by Greg Barth
“Lilly Bett said she had five brothers,” I said.
“Yeah. Bucky, Timmy, Corbin, and the KKK assholes behind us.”
But how could they—
I thought of something Vinton had told me about tracing mobile phones. How anyone could get close but maybe not exact locations.
“Chris. Timmy’s phone in the glovebox. Can you check it? Make sure it’s turned off?”
She popped the door to the glove box. She held the phone down near the floor of the car, activated the screen.
The pickup was farther behind us.
“It wants me to enter a code to unlock it.”
“Try holding down the power button. If that doesn’t turn it off, then throw it out.”
After a few seconds she said, “There. It’s off.”
Another road turned off to the right, angling off from the river. It bisected a large grazing field. A gray barn sat in the distance.
I braked, cut the wheel. We made the turn but barely. Once the car was aligned with the intersecting road, I hit the gas. The rear wheels fishtailed until they gained traction. We shot ahead toward the farm. The meadow to either side blurred as we raced along.
We were a quarter of a mile up before I saw the truck make the turn to follow us.
“Chris, I’m going to pull around behind that barn. We’ll get out. You bring the pistol. I’ll pop the trunk. If Scott attacks us, hit him with the pistol and make a run for the barn. I’ll grab the bullets and follow.”
“Okay. Got it.”
The barn was ahead. Once aligned, I cut the wheel. The backside of the car spun around. I gave more gas and we accelerated around the side of the barn to the back.
I braked. A cloud of dust overtook the car. I shifted to park and killed the engine.
“Get out,” I said.
The door to the barn was open. On the other side of the car sat a massive sycamore tree. The trunk of the tree was thicker than five men standing side by side. It branched off into five enormous forks, each rising to the sky.
Chris popped her seatbelt and was out of the car.
I hit the trunk latch and jumped out my side, ran around the car to the back. Chris stood there looking into the open trunk.
“Oh shit,” she said.
I looked down into the open trunk and saw.
Scott wouldn’t be jumping out and attacking us. He wouldn’t be hanging out with Chris in handcuffs for the next few days. He wouldn’t be spending any more evenings at The Platinum Palace staring at Ashley’s ass.
Scott had caught several bullets during the chase. He was dead.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE TRUCK PULLED to a stop behind the black Challenger. I heard the chime alerting the driver the keys were in the ignition as the doors opened. I peered around the sycamore tree.
The guy on the passenger side wore a camo ball cap, dirty blonde locks spilling out under it. He wore a camo shirt, dirty jeans, and brown work boots. He looked a lot like Lilly Bett.
He carried a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun.
I couldn’t see the driver, but I heard the crunch of his footsteps. Sounded like he was walking toward the barn. I couldn’t let him get there.
Chris was inside the barn looking for another weapon.
I pulled the revolver from my back waistband. I hated its stubby little barrel. I was about thirty feet from the truck and would be lucky to hit anything.
I took a deep breath, held the pistol up and ready, and stepped around the tree. I’d never be able to hit him from that distance. The meadow grass was soft under my feet. His back was to me. I crept up behind him as much as I dared. Holding the pistol with both hands at arm’s length, I lined up the barrel as best I could and lit up the guy with the shotgun.
I sent three quick rounds his way as fast as I could work the trigger double-action style. He jerked at the first shot. Spun around. Took the second in the gut. The third bullet hit him in the face.
The guy dropped to the ground.
I crouched down and ran up next to the truck, pointed my pistol over the hood. The other guy stood in the barn door. He turned to face me. His weapon looked like a military machine gun or something—black with a long magazine jutting from the bottom.
He raised the assault rifle to his shoulder, pointed it at me, and fired.
I heard the first round glance off the hood of the truck. I fired the pistol.
There was a rush of movement behind him. It was Chris, running from the open barn. The man jerked back, twisted around sideways. Chris stood behind him holding a pitchfork, the sharp points stuck in the guy’s back.
I didn’t trust the short barrel. So far, I’d done extremely well, but only two bullets remained. If I missed, there’d be no time to reload. I thumbed back the trigger, aimed with care, and snapped of one of my last shots. It hit the guy in the shoulder.
Chris pulled the pitchfork free, and shoved it in again.
The guy went down to his knees. Chris stood behind him, sticking the back of his neck with the pitchfork over and over.
I walked up and finished him off with a .38 slug to the temple. Blood and hair splattered on the grass. Chris jerked her foot away.
I dumped the spent shells on the ground.
Chris breathed hard.
My heart pounded in my chest.
“Find out who he is,” I said, pointing to the guy I’d just shot.
Chris tossed the pitchfork to the ground and took out the guy’s wallet.
She nodded. “Jackson Blake. You know, I’m thinking we never should have fucked with this family.”
I lit a cigarette, took a deep draw. “You’ve got that all backward, kitten.”
While I stood and smoked, Chris checked the other guy’s wallet.
“Jackpot,” she said.
“Let me guess, dipshit Blake?”
“William Robert.”
I choked back laughter. “Billy Bob didn’t know who he was fucking with, did he?”
We grabbed up the assault rifle—I had no idea yet how to use it, but figured out how to engage the safety at least—and the shotgun. I liked the shotgun, simple to use and easy to hit what you aimed at. I’d keep that one close by.
Inside their truck, we found a couple more loaded magazines for the rifle and a box of buckshot for the shotgun.
We took a minute to check the car. A few bullet holes along the sheet metal in the back, and the back windshield was shattered. But the tires were in good shape, and I couldn’t find any fluid leaks.
Chris gestured toward the trunk. “What do we do with him?”
“This is as far as he goes.”
We worked together and managed to get Scott’s body out of the car, let him fall to the ground. The trunk was full of piss and blood. I slammed the lid closed. Glass from the busted back window crunched under the weight of the trunk lid.
“A shame he had to die,” Chris said. “I mean, he was just out at the club looking for a good time.”
“He didn’t have to. He could have told me what I needed right then and there and spared us the effort.” I said the words, but I knew the truth was far more complicated. If he’d given me what I wanted, I couldn’t just leave him behind to report us or send warning to Harding.
“It must have been scary, locked up in the car like that.”
I’d had enough of Chris’s second guessing. “He put me through a lot worse for a lot longer. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. He’s had this coming for a long time.”
Chris frowned. “We need to be leaving.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The good news is, he told me this morning where we need to go. The bad news is, we’ve been going the wrong way.”
Chris took a long look at the carnage before us. “Really, Selena? That’s the bad news?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WE WERE FAR enough north that it didn’t make sense to backtrack south and catch I-40. Instead, I pushed farther north, deeper into Virginia, and caught I-81 south into Tennessee.
Forty would have taken me through Asheville. I wasn’t ready to go back there. I’d been laid up once, my chest riddled with bullets, in the mountains of western North Carolina. Those had been some of the best times of my life—and some of the worst.
“You like being on the road?” I said.
“Not like this,” Chris said. “I liked the beach. I like being with you and seeing new places. But I don’t like the things that happened to us or the things we’ve had to do. And I’ve seen enough rebel flags to last me a long time.”
“If I could get free, you know, like, really free. And have time. I’d like to travel. Get on the road and just keep going. See new things each day.”
“If he’s trying to get to Nashville,” she said, “he’s already there. It’s a straight shot up from Louisiana.”
I nodded. “He’s already there. I’m sure of it. But maybe Harding isn’t.” I sighed, trying to relieve the tension in my chest. Chris and I could just fall off the grid. Disappear. I was worried for Enola and her family and what hell Harding could pour into their lives.
Chris popped an OxyContin. Adjusted the neck brace. “You want one?”
“I’ll take a bump.”
She unwrapped and passed me the last of the coke. I held the steering wheel steady with my weak hand and shot the coke up one nostril.
“You think the spirits told River about us?” I glanced at her. “You know. How we…made love?”
Chris scoffed. “You have to rub it in?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know it’s not real. She’s just kind of, I don’t know…spacey, I guess.”
“Even still.”
“I love her, all right? I do. But I like you. And you’re a lot of fun. I mean, when we’re not going around killing people.”
“Like a big sister?”
“Okay, that’s really creepy. I’d never do those…things with a sister.”
“Step-sister then?”
“You’re just trying to get on my nerves here, right?”
I grinned. “We need more coke.”
“I can’t help you with that until we get back to Indiana.”
“So call my guy Vinton. He can track down a dealer for us. I know he can.”
“No. We can’t use the phone. What if he’s gone to the police? I’m turning my phone off now.” She dug around in her purse until she found it. Powered it off.
She was getting smart. Maybe smarter than me.
“We’ll put some more miles down. I know how to find my own dealer anyway.” It was true. I’d been in enough strange towns in my life, and I knew where to go to find a dealer. The easiest way was to find a prostitute. They always have connections—for themselves, but also for their customers. Another sure fire method is to wander into the wrong neighborhood. People will notice. The entrepreneurial types will ask you what you’re looking for. They know. The only way to do this safely is you have to look the type. And if you’re desperate enough to go into those neighborhoods to cop a fix, trust me, you already look the type.
We stopped for vegan cuisine in Knoxville. Chris didn’t turn on her phone to locate a spot. She did it the good old-fashioned way. We pulled off the highway and drove down a main thoroughfare until we happened across an Earth Fare grocery that had a buffet counter.
The food was just okay in my opinion. But I don’t eat much. My pretty kitty seemed to enjoy it, though.
The hippie-type guy at the counter turned me on to another guy that had some weed. I bought some just to be nice. I was skeptical on the quality. Organic? Please. But the weed guy knew a hardcore dealer and arranged for him to meet up with us in the parking lot.
Now that guy had the good shit. He pulled up in a burgundy Suburban. The dude must have weighed 400 pounds, but he carried it well. White guy. Jewish name. Janowicz. Wore glasses.
Even though he had the large vehicle, he had the seat laid back to make room for his massive belly. I sat in the passenger seat next to him in the parking lot. He had an illegal tint to the windows so no one could see us.
He had what I wanted. He gave me a taste of the coke, let me inspect the pills.
“I’ll need enough for a couple of days,” I said.
He rummaged around in his bag and brought out more than I could possibly need. “This be enough?”
“Looks about right.”
His price was fair. I paid him.
He offered to pimp for me if I wanted to score some extra cash while we were in town.
“I know some guys who’d be interested. Wouldn’t take much effort,” he said.
“We’re not whores.”
“Right. And I’m not a drug dealer, baby.” His round cheeks reformed themselves around his grin. He put his hand on my thigh.
I let him have a little feel before I brushed him away.
“I can make more money other ways than I could selling my ass.”
“You haven’t asked me what I’d pay yet,” he said. The fat grin again. “I wouldn’t mind taking a run at it.”
I tried to picture this massive man with his huge belly…somehow mounting me. Somehow managing to get it in. I came up with nothing.
“Now that could be the romance of our generation,” I said. “There’s only one thing standing in our way.”
“What’s that,” he said.
“The laws of physics.”
He laughed. “You look me up in six months,” he said. “Whenever you’re back through here. I’m getting that surgery. The sleeve? My stomach’s going to be the size of a drinking straw. I might have some loose skin, but we can get it in.”
I closed my eyes. Held up a finger.
“Going to throw up?” he said.
I nodded.
He powered down the window. “Not inside, please.”
***
I went by a Walmart and got some clear plastic and black duct tape along with some carpet squares and air fresheners. I sealed up the back window with clear plastic, taped over the bullet holes in the back. The car looked less criminal.
I put down the carpet squares in the trunk, covered the blood. Popped open the air fresheners and tossed them in. I took the shotgun and AR-15 we’d confiscated from the Blake brothers out of the back seat and placed them in the trunk.
I didn’t plan on getting stopped at any point along the way, but I had to be prepared.
I took I-40 straight through Knoxville, east to west.
We ascended the Cumberland Plateau on the western side of the city. Once we crested the top, I put the pedal down. A straight shot to Nashville, but a lot of map between us and that city.
And Bucky may not have taken the violent, circuitous route we had.
Chris reclined her seat. I could already visualize the snores and vegan farts to come.
I turned up the CD—we still only had the one—and that sexy AC/DC singer was singing the chorus to “Get It Hot.”
Trees lined the median along the Cumberland Plateau along I-40. I was wary of the trees. A good place for whitetail deer to feed, and highway patrol officers to hide. I backed off the throttle just a bit, keeping care not to exceed 15 miles an hour over the speed limit.
Tennessee was a state without income tax. It was a state that couldn’t afford many highway patrol officers. But it addressed that revenue gap with a strategic placement of speed traps across their network of highways.
Fucking Tennessee. Probably my favorite state I’d ever lived in. Free, wild, and loose. Fucking Tennessee.
TWENTY-NINE
FUCKING TENNESSEE.
Goddamn state trooper had me pulled over on the side of the interstate in the middle of no-man’s land between Crossville and Cookeville.
He took my license and registration back to his car so he could run them through the system. In the passenger seat, Chris snored like a grain-fed mare.
I wore no bra, but I had no cleavage. I have the smallest tits on the planet. I wouldn’t score any points there. And who was I kidding—highwa
y patrol officers got their pick of the Tennessee trim along the highway, if that was their thing. I had my skirt riding high. I had it all hanging out. It wasn’t that I minded getting a ticket—I just didn’t want it to go any farther.
This car had been a lot of places in the last couple of days. A lot of crime scenes.
The paperwork on the car was only days old.
I had no idea if my fake ID would hold up to close scrutiny.
And I was high. God, I was so fucking high.
My knee bounced with nervous, coke-fueled tension.
I checked the side view mirror and watched the trooper approach. Play it safe, I told myself. You are so fucking sober.
Deep breath.
I told my knee to stop bouncing.
The patrol officer handed me my license and registration back. Thank god I’d bothered to register the car in Louisiana and get insurance at Po’ Gene’s insistence.
“Okay, Miss Murphy. It looks like you’ve got a clean record, and I’m not going to do anything to mess that up for you today. But please do me a favor and get your head out of your ass and slow it down a bit. There’s nowhere you’ve got to be getting to this fast. And get that back glass fixed. You’ve got a nice car here. Don’t push it.”
I smoothed my skirt out. “Thank you officer, and—for what it’s worth—I’m sorry.”
He walked back to his car.
I shifted into gear, eased the gas enough to roll forward. The police officer kept the blue lights flashing until I was back on the highway.
Once I was ten miles up the road and my heart no longer hammered, I considered what had just happened. I decided it was a good test. My Amanda Murphy identity hadn’t been compromised. Not yet. That could get me a little farther along. As good as that was, it could all change if I wasn’t careful.
I pushed it only nine miles above the speed limit. I passed the exits for Cookeville, did a couple of bumps of coke. Once I passed the exit for Lebanon, the interstate sprouted more lanes, widened. There were signs for the airport, then the Nashville skyline loomed.
I nudged Chris with my finger.