“Hey, I told you—”
“How am I gonna kill cops with only one arm?”
Terry got his legs moving and stood. He said, “Let me talk to them. We can find a way out of all this.”
“You’ve talked enough. That trooper would’ve hauled us in if I hadn’t shot him. Get in the bathroom and listen, do what I say, you dig?”
Terry sprinted to the bathroom, turned off the light and hid behind the door. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see anything, not even shadows, so he squeezed his eyes until the blackness turned green and then black again.
*
Lancaster opened the door to find what he expected—two cops, guns drawn and held at their sides, slightly back, trigger fingers straight on the guard. The lead cop was bulky, obvious weightlifter, no sideburns. The one behind him was a bit sunburned. Young, too. Lancaster thought, They’re sending rookies after rapists now? No respect.
The cops inched forward, not wanting to risk getting too close and being surprised. “What’s going on here?”
“Excuse me?”
“You having some problems? Step back.”
Lancaster did, and the cops came inside. The sunburned cop looked around. “Where’s your friend?”
“He’s getting some burgers. How did you know about him? I don’t get this.”
The sunburned cop checked under the beds, then was about to check the bathroom when Lancaster tripped and caught the big cop’s shirt going down, managed to sit on the bed. The cop pulled loose and swung the gun around.
Lancaster held up his free hand, winced. “Okay, it’s okay. I’m still off-balance with this cast. Sorry.”
“You been busy lately? Smells like fucking in here.”
“Look—”
“Some girls? Young girls?” He pointed to the bare mattress.
Lancaster looked up. “This is crazy. I can’t even dress myself.”
“Your friend helped. We’ll need to straighten this out.” The cop pulled out his cuffs. “I can loop this around your cast strap, maybe.”
The younger cop edged closer to the bathroom door. Lancaster shook his head at the big cop, hoped he could time this right. “I really need to keep it like this, you know. Keep the pressure the way the doctor wants it.”
The cop stood quiet a moment before he slipped the cuffs back in their case. It was what Lancaster wanted—the guy taking an inventory, then believing the girls might be lying. His bored face said he didn’t trust women, so he eased up a little.
Lancaster exploded. He stuck his leg out in front of the cop and slammed the cast against the guy’s back. The cop was falling to his knees, so Lancaster kicked the gun away and then kicked him in the nose.
The sunburned cop was near the bathroom door when he heard his partner grunt. He spun, enough to put him off-balance when Terry slammed the door into him and knocked him down. Lancaster brought a knee down hard on the big cop’s neck. He reached over for the gun, on his opposite side, life or death Twister suddenly. Then the pistol was in his hand and shot without taking time to think. One in the big cops head, two at the cop across the room.
“Jesus, you could’ve hit me!” Terry yelled. He came out of hiding and found the other gun. “Like, you didn’t even give me a chance. You’d wanted to kill me.”
“You want to be dead, I can do it for you, the more you talk about it. Shut up and let’s go.”
Lancaster was sure another cruiser would be on the way, these two acting macho being closest to the call and not waiting. All they heard was “man in a cast” and they probably smirked, made a couple jokes, and headed over pretty quickly. Heroes, like on Cops. Lancaster kicked the big cop’s ear.
“Get in the van,” Terry said.
“Why not their car?”
“Sure, and let’s paint targets on our heads and go on live TV. We can ditch the van and get something else down the road. Switching a few will throw them off.”
“We’re running out of time. The girl said Crabtree’s leaving tonight.”
Terry shook his head and sighed. He felt in charge again because Lancaster needed his help. He would never say it, but Terry knew that tone of voice. On his own, Lancaster would be dead within ten miles, dying in a blaze of glory bloodbath.
“You want to get Crabtree, we do it my way. You want to spend time fucking with more cops, you drive the cruiser. God knows we’ll have enough cops to deal with before we’re done.”
Lancaster grinned at his partner. “See, why would I want to kill you?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Megan walked back to the room as a jet roared in for a landing, coming low over the parking lot, the hotel across the street from the runway. The jet fumes were strong and Megan held her breath while watching the plane set down, lights blinking on the wingtips. She had never flown on an airplane, never even been that close to one. Crabtree and Lydia wanted to ditch her and fly away, so Megan needed to make herself valuable, if only pretending.
She slipped into the room. Lydia sat on her throne, back to her ice queen demeanor, held upright with a couple of towels tied together around the chair. The woman stared at Megan with a smooth grin, not subtle at all. Jesus, Megan thought, did she learn all her moves from soap operas?
The bathroom light was on. She caught a reflection of Crabtree’s back in the mirror, facing the tub. Megan pushed her way in, squeezed between Crabtree and Norm. Crabtree’s gun dangled in his right hand, loose but ready.
“What are you doing? You’re not going to shoot him in a hotel.” Megan stroked Norm’s greasy hair.
Crabtree shook his head and curled his lips like he was thinking hard. “No, not going to shoot him. Have to do something, though.”
“What’s with the gun, then?”
“I like holding it.”
Megan nodded. “Let me sit with him a while. We could, I don’t know, drown him? Fill up the tub slowly, let him slip under. I can chop up Lydia’s muscle relaxers, too, mix them in water and pour it down him.”
“Didn’t have time to grab them. I don’t have much that’ll work.”
Norm’s breath was wheezy, same strength as it was an hour ago. Megan was beginning to think he wouldn’t die easily. If there were a chance he could get up to speed again—
Those were all back-up plans, she remembered. Lancaster was on his way right at that moment, hurrying to be with her and take her away to a free life, no begging or borrowing. He would teach her to take what she wanted whenever she wanted it, give her anything she demanded, needed, craved. Megan daydreamed of a sailboat in the Gulf of Mexico, no land in sight, only she and Lancaster, sailing to Cuba, the Virgin Islands, and then the middle of nowhere.
“I’ve got some pills from the hospital. Maybe they’ll work.”
Crabtree wrinkled his face like something smelled bad, then said, “Maybe that’s a good idea.”
“Go reserve your tickets. I’ll stay with Norm,” she said.
“Gotta pay cash, so I guess I’ll do it in person.”
“Look, they don’t let you on airplanes these days if you do suspicious stuff, so you have to put a card up at some point. ID, all that. And you can’t take a gun.”
“How do you know?”
“I watch TV. I know about the terrorist stuff. Shit, I still have my license right here.” She patted her chest. “Stuck it in my bra. I’m not stupid. Show an ID, for the most part they’ll leave you alone. If not, hit them in the face.”
Crabtree smiled and grunted. “Like I need advice from you.”
“What’s your plan? Pull out a wad and say, ‘Give me a ticket to anywhere, fast, no questions, please’?”
Crabtree backed out of the room. Megan sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the redneck’s face. He didn’t know what he was getting into. It was all Lydia’s fault, pushing Norm to kill his partner when all he wanted to do was let off steam, at the most scare Tompkins, give him something to think about. That’s what Norm told Megan right before the cops showed up at the house. Mayb
e he was telling her the truth or shading it in hindsight—overall, though, he didn’t seem all that dishonest. Norm really wanted someone to talk to, and Megan was there, being sweet and sexy like fake-schoolgirl porn. He couldn’t help it.
So he ended up in a tub with half a hand, probably infected by now, and in deep shock. Megan hated to see him that way, but didn’t want to be helpless and pitiful like him ever again. She reached over and turned on the water, mixing it comfortably hot, and reached into her pockets for a handful of pill packets. She wanted to cry as she put them on the floor and crushed them under her heel.
Opened the plastic, dribbled a little warm water into them, and one by one slid the wet paste into Norm’s mouth.
*
Norm was in the place where he thought his dream was real, a continuation of the life he was living, as if he hadn’t been shot and if he kissed Megan and took her to his truck and made love to her, then started driving, just driving. Somehow he ended up on the dock of a fishing camp on a serene lake. His camp, the way he always pictured it, his boat tied to the dock, the big log cabin barely visible down the path up the hill. Megan was there in a sundress, her hair red for some reason, and she was barefoot, sipping a Pepsi from an old glass bottle. The sun cast a hazy calmness like a painting. The only thing missing was physical sensation. Why wasn’t it warm? Why didn’t he squint at the dazzle reflecting off the water? Why wasn’t his dick getting hard looking at Megan’s nipples visible through the thin dress? Hell, that would happen no matter what, he thought. Something was wrong.
Then he was warm. Slow, gradual, at his feet. He looked down to see the lake water rising quickly, over the dock, up his ankles, his shins. Megan floated, swam, her body completely visible as if she were naked. The water kept rising—knees, thighs, waist. Norm wanted to swim after Megan but he was frozen. Muscles didn’t work. Chest, neck. He was still warming up, feeling wetness heavy like slime on his skin. He wanted to breath and breath deep before the water filled his mouth and nose and lungs, damn it, breathe in now, breathe in now….
Numb, and then nothing.
*
Norm’s head barely thrashed after Megan turned off the water and pressed his head beneath the surface. When he was completely still, she waited several long minutes before draining the water. She watched his chest for movement, felt pretty sure he was dead.
She took Norm’s cheeks in her hands and turned his face to hers. She reached her lips to his and kissed him. He was still warm.
*
Alan sat on the bed and stared at his shoes. Lydia sighed a few times trying to get his attention, and he knew that’s why she did it, so he ignored her.
She finally said, “Please, what’s wrong?”
He shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong, really. I need some quiet to figure things out.”
“I can help you.”
I don’t want your help, he thought. Until a couple of hours back, Alan had been grateful to her for toughening him up, giving him a spine. He saw it differently at that moment on the hotel, Megan scheming in the bathroom, Lydia more like furniture than his lover. She had never really expected him to stand on his own, right? She would make the plans. She would choose the targets. Alan shook his head. Not anymore.
To keep her from being suspicious, he went ahead and told her what was on his mind. “Catching a plane now probably isn’t possible. Cops will be looking for us, plus we need a credit card to get tickets if we don’t want anyone looking at us funny, and once we do it, we’re traced.”
“Use the goddamn credit card, then. We didn’t come this far to stay here.”
So fucking easy, isn’t it? Always so easy when you don’t do the thing yourself. Alan grinned and coughed to cover a laugh. “We’d have to move fast, soon as I buy the tickets. By the time we land, someone will probably already know. Listen, why not drive instead?”
“Sure, why not? That’s a sure way to get to paradise quickly. We’re maybe twelve hours from Mexico by car, only three by plane. Let’s see—what’s the better option? You need to count on your fingers?”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” Alan said.
Lydia didn’t answer. Alan lifted his head to find her staring, hard-assed like a dominatrix about to whip him. Usually it scared him. It was how she got him into this mess with Norm anyway, cowing him with bitchiness. This time he turned his face to the TV.
“Look at me,” Lydia said.
Alan stood and slapped her face. Nothing too serious, enough to shock her. They’d had rough sex, sure, but before this he never hurt her in anger.
Her mouth hung open, lips tremoring.
He leaned close. “Let me handle this one, okay? No fighting, no insulting, no nothing. I’ll get us somewhere safe. I fucking love you, so trust me.”
Lydia held her lips tightly, determined not to cry.
“I’m sorry I did that. Tell me we’re okay,” Alan whispered.
Lydia nodded.
“Say it.”
“I can’t say that right now, Alan. I can’t let you get away with hitting me. Jesus, I don’t have arms or legs and you still think hitting me is okay?” She grew louder, each word angrier.
Alan retreated to the bed, his hands shaking. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt.”
“Oh, it didn’t. Don’t think you’ve hurt me, Alan. Don’t even. You shouldn’t have even dared slap me like that. You’ll be making this up to me for a long time, buddy.”
Alan stood and headed for the door.
“Where the hell are you going?” Lydia said, nearly shouting.
Alan twisted the knob and stood there, Lydia thinking he looked like a soap opera actor about to say something melodramatic.
He said, “I’m going to the airport, see what I can do about tickets.”
“How many tickets?”
Alan held up two fingers.
“Good. We need to go somewhere warm. The cold hurts me.”
Alan opened the door and stepped out, almost like he didn’t hear. Lydia knew he heard every word. He would never hit her again. A momentary lapse, all the stress, she considered all that, but this slap was her power. It was the entire economy of their relationship until she was ready to let it drop. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe a couple months. Lydia took in a fine feeling breath and decided to play it by ear. Alan should lose more weight, maybe get a new nose, a new chin. He needed a demeanor of authority with others, submissive only to her, the perfect power couple. When Alan was ready, Lydia would let him know he was forgiven.
*
From her spot by the bathroom door, Megan heard their discussion. Two tickets, she assumed. Why else would the invalid bitch ask him about it? He was rattled about it, not sure of the next move until that woman laid it out like only she was able, no sugar with that medicine.
Two tickets. After a long gaze at Norm’s soaked body, Megan knew who would be on that plane, wherever it was going.
Herself and Lancaster.
She eased off the wall and made a slow pirouette into the main room, a softly sinister expression painted on special for Lydia.
TWENTY-FIVE
Terry parked in a convenience store lot and waited. It was their third lot that hour. Lancaster must have been losing patience, but Terry was surprised at the guy’s calmness. He explained the plan earlier, “Someone gets out, leave the thing running, we swoop in and at least get a few miles down the Interstate before we have to switch again. If we tried that in California, the police helicopters would find us. Not here.”
Lancaster crossed his good arm over the cast, nodded, and said, “Let’s do it.”
Terry noticed that Lancaster had kept the older officer’s badge, rubbing his thumb over the ridges.
They were on the side of the store, at the corner near the pay phone. Mostly invisible to the clerk inside except on the security monitor—one of the cameras was mounted near the self-serve island taking in the whole lot. As long as Terry pretended to use the phone a couple times, he was sure the clerk wouldn’t
think much. Lancaster’s cast was a big thing, so he sat in the back, only ready to get out if Terry found a car.
The joint was lit up so bright that the evening blue-gray sky above the glow might as well have been midnight, only the neon casino signs along the beach breaking through. Terry mouthed a silent conversation into the phone propped between his ear and shoulder, hands balled in his pockets. It was funny how most times he stopped for gas, beer, or a Hustler at these places, some black kid or white gangsta wannabe pulled up in a tricked out Accord or Acura blaring skull-shaking rap bass, leaving the car running while he came in for a 64 oz. Mountain Dew to cool his buzz. Always the rap, never a country guy blaring Brooks and Dunn while getting more Skoal. As much as the rap guys bragged about their cars, Terry wondered why they almost dared someone to steal it by leaving it open and running for a song or two, almost a bullhorn announcement: “Hey, come and get it! Free car, you pussies!”
Thinking about that, Terry forgot to move his mouth, so he nodded, pretended to laugh. That’s when someone pulled up in a pickup truck, nice little one, with a woman maybe in her forties driving. It was noisy, otherwise seemed in decent shape. The woman was floppy and had her hair pinned up, stretch shorts and a big T-shirt. She sat in her truck to finish a cigarette.
Terry hung up the phone, turned to the van, and nodded. He wasn’t really sure how to do this since his mind needed rest and Lancaster had Terry double-guessing about things he normally took for granted. Why not trade the truck for the van? She would never go for it. It was at least a place to start.
He walked up to her and tapped on the glass. She didn’t want to roll the window down. Terry put his palms together like prayer and mouthed Please?
She inched the window down.
“This is a one time deal, take it or leave it. I’ll take this truck off your hands if you’ll trade for that minivan,” Terry said.
She laughed and shook her head. “This is a joke.”
“Not a joke. It’s a good van, good condition, not stolen or anything, you can check the glove box.”
“That’s just crazy.”
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