The highway is clear.
I handcuff him, haul him up, and he’s talking to me, and I’m ignoring his words and pleas, and I manage to shove him into the rear seat of his cruiser. I slam the door and go to the driver’s seat. Luckily the engine is still running and the trooper is still trying to talk to me, and I’m ignoring him.
Where to?
There.
That grove of trees.
I glance up at the side-view mirror.
White van coming right down at us.
I duck down.
Wait.
Wait.
I say, “Just be quiet back there, all right? I’m not going to hurt you…I need…I just need time.”
I hear the van roar by, feel the cruiser shake a bit from its passing, and when I think enough seconds have passed, I sit up, check the mirror one more time.
Clear.
I shift the cruiser into drive, swing the steering wheel, and we go down the uneven, grassy ground, until I find a place to pull in among the trees. The right side of the cruiser gets scraped by a pine trunk and I say, “Sorry about that.”
I lower the windows some, switch off the engine. I take the keys. I go around and open the rear door, and the guy tries to kick me.
I dodge it easily and pat his lower shins.
“Trooper, I’m sorry…you have no idea how sorry I am. I’ll call the state police in a while, let them know where they can find you.”
His eyes are swollen, red, and weepy. “You…you’re going to jail for this, bitch, I can guarantee it. I will hurt you. No matter how long it takes.”
I recall that rear police doors can’t be opened from the inside. With him being handcuffed, it’s going to take a lot of time and effort for him to break free.
“You’re going to hurt me?” I ask. “Take a number.”
I slam the rear door shut and start running back up to the highway.
CHAPTER 36
HANCOCK SWEARS and tries to hammer at the door with his booted feet. No joy. Damn it all to hell! He knew something odd was going on with this Army woman, and now, here he is, humiliated, eyes hurting like hell, handcuffed in the rear of his own cruiser. He has no doubt that once he gets free, his brothers and sisters in law enforcement will do their best to track down this crazy bitch, but still…
Besides coming home safe, cops also have another steadfast rule.
Don’t screw up in public.
Being disarmed, pepper-sprayed with his own canister, and then cuffed and tossed into the rear of your cruiser, like some damn sack of potatoes…after a dignified amount of time, his fellow troopers in his section are going to tease him without mercy in the years to come, unless he busts a couple of heads along the way and threatens his job.
He might even have to put in for a transfer, or go find another law enforcement job somewhere, try to start new and live this down.
A ringing noise interrupts his fast-moving thoughts, and he realizes it’s his cell phone, and he can’t get to it, and crap, maybe it’s Lu calling, to check in on him, to remind him to pick up that prescription.
Damn. Screwing up on the job and in his personal life. What a day this has turned out to be.
He shimmies forward, and then lifts both feet and slams them against the rear door window. The glass trembles and his feet bounce right back.
What did that Army captain say? Something about needing time.
He tries again with his feet.
The window stays in place.
Hancock thinks that the Cornwall woman could be looking for enough time to save the planet, and he rightly doesn’t give a crap.
When he gets free, there’s going to be a law enforcement pursuit that will make that Army captain regret ever going after Clay Hancock, by God.
He tries again with his feet.
I’m going up near my Wrangler and a red Ford pickup truck is slowing down, like it wants to check me out or maybe offer some help, and I make an exaggerated motion at the front of my slacks, to look like I am zipping things up after taking a bathroom break.
The truck speeds up, there’s a honk and some shouts from the two guys inside, and instead of doing what I want to do—give them a one-finger salute—I give them a big smile and wave and get back into my Jeep, after having picked up my license and registration from the ground.
Inside the Jeep I should gently place the .357 Ruger back into my leather carrying case, get out into traffic, and resume my mission to Three Rivers, Texas, and fast.
I should.
Instead I just bow my head against the steering wheel, shudder, and start sobbing.
I take a deep breath.
It’s a hell of a thing, coming that close to shooting an innocent state trooper.
A hell of a thing.
Then I start up my Jeep and get the hell out of there.
CHAPTER 37
TOM CORNWALL is exhausted and discouraged, sitting on the end of the bunk bed, back in his cubical prison. His right arm is stretched out, gently holding Denise’s hand. She’s wide-eyed but keeping calm, sitting up against a pile of pillows. A dark-skinned woman wearing a black scarf around her head is smiling and whispering at Denise as she works on her cut foot.
“There’s a good girl…”
“Be brave now…”
“Just a bit more…”
Denise’s right leg and foot are extended into the woman’s skirted lap, and there’s an open leather case on the other bed. The woman doctor has gently washed and wiped Denise’s foot, and now she tapes on a small bandage.
“There you go, princess,” she says in a soft, accented voice. “The wound isn’t that bad. It just looked bad, lots of blood. Try to stay off it as much as you can during the next few days. All right?”
Denise nods.
“Does it feel better now?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good girl.”
The woman gathers up her medical gear and supplies, zips the case shut, and then stands up. She says a phrase in Pashto that Tom recognizes—“Good-bye, little girl”—and turns to leave.
Tom catches her eye. He hopes there’s sympathy, or worry, or friendship in that doctor’s face, but no.
There’s just contempt.
That’s all.
Tom knows why. It’s the contempt of a woman seeing a man who can’t take care of his little girl.
The doctor leaves and Pelayo Abboud steps in, with two other men, one older, one younger. The two men who had earlier dropped off their breakfast.
Tom squeezes Denise’s hand.
Pelayo steps forward with Tonton and the young Afghan man, named Hamid. That’s right. The American writer is tired, his face is sagging, and Pelayo knows he’s been broken. To be within a few meters of freedom and escape, carrying his little girl in his arms, his writer’s mind already composing the successful end of their escape…and Pelayo stepped in, destroying the story, destroying his hopes.
Tom Cornwall says, “Yes?”
Pelayo gently sits down on the opposite bunk, holding a crisp small brown paper bag in his hand. He says, “I’m sorry, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear the last time we spoke. I’m in the middle of a delicate negotiation involving very high stakes, and your wife is a vital part of that dealing, which includes you and your daughter. You did understand that, did you not?”