. "Give me the fucking--"

  From nowhere, a metal trash can bounced off the back of Trenton's head. He fell on top of Shawn. His gun clattered free.

  "What the hell is this?" an old man yelled. He picked up a rock and threw it at Hal. It bounced off the truck and struck Theresa in the face. She yelped and hit the ground, a hand to her cheek.

  "I can't even take a walk in my own neighborhood without you hoodlums driving down my property value?" Spittle flew from the man's lips as he limped toward Trenton.

  Hal moved quick. He grabbed the gun and jerked a bloody Theresa upright before shoving her in the truck. It roared to life and when he backed out, he barely noticed it bouncing over Shawn's legs.

  "The cops are coming," the old man screamed. "You hear them?"

  "What is happening?" Theresa howled, both hurt and terrified. Her feet banged against the floorboard while she pounded the dash with her fists.

  Behind them, as Hal tore through the parking lot and back toward the Sam Houston toll way, Trenton slugged the old man, spit on Shawn, and jumped in his car. When he came out of the parking lot, he went the other direction.

  Hal ripped his eyes from the rear view mirror and concentrated on keeping the truck just under the limit. "Gotta get a new car. The clerk and the old man sure as shit saw this thing. Gotta get a new car."

  "Oh, my God, Hal," Theresa said. She had grabbed a napkin from the glove box and held it to her face. "He killed her. How could he do that?" Her voice spiraled up toward hysteria.

  Hal jammed her head into his chest and held her as tightly as he could. "It'll be okay. Shhhh, don't worry about it."

  "He killed her," she said.

  "Yeah, he did, and I don't think he's probably done with us yet, either."

  70 Miles

  He stayed off the toll way. He assumed HPD would have that fucker closed down tight as drum unless dead whores didn't count for much in Houston. Anyway, he stayed on surface streets, driving slowly and carefully, hitting every stop sign just right, not jumping green lights, staying under the limit.

  And sweating his balls off.

  It just kept getting worse, didn't it? It started with a jump at untaxed Daniel's in an illegal club in Barefield, Texas, where a thirteen-year-old girl got killed, and came to this. Every single decision was a shitty one, one that led to somebody's death. Every single decision was just another one that proved Hanford was right from day fucking one.

  "…everything you do is leading you there. You'll get killed. Or you'll be in jail, maybe death row, for murder."

  Yeah, Hanford, get me a cot next to Tyler. Hal could rationalize all he wanted about not being a murderer, not pulling a trigger, but all those deaths had happened during the commission of some other crime he had been involved in. Far as the law was concerned, and the entire fucking country belonged to Johnny Law, he was a killer through and through.

  He shook his head as he continued to drive slowly through neighborhoods. None of that mattered. Hanford was just about the smartest guy Hal'd ever known. He'd be able to figure it all out. Find something for Hal to hide behind, maybe immunity for bringing a snuff ring down. And if that didn't work, then Hal had no problem tapping into Hanford's sheer importance and going that route. Fucker knew everybody, Governor and President included, Hal'd be damned if he didn't use what he could.

  Fact was, Hanford might well be the last person who could help him.

  "What are we doing, Hal?" Theresa asked. Three napkins later, the bleeding had stopped, but the wound still glistened.

  "Looking for some wheels."

  "Are you going to steal a car?"

  "I got no choice, Theresa. We drive this and we'll get nailed sure as shit."

  "I don't want to ride in a stolen car."

  "You got to trust me, ho-kay? You don't want to live in my world and I get that, really I do, but right now, we can't live in yours. Right now, we got to do things this way. A couple hours, then we'll be clean and clear and everything will be fine."

  It was bullshit but there was nothing else he could say. They wouldn't be fine in two hours, or three or four. Earliest they'd be quit of this mess was eight, maybe ten hours when they crossed into Mexico.

  "I can't believe he shot her." The strain seemed to overwhelm her voice.

  He took her hand, held it tightly. "I know, Theresa."

  "Will he be in Huntsville?"

  Hal nodded. "Take that to the bank."

  "Why doesn't he just leave you alone? God, I'm so tired of this."

  Hal jammed on the brakes, squealed the tires a little. The truck lurched to a stop. Next to them was a quiet little Ford Escort. A gray two-door that screamed Ma and Pa Kettle.

  "This is why you drove all the way across town, isn't it?"

  Hal nodded. "When they report it in a couple hours, the cops won't automatically assume it had to do with the shooting. They'll be watching for anything stolen near that Kinko's."

  Plus, he didn't tell her, this had the benefit of being a car obviously not driven in a while. Dust covered it in a fine sheen and cat paw prints danced across the hood and roof.

  In two minutes, he was driving the Escort while she drove the truck. They drove for nearly a half-hour until he found a stretch of empty land. A ring of factories stood about a half-mile away and the dirt was covered in semi-rig tracks. It might be days before anyone was out here and noticed the truck.

  When they'd parked, Hal took the plates off the truck and left the keys in the ignition.

  "The plates I understand," Theresa said. "But why don't you pull that VIN tag on the front dash?"

  Startled, Hal looked at her. "VIN tag? You lookin' to get a job in my world?"

  She glared at him. "No. I'm thinking about helping us survive long enough for me to kick your ass for getting involved."

  "Gotcha."

  "What about it?"

  "Well, I could pull the VIN tag, no sweat. But cars got about eighteen billion places where the VIN is. It'd take me ten minutes to pull the tag and it wouldn't get us nothing but ten minutes further behind."

  She nodded and moved to the passenger's seat in the Escort.

  "Plus, by leaving the keys, I hope someone will snag the damned thing."

  "Really steal it."

  "Yeah."

  "Should we call Janice and tell her to report it stolen?"

  "No. All that'll do is get it on the highway patrol computer faster. If the Houston cops have to track it down, it'll give us that much more time before they put the entire thing together with us. With me."

  She stared at him and in her endless eyes, he was ashamed. "You scare me," she said quietly.

  "I know."

  "It won't be like this in Mexico. You'll get a job. A real job."

  "They got any of those down there?"

  It was a playful remark that went over like a punch to the throat. But at least he was smart enough to not try and kiss her. Instead he put the Escort in gear and headed back toward the Houston Tollway and U.S. 45. Ten minutes later, they passed a green highway mileage sign: HUNTSVILLE 65 MILES.

  0 Miles

  Hal gripped the phone tightly.

  Theresa stood next to him, her brown skin still pale and her face strained. The cut on her cheek was still bright and bloody, like someone had smeared her lipstick. It had stopped bleeding forty miles ago but the scab was as colorful as new blood.

  In his ear, the phone rang and rang again and sounded much further
away than when he'd been 2000 miles from here. "Shitting hard to believe I'm actually here."

  "This was the right thing to do."

  "Oh, sure, the best place to go when you got a murder warrant out."

  They stood in a phone booth across from The Prison Pancake House--'Best Cakes in Town,' the sign said. The Texas State Prison was a mile up the road and two Huntsville police cruisers sat in the Pancake House's parking lot. Through the giant front window, Hal saw the cops jamming forkfuls of eggs and biscuits down their gullets. They talked and laughed and as far as he could tell, neither of them noticed he or Theresa.

  Quite the surprise, considering how wired Hal was sure Trenton had everything.

  Finally, Natalie answered. "Mr. Turnbull's office."

  "Natalie, please don't hang up. This is--Damnit." He banged the handset against the phone four or five times.

  He tried again and got the same answer. A third time was the same.

  "Can't you just call him directly?"

  Embarrassed, he said, "I don't have the number. Hanford wouldn't give it to me."

  "Where do you think Trenton is?" Theresa asked.

  "I got no idea. It's a pretty big town."

  Hal jammed another quarter into the phone and dialed Natalie's number. As it rang, he shoved the phone to Theresa. Play cop, he mouthed.

  Theresa's eyes went wide. "What? I don't know anything about--Uh, yes? Hello? Yes, this is--uh--Detective Lucinda Stevens, Zachary County Sheriff's Office." In the silence, Theresa's face softened a bit. "I'm good, thank you. Listen, I've need to speak with Warden Turnbull." A pause. "Well, I can't really tell you, ma'am. It's ears only."

  Hal glanced at the cops in the diner. One had left, the second watched them for a moment, then climbed in his car and headed out.

  "Ma'am, I appreciate what you're saying, really I do. But I can't divulge this information to anyone but Mr. Turnbull. Once he's got it, then he can give it to whomever he deems necessary." Through gritted teeth, she offered a grin and wiped the sweat from her face. "Thank you."

  Hal frowned. "What's the info?"

  "I don't know, I'm just making this up."

  "The hell is Lucinda Stevens?"