So they had money for food and gas for the next few days, and a few ways to start looking into the hunters. As an investigative reporter, June would have better resources than Peter for that.
The car was a problem. When the road changed from rutted gravel to uneven asphalt, June put it in third and the clattering got louder. A new noise came from under the car, the unnerving grind of nuts and bolts in an industrial blender. The plume of steam rising from under the hood seemed thinner, and Peter was pretty sure that wasn’t good news. June kept both hands on the wheel because the steering was unreliable at speeds over fifteen miles per hour. Something else wrong in the front end, maybe a tie rod, maybe the frame was bent, or both. The list was getting longer by the minute.
But that little car kept running, either out of pure habit or just plain mechanical stubbornness, all the way to a narrow two-lane county highway and the tiny town of Bantam.
It was just a few businesses grouped together like herd animals around a watering hole, more of a populated intersection than a town. June pulled behind a rambling single-story building with a wraparound porch that looked like it belonged on the set of an old Western movie. A large wooden sign announced PIZZA! BEER! LIVE MUSIC ON WEEKENDS!
She drove to the far edge of the wide dirt parking lot to where the scrub growth began. They shared the lot with a Dumpster and a rusted-out Ford Econoline on cement blocks. When she turned off the ignition, the engine stopped with a definitive metallic clunk. Peter thought it unlikely that the little car would ever start again.
The rear roof of the car had been partially crushed in the crash, and Peter had to pull open the rear hatch by force. He’d never get it closed. The pain in his lower left leg ranged from a dull ache to a sharp stab depending on how much weight he put on it. A walking stick would be helpful. They emptied the car of anything useful that would fit into their packs. They left the neat coils of climbing rope, but took her tent, stove, and sleeping bag, and all the water and energy bars they could carry. He put the pistol and the black drawstring sack in the pack she’d loaned him.
She found a set of clothes in a duffel, wrinkled but clean. When she stepped into the scrub to change, Peter turned away to give her more privacy.
He wasn’t sure if she would come back or just keep walking.
She hadn’t said much of anything since they’d gotten back in the car. She was functional but distant, maybe a little disconnected. He hoped it was just shock. He hoped she’d come back. But she’d been through a long nightmare of unpleasant experiences. An abduction and escape, a car chase and wreck. She’d been shot at. She’d seen people killed.
Peter was part of those experiences.
Most people didn’t have much practice handling what she’d just been through.
Those who had the practice? Well, he thought. We have our own problems.
For example, he was out of the mountains and back at the edge of the man-made world again, even just this tiny little town, and he could already feel the static prickling at his spine.
To push it away, he thought of what they would have to do next. Finding transportation was at the top of the list.
He was fairly sure that the four men in the Tahoe were not the only people involved.
And if there were more men and more black SUVs out there, they’d be coming.
But to find another car, he needed to look less like an accident victim and more like a normal person. He took a dirty sock and a water bottle and started to wipe the dried blood off his face.
He was relieved to hear June’s careful footsteps coming back through the scrub. When she came up beside him, he continued wiping at his face, keeping his movements slow and predictable. She took the water bottle from his hand, soaked her dirty Riot Grrrl T-shirt, and scrubbed at his bloody head with clinical force and precision until he looked presentable.
“Can I help with your arm?” He pointed at her bloody elbow.
“No.” She took the T-shirt and rinsed it out again, but wouldn’t meet his eye. She was staring at the back of the pizza place.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to look for a car. Do you want to come with me?”
She shook her head. He saw the clench in her jaw, the muscles knotted just beneath her freckled skin.
He turned to follow her gaze.
She wasn’t staring at the back of the pizza place.
She was watching the intersection, a section of which was visible through a gap in the trees.
Looking for the next group of men.
“Will you wait here for me?” he asked. “I’m looking for your new car. I’ll try to find a good one. I’ll come back, I promise. Then you can tell me what you want to do next.”
She didn’t answer, or take her eyes off the road. But she nodded.
Peter figured she was trying to make a decision. About him.
11