I could not believe how fast this girl could run. I couldn’t possibly hope to keep up. I didn’t want to admit it, but a pack a day of Camels had really cut my lung capacity. We ran on the soft shoulder, the cross--country trucks blasting by us. Petty held out a thumb as she ran.
It seemed like hours had gone by, but I knew it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes or so. I couldn’t keep going, in any case. I had a stitch in my side and my ankle was throbbing, so I sat down well back from the shoulder in the soggy, shallow ditch. It was another ten minutes before Petty came running back.
“Why are you sitting? Let’s go.”
“I can’t keep up with you,” I said.
“We can’t stay here,” she said.
“Can we walk?”
“All right.”
We walked the shoulder.
“Petty,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “You can’t just pull your gun on someone because he pisses you off.”
“I was defending myself. I was defending us.”
“From what?”
“He was trying to take our picture.” She stopped walking.
I stopped too. We stood facing each other.
“But he didn’t threaten you. And Ray thought you were a prostitute, but he didn’t do anything. He’s a moron being an asshole. You don’t shoot -people for being stupid assholes, or the human race would be extinct.”
Petty didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well, you just stood there and didn’t do anything.”
“Right,” I said. “There was nothing for me to do. If he’d threatened you physically, I would have—-”
“You’d have what? Run away? Slowly?”
“We’re trying to keep a low profile,” I said, stung and defensive. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was the weak link in this partnership, but she was right. I wouldn’t have done anything. At least I had a grip on how the real world worked and didn’t think I was living inside of a cop show where pulling your piece had no actual consequences. “And Ray was harmless and pathetic. But he and that other fat fuck will never forget you. They’ll tell their buddies, and sooner or later one of them’s going to decide he wants that Crimestopper reward, and I hope to God we’re off this road by then. In the meantime, you need to stop acting like Sarah Connor or you’re going to get us caught—-if you don’t kill someone first. Like me.” My voice rose throughout my tirade until I was shouting that last bit.
“Fine,” she shouted back.
I followed several yards behind her in silence. I was tired. I was pissed at getting roped into this. Then rain began falling. Perfect.
To distract myself, I ran through Disregard the 9’s set list in my mind, playing my part on imaginary drums in front of me. I needed some rehearsal time and badly. I could not screw this up. I had to be on time, I had to be easy to work with this time and not roll my eyes when Chad wanted to play songs I hated.
Not a single vehicle even slowed as they went by. We walked so long I wondered if we’d have to walk the entire way to Denver. We walked so long I began to wish for a cop car to stop and take us to a nice dry jail.
“Petty,” I called.
She trudged on.
“Come on, Petty. I’m sorry, okay?”
She didn’t stop.
“Come on. You’ve got to forgive me.”
She slowed but continued on.
Just before sunrise, taillights pulled to the shoulder ahead of us. Petty slogged resolutely on past it, giving the car a wide berth. But I heard a woman’s voice calling out of the open window. “What in the hell are you two doing? You’re going to get killed, walking on the shoulder of the interstate!”
I stopped and looked in the open window of the Chevy sedan. The dashboard lit up the driver’s face. She was in her sixties at least, with glasses and graying hair in a ponytail.
“You get in this car right now,” she said.
I stood straight and shouted, “Jenny!” Petty kept walking. She obviously didn’t remember the fake name I’d given her earlier. “Jenny!”
She stopped and turned.
“We’ve got a ride.”
Petty put a hand on her hip.
“Come on, it’s raining. This nice lady wants to give us a ride.”
Petty stood thinking for a moment then walked back. She whispered, “If she takes us to one of those shops, I’m pulling weapons again. I’m just saying.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
I got in the front seat and Petty got in back.
“Where y’all headed?” the driver asked.
“Denver,” I told her.
“Me too,” she said. “Going out to sit with my grandbabies while their folks go on a cruise. You can ride all the way if you want.”
She pulled back out on the highway.
“Car break down?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m Ted and that’s Jenny.”
“Debbie,” she said.
“Where are we?”
“Just past WaKeeney,” she said. “About three hundred miles from Denver.”
Wednesday
I WOKE UP in the backseat of Debbie’s Chevy, thinking about Detective Deirdre Walsh and how I’d never gone more than a day without watching an episode of one of the Offender shows. I felt the way I imagined normal -people felt when they were away from family for a period of time—-disoriented, detached, homesick. Then I saw something that made me shout.
“Dekker!”
The car swerved. “My word,” Debbie said, her hand over her mouth. “What did you say, Jenny? Are you all right?”