by Sam Sisavath
She glanced over as the other deputy, Evans, came out of the back hallway. He’d been there this entire time and had one hand holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nostrils.
“He’s still in there,” Evans said, removing the rag just long enough to answer.
“What’s he doing?” Trent asked.
“Dropping a deuce and a half, from the sounds and smells of it.”
“That’s gross,” Mickey said, making a face.
“I hope you stocked up on cleaning material, Mickey.”
“Stop it, or I’m gonna hurl my breakfast at you.”
Evans chuckled. “Hey, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“He looked like he’ll be in there longer?” Trent asked.
“Sounded like it might be an overnighter.”
“He’s the one you guys are looking for?” Mickey asked.
“Don’t know yet,” Trent said. He took a sip of his coffee and must have liked it as much as Allie did, because he cringed noticeably. To be fair to Mickey, the bartender had warned both of them how “nasty” it was.
“But you know you’re looking for a Ford?” Mickey asked.
“White Ford,” Evans said. He leaned against the counter. “Can I have some of that coffee, Mickey?”
“Coming up,” the bartender said, and headed back to the coffee station.
Allie didn’t say anything and kept busy drinking more of Mickey’s coffee. Evans was on her right, while Trent was camped out on her left. She didn’t know if the deputies had flanked her on purpose or not. Maybe she’d missed a sign? A look between the two men? Were they that clever, or was she just being paranoid again?
“So what’s happening?” Mickey was asking.
“Told you, can’t say,” Trent said.
“Oh come on, you can tell me.”
“Can’t, sorry.”
“It’s big,” Evans said.
“What’s big?” Mickey asked.
“Can’t say,” Trent said again.
“Oh come on.” Mickey walked over with the coffee and put it in front of Evans. She leaned across the counter and smiled at the younger deputy. “You can tell me, Philly. What’s going on? What’s with the roadblocks?”
“You told her about the roadblocks?” Evans asked Trent.
Trent shrugged. “It’s going to be public knowledge pretty soon when the news gets their mitts on it.”
“I thought the chief said not to tell anyone anything.”
“It’s done. Get over it.”
“What about the other thing?”
“Not the other thing,” Trent said with a shake of his head.
“What other thing?” Mickey asked.
“Can’t say,” Trent said.
“Can’t say,” Evans repeated.
“You guys, come on,” Mickey said. She was almost pleading now, and Allie thought, Yeah, you guys, come on.
“Look, it’ll be on the news soon,” Trent said.
“What will be on the news soon?” Mickey asked.
“We can’t say.”
“But if it’s going to be on the news soon, you can tell me now, since everyone will know eventually anyway. Right?”
That made Trent and Evans exchange a look, and for a second—just a second or two—Allie thought they would change their mind.
But they didn’t.
Trent shook his head. “Can’t say. You’ll just have to wait, like everyone else.”
“You guys suck,” Mickey said.
“Just doing our job, Mickey,” Evans said.
“Just doing your job is out there, not drinking my shitty coffee in here.”
“She’s got a point,” Evans said, taking a sip off the coffee. “This thing is pretty shitty.”
Trent chuckled. “Best coffee in town.”
“In what universe is this the best coffee in town?”
“It’s free, ain’t it?”
“Oh.”
The more the deputies refused to say what was happening out there—what had happened since last night—the more Allie knew it wasn’t good. Not just for Sarah Marshall, but also for her, because there was clearly an APB out on her Ford. And now, county-wide roadblocks were being erected. You didn’t do that because a husband beat his wife. Something else had to have happened. Something big.
And what was that Mickey had said?
“What’s going on, Bill? You and Philly there look like you’re chasing Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Maybe not too far from the truth,” Trent had replied.
Bonnie and Clyde were notorious 1930s Depression-era criminals. They were bank robbers and killers.
Time to go, girl. Easy does it.
Allie put down her half-empty cup and looked at Mickey. “You sure I can’t pay you for this?”
Mickey waved a dismissive hand. “It’s on the house, just like it is for these two bozos.”
“Hey, we take offense to that,” Evans said, even as he took another sip of the free and very bad coffee.
Allie smiled. “Well, thanks again.”
“No problemo,” Mickey said.
Okay. Now get up and go.
Slowly…
She got up from her stool and turned to go.
“Leaving already?” Trent asked, his eyes watching her over the rim of his ceramic mug. There were already coffee stains on the rim.
Allie nodded. “Faster I get back on the road, faster I get home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Oklahoma.”
“Where in Oklahoma?” Evans asked.
Where in Oklahoma?
She had a feeling they were testing her, and they had to choose a good question, too, because she only knew two cities in the entire state of Oklahoma…
“Tulsa,” Allie said. It was either that or Oklahoma City, and she thought Tulsa would sound less obvious.
“Oh yeah?” Evans said. “One of our deputies is from there.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. He brags about his college days all the time. It’s kind of annoying, actually.”
“How’re the Golden Panthers doing this year?” Trent asked, slowly putting his cup down. “They gonna finally beat the Sooners this time?”
Allie guessed pretty quickly that the Golden Panthers was likely a local Tulsa sports team. Maybe even the college team. From that, and the way Trent had phrased the question, she extrapolated that Sooners—a nickname also given to Oklahomans—was a rival sports team to the Golden Panthers.
She had two options: She could fake a response, or she could go the more likely route and play the “I’m a girl; I don’t know sports” card.
“Sorry, you’re talking to the wrong person. I don’t follow sports,” Allie said. She got up and glanced over at Mickey. “Thanks again.”
Mickey nodded, but there was something about the way she was staring back that told Allie something wasn’t right.
Shit. Did I get something wrong?
Golden Panthers? Sooners? Did I just miss something, and everyone knows it except me?
“No problem,” the bartender said. “Safe travels.”
“Thanks,” Allie said, and turned to go.
“Golden Panthers, huh?” Evans said from behind her.
Allie stopped and turned around to look at the young deputy. “What about them?”
“The Tulsa college sports team.”
“And?” Then, with the best forced smile she could muster, “I told you, I don’t follow sports. You guys are barking up the wrong tree.”
“The thing is, the team isn’t called the Golden Panthers. Florida International University is the Golden Panthers. The ones from Tulsa are the Golden Hurricanes. If you were from there you’d know that, even if you don’t follow sports.”
Oh, goddammit. I hate sports.
When Allie looked forward again, Trent had climbed off his stool and was reaching for her shoulder with one hand, while the other strayed toward his holstered gun.
Her
mind clicked away at a hundred miles a second:
An APB on her car.
Countywide roadblocks.
Bad news that was going to explode all over the TV soon.
Bonnie and Clyde…
She didn’t really know about the last one, but it didn’t sound good. And then there was Trent, reaching for her, seemingly moving in slow motion. She knew that wasn’t the case. It was just how everything was represented in her mind at the moment—the world was crawling by at a snail’s pace—as she processed every little scrap of information and tried to decide how to respond.
“Why don’t you stick around?” Trent was saying.
From behind her, she heard the tap-tap of Evans climbing off his stool.
But she ignored Evans for now. At this very second, Trent was the most dangerous man to her.
Which was why she punched the veteran deputy in the solar plexus. It was a straight jab to the center of the body, just underneath where Trent’s breasts were. The move was easy, given how little separation there was between the two of them, and didn’t take a lot of strength to execute. He wasn’t wearing a vest, which was a good thing, because if he had it would have just been like hitting a sandbag.
The thought This is a really bad idea raced through her head even as she saw the pain exploding in Trent’s eyes. He stumbled as if he was about to fall but managed to remain mostly upright, somehow.
That allowed Allie to quickly slip behind him, even as she grabbed the deputy’s gun and unholstered it. The loaded weapon was heavy in Allie’s hand as she pressed it against the back of Trent’s head, then searched past the older deputy’s slightly crouched form and found his younger partner.
Yeah, this is a really bad idea, all right.
Evans had already drawn his own service pistol and had it aimed with two hands, shouting, “Let him go! Let him go now!”
Allie stared back at him and thought, Okay, so how are you going to make this even worse?
She said, “No.”
Oh. So that’s how.
Twelve
What if she was wrong?
You better not be wrong.
What if she was overreacting?
You better not be overreacting.
What if it was all one big mistake and they weren’t even looking for her Ford?
There it was again. Another if. So, so many ifs. That basically summed up the last two days for her.
But it was too late to change her mind now.
Way, way too late.
Shit. You better not be wrong!
Allie tightened her grip on the gun. Deputy Trent’s weapon was a Glock 43 9mm. It didn’t have a hammer that Allie could cock for dramatic effect, but it was fully loaded—all she had to do was feel the gun’s weight to know that—and no doubt already had a round in the chamber. She was certain of that last part, because just about every cop carried their weapons in what they called “Condition One”—that is, ready to fire. And Trent was a veteran.
The young deputy was unsteady in his shooter’s stance, with both hands on the pistol that was aimed—if a bit wobbly—at Allie. Or as much of a bead on her that he could get with Trent standing in front of her.
Allie decided to throw him off a little more and fired a round into the ceiling.
The bang! sent Mickey diving to the floor behind the bar while Trent’s body jerked in surprise.
Evans all but jumped up and down. “Hey, hey! Don’t do that!”
Allie returned the Glock’s barrel to the back of Trent’s head while she glared at Evans. “Lower your weapon.”
“What?” Evans said.
“Lower your weapon.”
“Are you insane? I’m not gonna do that!”
Allie pushed the gun into the back of Trent’s head for effect. The deputy leaned slightly forward with a pained grunt.
“Lower your weapon,” Allie said again, in the same calm voice.
“No!” Evans shouted. Unlike her, the young man—he was somewhere in his mid-twenties—was continually raising his voice. “Stop telling me to lower my weapon! You should be lowering your weapon!”
Allie knew exactly why he was doing that. Evans was trying to assert dominance over her, to take charge of the situation. Scream and shout enough, and the perp—her, in this case—would be overwhelmed. Unfortunately for Evans, she wasn’t—and she had a gun of her own. Two, actually, but Evans didn’t know about the P225 behind her back.
She could almost see the adrenaline pumping through Evans’s body, running from his squinting eyes all the way to his toes. She could feel it in her own veins, in the tightness of her fingers around the Glock. She had one hand on the gun and the other on Trent’s left shoulder to keep him in front of her at all times. She wasn’t sure what kind of condition Trent was in; he hadn’t attempted to run off yet, and the way his legs kept shuffling made her believe he was still suffering from her punch to his solar plexus. He was much bigger and stronger than her, but at the moment she had full control. The presence of the gun, and her willingness to use it, probably didn’t hurt her command.
Allie focused on Evans, her main and only real problem right now. “Put your weapon away, Deputy. Holster it.”
“I already told you, no!” Evans shouted. “Let him go! Let him go right now!”
“I can’t do that.”
“What?”
“I can’t do that.”
“The hell you mean, you can’t do that?”
“It means exactly what it sounds like. I can’t let him—”
The sound of a shotgun being racked loudly stopped Allie in midsentence, and she looked over—without moving her head, just her eyes—toward the bar. Mickey was behind it with a shotgun pointed at her. It was a pump-action and looked very familiar.
“Let him go!” the bartender shouted.
Allie spent the next few seconds staring at the shotgun to make sure it was the same one Pete had used last night on the bikers. It had to be. What were the chances the Don’t Stop In bar had two shotguns back there—one loaded with real shells and one not?
I guess I’ll find out.
“No,” Allie said.
“What?” Mickey said. “I said, let him go or—”
“Or nothing. Your shotgun’s loaded with blanks.”
“Bullshit!”
“We both know it’s true.”
Mickey stared at her from behind the iron sights of the pump-action for a moment, not saying a word.
“Mickey?” Evans said.
“Fuck,” the bartender said, before she lowered her weapon.
“What are you doing?” Evans’s voice was panicking now. “Don’t do that! I said, don’t do that!”
“She’s right. It’s loaded with blanks, Philly.”
“What?”
“It’s loaded with blanks!”
“Dammit!”
“Sorry,” Mickey said. She put the shotgun on the counter and took a step back, as if to say, Okay, I’m out of it now, so don’t shoot in this direction, guys!
Allie refocused on Evans. “I’m backing up now.”
“What?” Evans said.
“I’m backing up. Then I’m going through that door with your partner. If you follow us, I’ll have to shoot him.”
“What?”
“Don’t follow us.”
“Wait, wait, don’t move. I said, don’t move! Do you hear me? I said don’t move! Stay right where you are!”
Allie began backing up, pulling Trent with her. The older deputy stumbled but remained on his feet even as he backpedaled. Allie couldn’t see his face, but she assumed he was locking eyes with Evans, maybe trying to silently communicate with his young partner. He must not have been doing a very good job of it by the confused expression on Evans’s face as his own eyes shifted desperately from Allie to Trent and back again.
“Stop it!” Evans shouted at Allie.
Allie ignored him and kept backing up.
“Stop it, for Christ’s sake!”
&n
bsp; She was halfway to the door now.
“Stop! I said, stop!”
There was a loud bang! from the back of the bar, and Evans spun around with his pistol.
A man in his thirties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and wiping his wet hands on an impressively huge bundle of paper towels, stood frozen in the bathroom hallway, staring back at Evans. Or, to be more specific, at the gun in the deputy’s hands that was aimed at his face.
“Um,” the man said. Then, dropping the bundle of paper towels to the floor, “I didn’t mean to take so many.”
Allie turned, pushed open the front door, and shoved Trent through—
—and out into the parking lot.
Before Trent could get too far, Allie grabbed him by the same shoulder and directed him through the parking lot. She didn’t waste time shooting a quick glance back at the door they’d just come through. It wouldn’t be very long before Deputy Evans realized his mistake and followed them outside.
As soon as the gravel floor crunched under her shoes, Allie expected a squad of Wells City’s finest to be waiting outside, but there was just Mickey’s Jeep, the Subaru, and her Ford. Except now the three vehicles were joined by a fourth—a WCPD cruiser parked behind her rental. She couldn’t find any hints that Trent and his partner had radioed for backup, which was more than she could have hoped for.
“You’re making a mistake,” Trent said. It was the first time he’d spoken since she struck him and took his gun. She had been wondering how long it would take him.
Probably, Allie thought but said, “Shut up.”
“It’s not too late—”
Allie shut him up by shooting the rear driver-side tire on his squad car, then did the same to the front one.
“Jesus!” Trent shouted.
The second shot was still echoing when the Don’t Stop In door slammed open behind her.
Allie swung back around, with Trent in front of her, as Evans staggered outside. The deputy must have lunged into the door with his shoulder, perhaps in some kind of action-movie stunt, because he was off balance and was clearly struggling to regain his composure as he burst out into the parking lot.
“Stop! Stop!” Evans shouted.
Allie almost laughed. If she hadn’t stopped when Evans demanded she do so back in the bar, it wasn’t going to happen out here. Besides, there was no turning back for her now. She’d acted out of instinct, accepting that things had gotten out of hand between last night and this morning, and made her move. Trent’s gun in her hand and the three shots she’d fired so far was all the conviction she needed to know that there was no turning back unless she had a time machine.