NOT DONE YET
Miriam runs. Again. Because apparently she is a glutton for punishment. She tells herself that the quarter mile or so between her and the two vehicles is psssh, pffft, no problem at all, but three steps in and her feet feel like they’re encased in cement and her calves feel like sausages about to split and spill their meat. Still, she runs. She tells herself it’s because she has to.
Ahead, the truck and the car roam into view. Past the flinty, flashing sun. There, on her side of the road, the pickup: Ford F-250 from 1980. Rust has taken over most of the cherry-red paint. Across the highway: a Subaru station wagon. An Outback. Also old—maybe ten years, maybe more.
She hears the engines tinking and clicking. A smell hits her—bitter, acrid, sweet. A charred fan belt, cooked antifreeze.
A hundred yards away now. The driver-side door to the Subaru pops open. A black woman steps out. She’s got the ragged edge of a survivor about her—a bumpy stick whittled down to a sharpened point. She’s got a feral stare going on, and as Miriam slows to a jog and then to a walk, the woman points.
“Stay back!”
The woman’s hand moves behind her, to the belt of her jeans—she turns just so, and Miriam sees something back there. A gun. Tucked. The driver doesn’t pull it. Not yet.
Miriam holds up her hands, slows her walk. “Hey. Yo. Relax. That’s my truck right there. No harm no foul. Just gonna skootch on past, get in the truck, and go.” Fifty yards now separate them. Maybe less.
The woman’s eyes flash from Miriam to the truck and then back again.
Inside the Subaru station wagon: movement.
And that’s when Miriam gets it. Because she sees a small face, round and wide-eyed, peer over the dashboard. A boy. Young, maybe ten years old. Blue T-shirt with some red on it— the Superman logo, she realizes. Just the top of it. She’s a mother protecting her kid. Right?
Miriam thinks to ask if everything’s okay, but her gut clenches: Just let it go. Don’t get involved. This is a trap. The Trespasser put her here— she doesn’t even know if it works like that, but whatever gets her out of this situation and back at the motel where she can crack one of those little vodka bottles . . . But then her dumb mouth starts forming words, and those words somehow escape like parakeets from open cages, and she says, “Do you need help?”
“You got a cell phone?”
“I . . . do. You want me to call somebody?”
The woman leans forward like she’s about to pounce. “I want you to give it here. I want that phone.”
Miriam arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, no.”
“I want the phone and the keys to the truck.”
“I will make a call for you and I will drive you somewhere.”
“Oh, I know where you’ll drive me. You ain’t taking my boy back.” And then the gun comes out— a little thumb-dicked .380 revolver. Snubby, priggish nose pointed right at Miriam. The woman’s thumb cranes forward, clicks back the hammer. “Keys. Phone. Throw them over.”
“If I throw the phone, I’ll break it.”
That seems to stun the woman, like she’s too panicked to think clearly and this tiny little hangnail has snagged the whole damn sweater.
“Fine,” the woman barks, irritated. “Fine. Just . . . just come over, and you can hand them to me. No nonsense. Don’t mess with me or I’ll put this in you.” She thrusts the gun forward, as if to demonstrate. The woman doesn’t look like a killer, but she looks desperate—pushed to the edge. Miriam knows that people at the edge will do anything. Any dog trapped in any corner is likely to bite.
Miriam creeps forward. Her body throbs. Even in the heat she represses a chill. No idea what’s happening here. What’s driven this woman to this? She tries not to care. But the carapace she’s carefully crafted is cracked—makes Miriam weak. Her hand ducks into her pocket, pulls out the little burner phone and the pickup’s key ring. She jingles them like she’s trying to distract a cat.
Thirty yards.
Twenty.
“C’mon, c’mon,” the woman says, impatient.
Miriam knows she’s not going to give over the keys or the phone.
That’s all she knows, though. What happens next, she’s not sure.
Ten yards now, and Miriam slows her walk, tries to buy herself some time. “You don’t have to do this. We can be pals.” You take my truck and my phone, and I might have to feed you to the coyotes, lady. “I don’t know who you think I am or why I’d want to take your son—”
The woman waves the gun. “You people need to leave us alone.”
Five yards. She starts to hand over the keys and the phone—
Two minutes ago, Miriam’s whole body ached, but now, every cell is awake and alive and without any pain at all, juicing on the natural narcotic of hard-charging adrenalin. With her free hand the woman reaches across—
Miriam flings the keys. Not enough to hurt— or, at least, to do damage—but enough where a jingly-jangly projectile launched at the woman’s face will offer up the interference Miriam needs. Her gut check is right: This lady isn’t combat ready, and while desperate, she’s not trained to deal with distraction. The gun goes wide, the woman makes a sound—“Nuhhh!”— and Miriam grabs the gun wrist and slams it back—
There the two of them stand. Wrestling back and forth with the revolver. The key ring hits the ground with a cymbal crash. The strange lady’s cell phone takes a tumble too—spinning corner to corner until it hits the asphalt, cracking the outer case. Gracie throws a punch, tries to piston it into the woman’s side, but the crazy white bitch bends her body—the fist misses, and the woman catches it, twists it, pins Gracie’s hand like she pins the other one. But Gracie isn’t done. She won’t be taken again. She won’t let her son be taken again. Everyone is an enemy, and she has to get free, so she drives a hard knee up into the lady’s middle. Her finger does this involuntary squeeze and . . . The gun in her hand bucks, firing up at the sky, up at the gods—bang—gun smoke plume and brimstone stink. Inside the car, Abe is screaming, pounding on the dashboard, face a mess of tears—
And then there’s another gunshot—