She rolled in behind Randall's camaro, giving the thumbs-up sign. He replied with a brief honk. Two miles later, they stopped at an intersecting road. Randall jumped out and ripped a large blue plastic case from the slowly opening trunk. He sprinted over, following Thalma around to the back. She opened the rear doors and Randall plunked the case inside. Working together, they unsnapped the locks and opened the case.
"Take your bonus," she said. "Whatever you think is fair."
"How about I call you and you wire it to me? I don't want to be stopped carrying a shitload of cash."
She handed him two five thousand stacks. "Just in case I don't make it. I'll contact you in a few days, and wire you the balance – whatever we decide on."
They shook hands. "Good riddance," he said, nodding to the case. "How did you take out the bikers?"
Thalma indicated the dome-shaped cap near the roof line.
"Gun port?"
"Yup."
Shaking his head and grinning, he jogged back to his car. He roared north on the intersecting dirt road, and Thalma pushed her van at high speed east. By now, at least one of the pursuers had phoned home. Others were probably already on their way. She was by no means in the clear, but things had gone remarkably well, considering. Ahead loomed a one hundred and seventy-mile race to the utility shop where she'd exchange the van for her pickup. She'd spend the night in the shop, and emerge the next morning as a new woman. At that point, she was theoretically untouchable.
One hundred and seventy miles. A bit over two hours – assuming she drove a direct route, which seemed inadvisable. Switching cars was also an option, but that had its risks, too. What were the chances that a Rapid City biker gang would have the resources to establish a search net all around the city? She shook her head. No, if they didn't catch her in the next few minutes, she would become the proverbial needle in a haystack of roads and highways leading away from Rapid. Even a statewide police alert would be bucking the odds to catch her in the next two hours if she stayed off the major highways.
Thalma checked out the GPS screen beside the speedometer, which was integrated with Allstreets, a program which offered advanced analysis of route options. She punched in the "country roads" option, and a route sprang up that added another fifty-three miles to her journey. She decided it was fifty-three miles well-spent.
She followed the route as fast as she dared, grossly exceeding the speed limit where she thought it was safe, and limiting herself to five miles per hour over the limit when it wasn't. Minutes slowly added up to a half-hour, and then an hour. Thalma was now seventy miles northeast of Rapid City.
Just when she was allowing herself her first deep breath of relief, a Highway Patrol car zoomed up on her. Thalma consulted her speedometer, which read a paltry five miles over the sixty MPH limit.
The patrol car's lights flashed on. Thalma breathed in a calming breath and let it out. She pulled over. They were between cities on a county road – in the middle of nowhere, as most of South Dakota was.
The trooper tromped over, hand on his pistol, bent forward in a coiled readiness that Thalma thought was unusual for a routine traffic stop. Had he noticed the bullet marks on the side of the van?
She reached under the seat and unclipped a small capped hypodermic needle shaped like a pen – including a clip at its top - which she slipped into her t-shirt pocket. The cop's wariness suggested to her he knew something he shouldn't know, but it was too early to be sure.
"Afternoon, Sir," he greeted her as he rolled down her window. "License, registration, proof of insurance, please."
"May I ask why you pulled me over?"
"You're missing your left taillight." He stood on his tiptoes to peer in through the window. "Was your vehicle involved in an accident?"
"No."
He accepted her papers. "I'm going to ask you to step out of the vehicle, Sir."
"What's this about?"
"Please step out of the vehicle."
"All right."
He moved back, giving her plenty of space as she opened the door and dropped down.
"Is there anyone else in your van?"
"No."
"Your vehicle appears to recently have been struck by gunfire."
"Really? I thought I heard something smacking into it a few miles back, but I didn't see anyone. I assumed it was rocks or something."
"Do I have permission to search your van?"
"No."
"Is there any reason why you don't want me to look inside? Would I find anything illegal?"
"My reason is the United States Constitution, Fourth Amendment."
"I'm going to return to my car and check your information," he said. "I want you to take a seat on the back bumper and stay there where I can see you."
Thalma made a swift calculation. Chances were at least even, given the lack of probable cause to search her van, that he'd simply check out her papers and issue her a ticket. But if he did request support, she would be forced to take drastic action. Considering the extreme downside, she decided to act.
In the instant he parted from her to the car she slipped in behind him, snagging his right arm and jamming the hypodermic into his back. He jerked around, grabbing for her with his left hand, which she dodged – propelling him forward, keeping their arms locked as if they were walking arm-in-arm.
"Just take it easy," she said, "and walk with me back to your car."
He was stumbling after a few steps, but managed to stay upright before sinking to his knees in front of the driver's door. Thalma held him with one hand while she got the door open. He grunted as she rolled him into the front seat, reaching over him to pop out the onboard camera's SIM card. All the officer could do was stare at her with wide open eyes and a gaping mouth as she hoisted him into a sitting position. As a final touch, she removed the keys from the ignition, ripped the dispatch microphone from its cord, and dug out a cell phone from his front pocket.
"You'll be okay in an hour or so," she said. "I'm sorry."
She closed the door and climbed back into her van. A mile down the road, she tossed the SIM card out the window into the tall grass. With any luck, the officer wouldn't be in contact with any other police for well over an hour, if not longer.
Thalma stopped at a drug store twenty miles later and purchased a dark blue magic marker, which she used to color in the bullet impacts. Only one hundred miles to go before she reached the storage building and her pickup.
No more random police encounters, she willed.
Chapter 4
HOME SWEET HOME, THALMA thought as she rolled into her driveway in her white pickup. Socrates lumbered up and nudged her with his head when she got out. So much emotion packed in one small gesture, she thought, bending to pat his side. Overly emotional exchanges had never been their thing.
Her homecoming seemed even sweeter when Louis emerged, grinning shyly, hesitating a moment before stepping forward with an almost determined expression to hug her. She realized she was squeezing him too hard when she heard him struggling to breathe, but when he stepped back his eyes were shining.
"How did it go?"
"Okay." Her eyes darted down the driveway. Even here, she felt wary of prying eyes. "Why don't you carry in my suitcase? I need to get something from under the car."
"Sure thing."
She grabbed a cordless impact wrench from the tool case behind the seat and crawled under the pickup. Four bolts, and the bottom of her reserve fuel tank popped free. Its dry space – thanks to fake fuel lines – had, happily, been adequate to house the blue plastic case.
Louis returned as she dragged the case out from under the pickup, and she let him help her carry it into the house.
"What's in it?" Louis asked.
"You'll see."
They dropped the case in the living room. Meaty odors tickled Thalma's nostrils.
"Something cooking?"
"Yup. After you called, I decided to whip up one of my grandmother's classic – she called it "S
panish Stew," though I'm not sure what's Spanish about it. It was one of my favorites, and I hope you like it."
Thalma slumped in her rocking chair, releasing a long, deeply held breath. Louis ducked out and returned with an ice cold bottle of Beck's.
"You look like you could use it," he said.
"Thanks." She pressed the beer bottle against her forehead. "You forgot my slippers."
"I'm no fifties housewife," Louis stated with mock-outrage. "I'm more of a liberated sixties 'summer of love' hausfrau."
Thalma laughed. "You just need some beads and sandals and you'd be there."
"I probably have some packed away somewhere." He dropped down on the couch across from her, concern edging into his smile. "You look a little stressed. What happened?"
"It got kind of hairy. The used car lot owner wasn't interested in negotiating, predictably, so I had my assistant break into his house in search of compensation." She extended one foot and rested it on the plastic case. "And this is what he found."
"What's in it?"
"Open it up and see for yourself."
Louis dropped down and unsnapped the clasps. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he lifted the lid.
"Holy fuck," he whispered. He reached in, coins clinking in his hands. He lifted a wad of hundreds, rifling through the bills. "How much money is it? Looks like you hit the mother lode."
"I haven't counted the cash or the coins yet, but I'm guessing it's far short of the $275,000 he owed me. Plus, I need to pay Randall – my assistant – a good chunk of that. I don't know what the drugs are, or if I'll sell them or destroy them."
Louis picked up a bottle and a bag of white powder. "Mind if I open it?"
"Go ahead."
Thalma sipped her beer and watched him open the outer and inner heavy plastic bags. He touched a finger to the powder and sniffed it. A small amount fell on the carpet.
"Careful," she said. "You could be throwing away hundreds of dollars there."
"Point taken." He sniffed the powder again. "Not cocaine or meth. It could be heroin, I guess. I've never partaken of that."
"You've tried meth and coke?"
"A tiny bit of meth once – which was more than enough – and coke a couple of times. Not really my thing."
She reached out, and Louis handed her the bag. She dipped a finger inside and raised it to her nose. "It's not heroin, either. It looks crystalline. I'll send samples to my lab friend and see what she says."
"What would a used car lot owner be doing with this amount of drugs?"
"I don't know. I'm guessing it had to do with his biker friends. The fact that they went after my friend with guns drawn when they saw him leave his place suggests he was stashing the stuff for them."
Louis's smile paled. "Guns drawn?"
"Yes."
"Christ. What happened?"
"Some of the bikers were driving up to the used car lot person's place when Randall pulled out of his driveway. My guess is that their leader, who was acting a little suspicious when I met with him, decided it might be a good idea to check up on the place." Thalma watched Louis's adam's apple bob. "They chased my friend onto a dirt road. I came in behind them – knocked their car off the road and disabled their bikes."
Louis tugged back his thick, golden-brown locks and shook his head. "But no one got killed or hurt?"
"The guys on the bikes were fine. I'm not sure what happened to whoever was in the car, but I'd guess they're okay. They weren't driving that fast when their car flipped."
"But nothing happened to you?"
"I was driving in an armored van," Thalma said with a dry laugh. "There wasn't much they could do. The scariest moment was when a cop pulled me over as I was driving home. A bullet had shattered my rear taillight."
Louis let out a pained chuckle. "I would guess he just wrote you a fixit ticket?"
"Maybe he would've, but I didn't give him the chance. He was acting too suspicious – maybe because of the bullet marks on the van – and was going to call it in, so I decided not to risk it. I injected him with etorphine – an animal tranquilizer - and left him sitting in the driver's seat."
Louis brushed back his hair again – a gesture Thalma knew meant he was stressing.
"He'll be okay," she said.
"I'm not worried about him. I think you're taking too many chances, Thalma."
He cut himself off, though obviously he wanted to say more. Thalma made a point of taking her time with her beer to push back her own annoyance. Louis had no clue, she thought, about what it took to get to where she was, or how incredibly hard she worked to minimize her risks.
"I haven't had a problem like this for a decade, Louis," she said, with forced calm. "But inevitably, no matter how well you plan or prepare for every possible contingency, shit happens."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"You'd probably prefer me to be the dull accountant I was pretending to be up there." Thalma hadn't meant to sound sulky, but there it was. It was annoying, even galling, that she cared so much what he thought of her.
"Nah," said Louis, a smile breaking through. "I wouldn't want you to be a dull accountant. I know I probably don't have to worry about you. I mean, you drive a tank and carry animal tranquilizers around with you, for God's sake."
"A girl can never be too careful, my mom always told me. How did it go here? Any issues?"
"Nope. I made a few minor adjustments which were probably unnecessary in the feed tubes. Everything's so well-automated, you probably could leave for a month without any worries."
"Oh, I'd be worried."
Louis's smile drifted away. "You know, if they tried to kill you, that implies this stuff is worth something. You don't even know how much cash and gold is here, do you?"
"I have a rough idea. But if you count it all up, you can have one of the gold coins."
"You got a deal. You want to eat first? That stew has been making my stomach rumble."
"Sure. I can eat."
Louis carried out a couple of large, steaming bowls of stew. Thalma spooned out some chunks of carrot and meat.
"Mmm," she said. "This tastes great. Thank you."
"I'm glad you like it."
As she swallowed, Thalma swore she could feel the nutritious molecules flowing out into her protein-starved muscles. The warm July sunlight rolled in through the open blinds with that special, golden luminosity of a summer late-afternoon. She smiled as the light split into glowing orbs and bounced through the air like incandescent soap bubbles. When they collided they merged in a burst of prismatic colors.
Prismatic colors?
"Is it my imagination," said Louis, "or is the stew full of Christmas lights?"
"Hmmm," said Thalma, gazing down at her own stew. No Christmas lights, but the liquid appeared to be bubbling like a lava pit. "This isn't right."
"Funny," said Louis, swallowing another bite. "It doesn't taste like Christmas."
Thalma spat out stew as she laughed. It occurred to her that there were many things she should be concerned about. A pile of cash, gold, and illegal drugs on her living room floor for one. The bouncing golden orbs and volcanic stew for another. Yet in her rocking chair she felt rooted to some primal force, the immarcescible center of the universe. Nothing could harm her here. She was eternal.
A niggling doubt intruded on her self-worship – the kind of doubt she'd felt at five, when her mom had told her that God loved her. It was just too good to be true.
"It's a hallucinogen," she said. "The white powder. When we sniffed it."
Louis nodded and smiled wonderingly, as if that were a revelation. "Yes. Makes sense. But what kind?"
"Not DMT or salvia. It's already lasted too long, and those aren't potent enough..."
Thalma closed her eyes to concentrate, and was rewarded with a sudden falling sensation, as if she were dropping from an airplane into a black abyss. Part of her was afraid, but another, larger part, accepted the fall calmly. She had no desire to open her eyes.
But the niggling voice was still there.
"LSD," she whispered.
"I think you're right. It does kind of remind me of that. You're floating, by the way."
Thalma's eyes blinked open. At first she thought she was having an out of body experience – either that, or her neck had stretched like a giraffe's – because she was looking down at the living room, her head only inches from the ten-foot ceiling. None of her experiences with hallucinogens had caused anything remotely resembling this illusion. But if it was an illusion, how could Louis see it?
"I see it, too," she said.
"Really? It's really real?"
Thalma smiled. Her smile seemed to spread throughout the room, infusing it with humor. Louis stood up and walked beneath her, waving his arms as if seeking wires or some invisible support.
Thalma reached up and felt the ceiling. It certainly felt real enough. She had no sense at all that she was hallucinating - unlike her previous experiences with DMT and LSD, when the division between illusion and reality remained secure. Of course, it was impossible.
"It's like that scene from Lucy," Louis laughed up to her.
Thalma shoved on the ceiling, and began a slow descent, bumping into the shimmering golden globes, which made her skin tingle. Of course it was an illusion, and yet...she was a strange individual, and she continued to discover more strange things about herself every few years. Maybe this was just another weird thing about her?
Louis caught hold of her legs as she floated within his reach. He tried to pull her down, and she mentally resisted. The next thing she knew, they were both a few feet off the ground, his legs dangling in the air as he clung to her.
"Far out, dude!" he laughed.
They drifted across the room, bumping against the far wall.
"We should get a camera," Louis said.
"The room is already" – Thalma searched for the word – "video-recorded."
"You can fly, Thalma! Let's go outside, see what you can do."
"Not a good idea."
She could feel her reasoning slipping. Not going away, just growing fuzzier – the boundaries of logic and speculation blurring. Louis released her legs and stumbled toward the front door.
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