“Hide it in the trunk,” he says. “And if you play Autobahn and we get stopped, no mouthing off.”
“Just so you know, that’s not how girls get out of tickets. Mouthing off isn’t even close to what I’d do if I got stopped.”
“Never mind. I’ll drive.”
“That’s not what the doctor said.”
“Are you sure that wasn’t a weed dispensary?”
I stick him in back, put my hoodie over him, and hide the gun under his gear in the trunk. Pissed off that I’m doing what he told me to do, but still doing it.
He’s the one with the impulse control and the sensible advice, but I’m the one who’s getting us out of this.
He’s asleep before I pull away from the curb.
We drive past desolate, sad square stucco apartment buildings. Small wooden houses with falling-down porches. Fields of wilted plants I can’t even identify.
If I don’t get back to Cotter’s Mill and take care of this, I could end up being the receptionist at that doc-in-a-box, hiding out for the rest of my life. I could make that doctor coffee on his old, sorry coffee maker and stare at his dirty fingernails every day until he dies.
I could get out of the car and lead a small tiny anonymous life right here.
Not go anywhere.
Not do anything.
If I don’t get my life back, that could be my story.
That or premature death.
But (thank you, stupid inspirational poem) there’s another path in Jack’s stupid woods.
This better work.
68
Jack
I wake up in the parking lot of a motel outside of Primm, Nevada. You can’t miss Primm: motels in the form of molded plastic castles with roller coaster scaffolding all the way around them and factory outlets as far as the eye can see.
Nicolette says, “What do you mean, ‘It’s too close’? Too close to what? Are you hallucinating?”
I open my eyes, and she’s peering at me over the front seat, the car lit up with acid greens and pinks from the motel’s looming sign. It takes me a while to register that the hallucination question isn’t an insult.
“Close to Las Vegas, home sweet home.” The flickering green and pink lights hurt my eyes and make my stomach lurch.
“You come from here?” she says. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“If you knew me, you’d see what a solid citizen I am. I go to high school in a tie.”
She pulls out a brush and starts fixing her hair. “I could check us in and you could pass out for a couple of days. They’ll take cash, right?”
This motel has the neon signs but not the amusement park, and it’s off the highway. “How old is Catherine Davis again?”
“Nineteen.”
“Knock yourself out.” I’m too dazed to be worried enough. Then a horn honks, and I start to worry. This car, for one thing, should have been ditched. And we shouldn’t be here.
Nicolette comes back with a key.
The motel’s sign has an eerie neon screech.
I say, “Open the door and mess up the bed, stick the key somewhere, and we’ve gotta go.”
She shrugs. “If stopping here was your idea, we’d be asleep by now. You know we would.”
69
Nicolette
Jack’s in the backseat, retching.
I’m driving us to Utah on roads that cut through mountains I wouldn’t like the look of even if this was a vacation. Even if all these 5-hour Energy shots and black coffee in cups the size of Big Gulps made me happy and energetic instead of just jumpy.
All I am is jumpy.
Saint George is where Jack’s going to ditch the car and then somehow acquire another one. He isn’t clear on the specifics. Whenever I look at the scenery or weave and check the rearview mirror for company, he tells me to watch the road.
Princess of Paranoia, meet Careful, Careful, Careful Boy.
I say, “See, I knew you were going to keep me safe.” So he won’t succumb to total misery while throwing up into a paper bag. He says it’s the chili cheese fries we bought in Primm.
I’m the one who drove through the night, pulling over and checking his iPad for car rental places that take cash. There aren’t any. Then I found a nine-year-old Toyota on Craigslist. Made the call from the burner. Drove us there. Got cash out of the trunk. Handed him a wad of it and told him to go buy a car.
Jack salutes. “Anything else?”
We ditch the old car in the desert, clear everything out of it.
I say, “Shouldn’t we be pushing it off a cliff or burning it or something?”
“Should we be adding pyromania to your list of talents?”
I’ve been up all night. My whole body is buzzing like there were locusts in it, flailing like crazy, trying to get out. I have no sense of humor left.
Jack unscrews the license plates and tosses them out the window into some actual tumbleweed.
He says, “We have to get out of here before they find us.”
“I swear to God, no one was following me. Ever. I looped all over the place.”