EQMM, May 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "My dad wanted guns and money, so he decided the best way to get both was to kill this gun dealer that he knew. Him and his wife had lots of merchandise and lots of cash. Where I'm from, nobody's got no credit or taxes or nothing if they can help it, and they don't use their real names.

  "So he took Jesse with him to help, and Jesse was only fifteen years old, and even if he seen a lot of animals dead, he never seen a dead man before, and when my father shot the gun man and told Jesse that it was his turn, that he had to shoot the wife, Jesse couldn't, and my father had to and then kind of disowned him. They loaded up the guns and money, and my father knew how not to leave any traces, and how to put bodies where nobody would find them. The dealer people lived way up out in the desert, and nobody even missed either of them for weeks, since they was always away at gun shows.

  "But when they did, in come the ATF and the FBI, and everybody's twice as paranoid as before, and my father's telling all his friends that the feds probably killed the gun dealers just so they'd have an excuse to clamp down on everyone who hates the government and the illegals. And they acted like they believed him, too."

  "When did he kill your brother?"

  "Well, Jesse was his number-one problem, wasn't he? With the government getting into it, he could tell them, and he would have been a great witness against him. He was there when he killed them people.” Her eyes were watery again, and she shook her head as though to clear it.

  My mouth was dry, and I took a sip of coffee to avoid clearing my throat and said, “Tell me what happened after that."

  "Okay, he had to get rid of Jesse because he didn't trust him, said he was born wrong, should have been a girl, like that was the worst curse you could put on a person.

  "So the next time they went border hunting, he killed my brother. He thought nobody could touch him, but it must have been eating at him because he started asking me if Jesse ever told me anything about the trip they took the year before, and I told him I didn't know a thing about it, that Jesse didn't confide in me because I was only a girl. I think he believed me, but I knew it was only for a while because he's crazy and he wouldn't think twice about killing me if he knew that I knew all about it. Jesse told me every detail, and I wrote it all down since then and give it to Marcella in case he ever got to me, so they could finally get him for something. And then I went off paper and on the run.” She shrugged. “That's it."

  "I'm sorry, I don't know what ‘off paper’ means."

  "When you break off connections with the government and drop out of sight. You use a fake identity, move around, and pay cash for everything. Cover all the traces you were ever alive. That's what I done. I found some new IDs my father forgot about because they were for women, and he was complaining that his supplier had screwed it up again, and how women only had a small part in it, and he needed men's identities. But he didn't give them back, and they sat in a drawer, three of them, and I took all three so if he remembered any of the names he wouldn't know which one I took. And it turned out it wasn't important anyway because I didn't have to work or rent a place or even have a bank account."

  "How did you live?"

  She told me she'd stolen some of her father's cash and come to California, finding other runaways, traveling, finally running out of money in Laguna Beach. Then, she said, just like her guardian angel I gave her five dollars and sent her to Marcella.

  I smiled. “Don't think I'm qualified for that job, but thanks for the thought."

  "Welcome. When I got here, I heard that when they tried to take my father in for gun trafficking, he shot up a gun dealer who was helping the ATF, and then he escaped. That's all I know."

  Attempted murder added to the list of things to keep him in jail, but a bonus would be to have him on ice while they got a search warrant for the stolen firearms that could tie him to the earlier double homicide. Unless they'd already made the connection to that crime themselves, I needed to get word to someone, and talk Megan into an interview.

  I made an executive decision.

  "Megan, you've been through a lot, and you're safe, but this situation is too dangerous. I need you to come with me right now as soon as I—"

  I was reaching for the phone when I heard a car coming. I looked at Megan, but she was already on her feet, saying, “We got a plan, so you just keep him distracted. I got a place I can hide. Go ahead. Let him search."

  And she headed toward the back of the mobile home.

  I couldn't hear her leaving, but I did hear a car door slam outside. I had to keep him away from the professor, no doubt the world's worst liar, and I had just enough time to grab her coffee cup and shove it into the dishwasher. I raced to the door and opened it a crack to peek out, standing slightly to one side just in case.

  A man was getting out of a black Tundra with heavily tinted windows and California plates. It sure didn't look like a rental to me; it was probably stolen.

  That bastard had either given Marcella a second helping in her hospital room, or found some note in her book next to Weibold's address, or followed me in the fog and temporarily lost me.

  Had he also come in on foot first to eavesdrop? No, I'd have heard his footsteps on the gravel. It was all around the place. Even so, I should have been more careful. I wondered if Megan had gotten to where she was going, and how come I hadn't heard any gravel as she left.

  I put on a neutral face, opened the door, and came out. I got a look at him as the porch light hit his face. He fairly exuded meanness and the need to dominate, and especially in light of Megan's story, I was shaking scared. But we actors learn how to breathe, we practice, even the understudies, so we know how to look calm when our knees are ready to buckle. Standing on the wooden porch, I said, “Hi. If you're here for the professor, he's—"

  "You know why I'm here,” he said with a sigh that might have been fatigue or a signal that he wasn't going to suffer fools. “I heard my daughter's here."

  His foot was on the bottom step. I stood my ground, stalling. “I'm Lane Terry, the investigator your wife hired.” He ignored my outstretched hand, so I let it drop back to my side. “I guess the minister got in touch with Ruth, huh?"

  He said nothing, but started up the steps.

  "Mr. Holloway, I'd have saved you all the trouble but I couldn't get through to that number in Anaheim she left. Anyway, your daughter was here until yesterday, but she left."

  "Uh-huh,” he said, clearly not buying my story.

  "Why don't you come on in?” I turned to the door, avoiding eye contact and sort of ignoring him, the only form of self-defense that might work, like when you meet a really big dog.

  Steps ahead of him, I could hear some scrabbling on the kitchen ceiling that I didn't think was a nesting bird, so I went for the kitchen counter with more hope than expectation, hit the “brew” button on the espresso machine, and said, “I'll bet you could use a cup of coffee, too."

  "All right."

  The machine gave off a loud hydraulic mutter, and I hoped I hadn't destroyed it, but when it made a satisfyingly loud grinding sound, the wheeze of steam and smell of coffee immediately reassured me that it was acting on cue. I eyed the spigot in case it started to drip, and announced loudly, “The professor's working, but he was nice enough to offer me some coffee before I headed back. See, Megan left yesterday with two other kids.” I rattled around looking for cups and heard a clunk directly over my head but slammed that cupboard door as though I couldn't find them, and tried another. Adrenaline having come to my rescue like the cavalry, my hand was rock steady as I retrieved cups, stuck one under the dispenser, hit “serve,” and the brewing noise continued as the fragrant brew flowed. In a pause from the machine, all was quiet above.

  "There a bathroom down that hall?"

  "Sure is. Second door on the left. You go right ahead, and I'll go get Dr. Weibold to talk to you.” I wanted to give him just enough time for a superficial search, and I hoped that Megan was well hidden and didn't move. As I saw him head down the hall, I adm
it to wanting to make a mad grab for my car keys and take my chances with the fog at seventy miles per hour. Instead, I went lamblike to the trailer. The professor was at his computer, staring at a screenful of numbers and unfamiliar symbols.

  "Her father's here,” I said in a near whisper.

  He nodded, his Adam's apple jumping out of the way as he swallowed. “I heard the car door slam."

  "Professor, I think you should avoid seeing him. I'll tell him you're busy and see if he buys that. If he doesn't, I'll come get you and you take my lead, play along with absolutely anything I say. Understand?"

  He nodded again.

  I grabbed a paper and a pencil with “National Geographic Survey” written on the side, and made up an address in the last town I'd passed. I pointed at it, talking fast. “Now, this is where she went with her two friends, a boy and a girl, yesterday afternoon. The minute I'm out the door now, call nine-one-one."

  I heard crunching gravel outside, then boots on the steps. Weibold got up as though facing a firing squad and went to open the door. As the two men shook hands, I said, “Dr. Weibold, this is Mr. Holloway. He's Megan's dad."

  Weibold surprised me under pressure. Though avoiding eye contact, he sounded sincere enough when he said, “Sorry you missed her, sir. I imagine you came quite a substantial distance and that you're understandably concerned about her welfare. She was fine when she left yesterday afternoon with some young people she met in town. This is the address they gave me."

  He held out the paper to Holloway. “I'm not sure if it's a residence or some kind of shelter, actually. It's outside Quarry. That's a small town where you can find most things, not that far north of here, maybe ten or fifteen miles. Of course, in this fog and with these roads, one could reliably calculate that it would take you in the neighborhood of—"

  "That's all right,” said our visitor as he snatched the paper from Weibold's hand. I was about to jump for joy as he read it and turned toward the door, but my impulse was premature. He turned back. “Tell you what,” he said to me. “You drive me over there so I won't get lost by myself or following you."

  "You're the boss,” I said in as cheerful a manner as I could manage.

  Then he turned to the professor. “You come along, too."

  "Well, I do have an early meeting in the morning, and while I didn't mind doing a favor—"

  "You're coming,” Holloway said in a tone firm enough to freeze anyone in mid-excuse.

  He watched me as I retrieved my purse, and I knew there was no trying to get help. I had no idea whether he believed me or if he planned to take us out somewhere and dump our bodies. Maybe, as a fugitive, he just didn't want to take the chance of using the car that he'd come in. Long, tall Weibold folded up like a pocket knife to get into the backseat of the Honda, and Holloway took the front passenger seat. He clearly intended for me to drive, probably so I couldn't pull anything. Even if he didn't suspect us, a person with his background would keep watch, even on someone I sincerely hoped he'd taken for some ditzy detective wannabe from a tourist town filled with “illegal alien” servants of the corrupt and godless town residents.

  He'd be wrong about that last part. I was teaching myself how to pray.

  * * * *

  Though the fog was cooperating well enough to keep my speed down, I drove like a real granny, checking each turn in the road with Weibold, who of course was in the backseat, couldn't see jack, and by his own nature had to think every question over. What a team. I kept having to give the geek credit, and though neither of us had any idea of what to do, I was very grateful not to be alone with Halliday/Holloway. No, I had to keep thinking of him as Holloway or I'd make the one slip that would hand the whole script over to him.

  We were coming into town, and a real live traffic signal loomed up vaguely in the gloom ahead. It was red in my direction, and a hulking SUV was entering the intersection cautiously from my right. I did what any sensible person would do in the circumstances. I hit the gas.

  Just as Holloway said, “What are you—” the SUV hit my poor Honda on the right side just ahead of his door, unfortunately. I had been hoping for them to hit my passenger.

  I wailed with real dismay, “Oh, shit, where did they come from?” I left the keys in the ignition, half hoping Holloway would steal my car. But that would be unfair to Weibold.

  Both vehicles were still in the intersection, not that there was any traffic that would have to maneuver around them. A red-faced, overweight fellow was trundling over, and I grabbed my purse just like in the real world and walked over to talk to him.

  He started out calm. “My direction was green,” he said, the upset making his voice quaver. “Are you stupid? I have the right of way.” Then, his voice rising to a roar, he asked, “Where in the hell did you think you were going, missy? I have my little boy in that car!” The kid inside, about two, looked just fine in his little kid seat, strapped in and whining to be set free to get a better view of the excitement.

  "It's this fog. I'm sorry,” I said, walking around my car to the far side of his, pretending to note the nonexistent damage to the behemoth as he continued to assert his rights. I fished my driver's license and insurance card out along with my P.I. identification but let him run on, trying to sidle out of earshot around the front of the SUV. Damned Holloway was out of the car but standing next to it, not moving. Weibold was wisely doing nothing in the rear seat.

  I couldn't say anything in front of Holloway, but I got out a piece of paper and pretended to write my information for the SUV guy. Actually, what I wrote was, “Crash was on purpose! Hostages! Call police. Federal fugitive Levi Halliday."

  "Read the note,” I suggested.

  But the guy stuffed it in his pocket and kept getting more belligerent. “I don't care what your insurance company says to my insurance company,” he said with all his neck veins puffing out. “I live here in Quarry. You're some idiot out-of-towner who doesn't know how to drive. We're going to see what my good friend Sheriff Yates has to say about this.” He produced a cell phone. “Don't you dare leave the scene."

  My mind was speeding ahead, wondering if some trigger-happy Yates—or Holloway, more likely, since I had to assume he was armed—would start shooting and hit that kid, or one of us. I wanted to play along and hope for a turn of events, but Holloway must have seen what was happening. He leaned into the driver's seat, slammed the seat back, and said something to the professor, who flipped the front passenger seatback forward and got out.

  "Nobody's hurt,” Holloway barked, startling everyone. He lifted his chin in the direction of the backseat and said to me, “Get in. We're going."

  The SUV guy said, “Like hell you are! I told you, I'm—"

  We got in, Holloway fired up the Honda, and off we sped, to the extent that my old car could speed. It's not bad out of the hole, and we must have been most of the way through the little town by the time the guy could react. I hoped that a sedentary lifestyle hadn't taken its toll and that he'd be faster on his feet than he looked.

  Holloway was saying, “We're going to that place that my daughter's at. We ain't got time for that back there. You,” he said to the professor. “Keep your hands where I can see them, and don't move. You either. See this?” I took that as permission to peek around the headrest. He purposely pulled his jacket aside to show us a small revolver tucked into his belt. I knew we were deep in the deep and kept waiting to hear help coming behind us, but there was nothing. The fog had started to lift, giving maybe fifty yards’ visibility. Even if the other driver saw the note, who knew whether he'd call 911 or play the hero and follow? I hoped not, thinking of that little kid.

  "Where's the house at?"

  Weibold said, “I'm not familiar, actually—"

  "We'll come back later,” Holloway said.

  When I sneaked a look behind us, I saw only the thinning signs of civilization as we cleared the outskirts of town, where the yards got bigger and the houses farther apart. But as I turned back, I saw something W
eibold must have left on the backseat. It was medium tan, the same color as my upholstery, or Holloway would have seen it too when the dome light came on for the seat-swap. About five inches in diameter, wedged partway between the seat and back, and hard as a rock. As a matter of fact, it was a rock, and it fit right into my hand. At that moment, I loved the professor for being a geologist with a pragmatic side.

  As Holloway turned right onto a small dirt road, I slid my hand over unobtrusively at the exact time Weibold provided a distraction by learnedly and politely demanding to know where we were going.

  "Shut up,” Holloway replied. He turned his head slightly to the right to say something to me, and I simultaneously said, “I'm not sure, but I think we passed the street back—” and slammed the rock into Holloway's temple. It was a stupid thing to do, and it could have gotten us killed, but it might also have been crazy intuition in the presence of evil. He travels fastest who travels alone, right? Holloway had just taken a turn that in the lifting fog you could easily see led straight to open desert, and I somehow knew that before he went back to town, he was going to lighten his load as soon as he was in a place where nobody would hear shots.

  As the primitive rock connected, Holloway let out an involuntary cry, and my little car bucked as the steering wheel went solo on the bumpy road. He let go of the wheel because Weibold was trying to get his gun out of his waistband. I tried to get my balance enough to hit Holloway again, and managed to glance one off the top of his head. There was a lot of blood that ran into his eyes—or so I later understood—and as his hands flew to his head, Weibold pulled the trigger while the pistol was still in Holloway's belt. The sound was huge, like an added physical impact as the car jolted off the road and thudded to a stop in a ditch. The engine died. Holloway's mouth moved, and I could see blood between his teeth, like something from a horror film, but there was no sound.