They were out of the flatlands and into countryside that had begun to fill with rolling hills, the mountains still many hours ahead, when the police flashers went on behind the truck.
Janell had driven for most of the day, the cruise control locked exactly four miles per hour above the speed limit, fast enough to blend in but not fast enough to invite police attention so she would know immediately that any police interest concerned the identity of the truck, not its speed. They’d switched positions just an hour earlier, though, so she said, “How fast were you going?”
“Maybe ten over, max.”
Just enough to leave the situation in doubt. She watched the mirror and saw the driver’s door of the cruiser open and an officer get out. Older and overweight, with a mustache. He hadn’t spent any time on his radio or with his computer, and that was encouraging. He also kept his head down as he approached, and that was even better, because if he knew anything about the people inside this truck, he would have had his eyes up and his hand close to his gun.
“Speeding,” she said. “You idiot. You risked us for an extra five miles an hour.”
“I’ll talk him down.”
“You’re a probation violator. When he runs your license, he’ll see that.”
“He won’t run the license.”
“If he runs the plate we’re in trouble. And everybody runs the plate.”
They’d stolen a plate off a similar make and model truck in Georgia, but the VIN wouldn’t match if checked. The longer the stop went, the worse things would become. The cop was at the door, rapping on the window with his knuckles. Doug put the window down and said, “Taillights out again? They’ve been giving me hell.”
“There’s no trouble with your taillights, pal, and you know it. What’s with the fast-and-furious routine here? Speeding, driving all over the damn roadway.”
All over the roadway was a lie; Doug’s driving had been fine, just fast. But they were on a lonely stretch of highway in a shitkicker town in the middle of nowhere and they had a vehicle with a Florida license. They were good for a stop, and good for the county’s coffers.
“He’s only driving fast because I told him to,” she said.
The deputy lowered his head so he could see past Doug and over to the passenger seat.
“Why would you tell him to drive reckless, miss?”
“Because I’m about to be sick. I’ve been sick three times in the past eighty miles. Food poisoning.”
“Is that so?” He studied her. His mustache was unevenly trimmed and his breathing was heavy, as if the walk from the car had winded him. Only one vehicle had passed since he’d turned the lights on. It was a lonely stretch of road.
“I’m about to be sick again,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear it. But I’m still going to need the gentleman’s driver’s license and registration.”
“No warning?” Doug said. “It would sure be nice if we could—”
“License and registration,” the officer repeated firmly. His name tag glittered: M. Terrell.
“Just give it to him,” she said. “I’m going to throw up.”
When she opened the door, Terrell barked at her to stay in the vehicle, but she ignored him and lurched out of the seat and hurried several feet away, off the shoulder of the road and down the steep slope, and then she kept going, past the tree line, where she made a show of falling to her knees and retching. She could hear him instructing Doug to stay where he was, and then grass and leaves crunched beneath his boots as he made his way toward her. He wore heavy work boots, the kind her stepfather had worn. The first man she’d killed.
“Y’all been doing some drinking, maybe?”
She shook her head. She was on her hands and knees with a string of spit hanging from her mouth. She sucked air in noisy gasps, making sure her back rose and fell with the effort. He stopped just behind her, nothing visible of him but the work boots. She thought he probably liked the view just fine. She lowered her forehead to the ground, touched the cool earth with it, and closed her eyes.
“What’s your name, miss?”
She said, “Abenaki.” An old joke, one shared only with Eli, who was dealing with Violet, a woman who believed deeply in the spiritual power of American Indians. Eli would have laughed, hearing it under these circumstances. The deputy did not laugh.
“Ab-a-what?”
“Abenaki.”
“That’s some name.”
“It’s Indian.”
“You don’t look the part.”
“Who are you to say whether I look like my own name?”
“Fair enough. I’m going to need you to stand up and come back to the road. You have to puke, you can do it over by the side of the truck where I can see you. We’re not staying down here in the woods.”
She nodded absently, her head brushing the dirt, her hair falling around her face. She moved a hand to her belly and groaned.
“You sure y’all haven’t had a few too many?”
“None.”
“Okay. We’ll see about that. But let’s get over to the truck, like I asked. You can sit outside of it, but you’re going to sit where I can see you.”
She lifted her head, wobbled, and then fell again. “Can you help me up? Please?”
He hesitated, then stepped forward. “Let’s go.” He reached down and took her left arm, the one that wasn’t pressed to her stomach. She leaned her weight into him as he lifted so that he had to choose whether to use both hands or move back and let her fall. He chose to use both hands, one on her left arm and one around her waist. That was when she pivoted toward him, drew the knife from her belt, and opened his throat with a single, smooth slice.
His eyes went wide and he tried to step away from her, reach for his gun, and reach for his throat all at the same time. She held on to his right hand, held tight, feeling his pulse in his palm as he gave up on the gun and settled for reaching for his throat with his left hand, as if he could seal the wound with pressure, stem the inevitable tide. He fell over as blood seeped between his fingers and his mouth worked but no words came. She moved closer to his side, still clutching his hand, and watched. Life left his hand first, and then his eyes. The shortest of delays, but still there. Life seeped from the limbs first, and lingered longest in the eyes.
She knew this well.
She wanted to stay with him but there was no time. She released his hand and studied the front of her shirt, which was splattered with blood. Then she looked up the slope at his cruiser. It was a new-model Dodge, and it would have an in-dash video system that started recording as soon as he activated the emergency lights. That was why she’d come so far into the trees. She doubted the video would show what had happened, but it would show the truck.
She didn’t need long, though. She just needed to stay in motion. She got in the passenger seat and slammed the door, wiping the blade of the knife on her jeans.
“Drive.”
Doug stared at her, wide-eyed.
“What did you do! He wasn’t going to stop us, he was just going to give us a ticket, and now we’re—”
“In a hurry,” she said. “We were in a hurry before, and we are in a hurry now. Nothing has changed. It’s all about forward momentum. We just need to keep it going forward. Either start driving or get out of the seat so I can.”
He put the truck back in gear and then looked in the rearview mirror. It was still filled with the dancing colored lights of the police car.
“Forward momentum,” she said again, and he lowered his eyes and pressed on the accelerator and pulled them off the shoulder and back onto the road. Ahead, the mountains loomed in shadow.
“I’d change roads fast,” she said. “And I think we’re going to need a new truck.”
That was a shame, because she’d always loved the bloodred truck with the big tires and the throaty motor. All the same, it had to be done.
“Get off the highway. All of these hillbillies will have four-wheel drive. Look for a driveway that goes back into the trees. Someplace isolated.”
He didn’t answer. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The smell of blood was heavy in the cab of the truck, and if she concentrated, she could still feel the officer’s pulse against her thumb.