An American Outlaw (26 page)

She shouts, “
Get us out of here
.”

The white cruiser's in the middle of the highway—the cop in the gold car out of his vehicle, running behind the hood. All cars stationary. Light-bars flashing. Sirens wailing. 

I floored the throttle, snapped the steering right, down a side road, unlit.

We barreled fifty yards, I snapped a left. Up a single lane, sparse trees lining the climb of a hill. 

Windows down, the sound of sirens through the wet air. We had to break visual. 

We passed a breaker's yard. I made a right. “We got to bail. Ditch this.”

“Then what?”

We're climbing still. The lane getting smaller, tighter. No telling where it goes. Past mail boxes to trailers, on parcels of land, among the dripping trees. Topping out, passing down the other side of the hill. Coming to a bend in the lane—a logging road, headed left. Into dark woods.

I steered the Dakota up it, off the lane. Switched out the lights. 

We're bumping up a track, already it's starting to give out—only two hundred yards and it stops. 

There's a gate. Tube steel and wire. A padlock on it.

I revved the Dakota, headed straight at it. The fender hit the gate at full bore. 

We smashed the lock, burst through. 

Trees everywhere—no way forward. A voice. A man's voice shouting. 

I wrenched the Dakota right, up an earth bank, along a ridge of dirt. Sirens, not far off.  

“Get the money, we're getting out.”

“How's that going to work?”

“We stay with this, we're screwed...”

The Dakota bottomed-out on the ridge, tires losing drive in the mud. 

I braked. Killed the engine. “Let me get reloaded.” I pulled a handful of bullets from my jacket. Dumped the clip on the SIG. Filled it, ran a finger down. “Where's the shotgun slugs?”

Tennille pulls a ripped cardboard box of 12-gauge shells from under the seat. 

I filled the tube of the Moss. She put the 870 across her lap. 

We sat in the dark cab, fumbling ammo, like sitting in a scrape—with sweaty magazines, a combat helmet full of rounds. Loading everything max-out. Filling our pockets.

I pushed open the truck door. Took both the shotguns. “You take the money.”

We ran from the truck, crashing through the undergrowth, into the trees. Tennille close behind me, deeper into pine woods. 

In the sky above the trees an orange tinge showed.

“Is it clearing?”

“I don't know.”

We were coming over some kind of high ridge, a line of rock, the trees thinning, then cut to stumps. A construction site overlooking the main part of town. Orange light. Bulldozers, stacks of block and lumber.

We crossed the edge of the site. Wet mud underfoot. To a new-built road, unfinished houses, the road curving; descending a long slope to town.

We ran down, into back streets, scarcely lit. Unsold plots between the few small houses. 

A police truck rolls around the corner.

It's a Ford Ranger. County sheriff’s truck. Painted gold, like the cruiser on the highway. Letters on the bodywork;
Tom Green County
.

I'm holding a shotgun in each hand. Tennille's got two flight cases. It takes a split second for him to make us.

I dropped the 870, raised the Moss.

He braked. Snatched up his radio.

“
Over here.
” Tennille shouts.

I grabbed up the 870, ran behind her, to another, smaller road. 

There's a park, a baseball field. We ran across the soaking grass.

More sirens. Engines, howling, gunning down the tight lanes.

Across the baseball field we ran out onto another dark street. 

A crossroads. A church. 

Up ahead, another black and white squad car's tearing from a side road. It stops, skidding—two cops jump out, racing behind their open doors.

They open up, firing. 

I rolled on the ground. Lined up the near-door with the 870—Tennille running in behind a tree.

I squeezed the trigger, elbow kicking off the wet road. 

They fired back, rounds smacking out in the air, like firecrackers. 

I raised the barrel for the range—fired again on the first door, then twice on the second—squinting at the mess of glass and scoured metal.

Tennille jumped a low fence. She disappeared into the back yard of a house. 

I dumped the empty 870, ran after her.

We crashed through the back yard, knocking down garbage cans, dodging laundry. Tennille pushed through a hedge. I followed her out onto an unlit street.

The gold Ford Ranger's blocking one end of it.

Coming up the other end—a Chevy Silverado.

“Gil...”

It's coming straight up the road.

The marshal
.

There's a storm drain, a concrete-lined ditch we can get in. But they're too close. We'll be surrounded.

Across the street is a church. A cinder block wall around it—five feet high.

“Last stand,” I says. “Take the shotgun...”

CHAPTER 27

We ran. Crossed the street. Got in behind the church yard wall. I pulled the SIG from my jacket—Tennille put the stock of the Moss to her shoulder.

“We've got to peel...”

“What?”

“Field maneuver. You got nine in the shotgun, I got fourteen in this.”

I sneaked a look above the wall, the Ford Ranger still blocking an end—the Silverado pulled up somewhere—no seeing it for trees and houses on the dark lane. 

Cops are shouting above the rain—close, not more than twenty or thirty yards.

“I'll take the money, make a run. If they spot me, they'll open up...”

“Then what?”

“Fire back. I find a position. You fall back, I cover.”

“That's going to get us out of this?”

I picked a spot behind to run to. “You better hope.” 

There was a church bus parked in the yard at the back. 

“Don't fire more than twice.”

“Why not?”

“We need multiple overwatches.”

I grabbed a flight case in my free hand, jammed the second case under my arm. I ran low, got behind a corner of the bus. 

Nobody fired.

They hadn't seen. The marshal must be holding short; playing safe. 

Tennille looked back, I signaled to run. She broke cover, cutting the line of sight. 

She scrambled down by me at the bus.

“Move sideways—I can't fire if you're in the way.”

“So tell me.”

Behind us there's a street running parallel—a bunch of agarito growing along a ditch, maybe linking up with the storm drain. 

“Down there,” I told her. “You go, I'll cover.”

She ran, but too high, she had too much showing. 

The Silverado rolled in line with the church wall. It braked to a stop.

I raised the SIG, staring at the shot-up door of the truck. 

The marshal hit reverse, he pulled back. 

I checked behind—Tennille was in the ditch. 

I ran, I could hear shouting, now. I threw myself down beside her.

Behind us there's a restaurant lot, a few parked vehicles; the only cover left. 

Other side of the cinder block wall around the church, two uniform cops are taking position.

“See those cars? We got to use 'em. Get behind one.”

She springs out of the ditch.

They open fire from behind the wall. 

I put two bursts of three in—they ducked back. 

I ran. 

Tennille was in the restaurant lot, there's a guy; a black guy in a fishing hat—standing by a car, its door open. 

I held the SIG outstretched; “
Hey, you
.”

“Don't shoot.”

“Get in. Get in the car...”

Tennille ducked behind the hood of a panel van. She raised the shotgun.

I kept my pistol on the guy in the hat. “
Start it up
...”  

He bent in to the driver's seat—started the motor. 

I snatched open the rear door, threw the flight cases in back. Then jumped in the front passenger seat.

Tennille fired the Moss—twice, three times, back towards the church yard.

I shouted out, “
Get over here
.”

She ran, threw herself in back.

“Go
.
Go
.”

“
Where,
man?
”

“
Get us over the bridge
.”

He stuck it in drive, pulled out, swerving into the street. 

We hit the junction with Main, he makes a left, east. 

He's maybe forty years old. In a sweat top and fishing hat. Muscle working in the side of his face.

“Get us over the river,” I says, “we'll let you go.”

He stared straight ahead.

We passed two blocks—we could see the big hospital, by the bridge we came in on. Shut off; police cars line abreast.

“Shit, Gil...”

“There better be another way out of here.”

The guy grips the steering wheel. “There's another bridge, downstream.”

“How far?”

“About a mile.”

“Go.
Get moving
...”

We drove straight across the main intersection.

“That
marshal
?” says Tennille.

“I know...”

“Where'd he come from?”

I rolled the window.

“Why didn't you shoot him?”

“Why didn't
you
?” I could hear sirens, but other cars were moving, other traffic not just us. 

We crossed another block, another intersection. Then the road forked—we kicked a right. 

“The river this way?”

“Yeah.”

“Don't fuck with us.”

“No, man.”

We're driving down a wide boulevard. The car a ten-year-old Toyota, a Camry—nothing that was going to stick out. 

I turned around in my seat, trying to get a look out the back. “You think anybody's following?”

“Let me look,” says Tennille, “you make sure we don't get lost.”

“You don't plan on getting us lost, right?”

The guy shakes his head. “I just want to go home. That's all, man.”

“What's your name?”

“Darrel.”

“You local?”

“No.”

“Live here?”

“Kind of.”

“What's 'kind of'?”

“I'm on a program.”

“What?”

“VA program. Six months I been at the treatment center.”

“There's a Veteran's Center out here?”

“They got me a job. That restaurant back there. Cleaning up.”

“There's a bunch of cars behind us, Gil. I don't know what they are.”

“You see lights. Police lights?”

“I don't know.”

“Keep looking.”

The guy turned towards me a fraction. “I guess they might've blocked this other bridge—but there's another way over. A ford. Across the river. Summertime, you can use it.”

“How do
you
know?”

“Like to fish there.”

He pointed to a turn, off the main road. A black lane, lined with trees.

“Down there?”

“It's along the river...”

“Do it,” I says, “take it.” Then, to Tennille, “Watch for anybody coming off when we make the turn.”

He signaled. Steered into the smaller road.

“What service?” I says.

“Marine Corps.”

“Semper Fi.”

He throws a quick look. “You?”

“Somebody just turned off,” Tennille says, “right behind us.”

“How many?”

“One.”

“You see what it is?”

“I can't tell.”

“Keep looking.”

We're running along the backs of houses, a single lane road, trees lining the edge of the river. The car wipers beating on the windshield, rain slamming in on gusts of wind.

“That's the parkway,” the guy says, “up ahead.”

I could see the river, now, through the trees. A main road bridge. Halfway over, a bunch of parked cars—red and blue light-bars showing through the tree line. 

“Stop the car.” I turned to Tennille; “Get the shotgun ready.”

We pulled to the side of the lane, beneath the trees. 

I popped the passenger door, hands wrapped around the SIG. 

The headlights behind us drew level. 

Then went by. 

A Nissan sedan.

“Darrel?” I says. “I need you to get out, now.” 

I watched the Nissan as it rolled on, disappearing along the lane. 

I reached back, took a flight case from the seat. Opened it. The cash inside bound in neat bunches.

“You count these?”

Tennille leans forward. “Each one's a thousand...”

I counted out a stack till I had a pile of thirty on my lap. “We need the car.”

The guy just looked at me. I handed him the stack of money.

Tennille says, “What the hell are you doing?”

He held the money out in front of him, in front of his face.

I says, “Where's this ford?”

“Across the parkway. You go across, head down the other side. There's a track. Takes you right to the river. All you got to do.”

“Alright. I need you to step out, now.”

He opened the driver door, eased himself out. 

I got out, walked around the hood.

He stood in the rain folding money. Folding it in the pockets of his pants.

“This hospital? It far?”

“No, man. A mile or so.”

“Take your time.”

He stood looking at me, rain dripping from his hat. “I'll have to report it...”

“Tell 'em we were headed north.”

Tennille got out of the car—she jumped in the front. 

I got behind the wheel.

She says, “Are we moving now?”

I pulled out back into the lane. 

Through the trees, we could see the parkway. I turned the headlights out, edged the car to the junction with the main road.

Two police cars were parked up on the bridge, three hundred yards out.

I drove across the parkway—back down the other side, towards the river, where the lane ran on. 

I saw the track, straight off. Turned down it, towards the river bank. 

Fifty yards and we were at its edge. Out in the river, a concrete strip ran off toward the far bank. The ford was just a few feet wide, the water rising in the rain; lapping up to it. Already over, in places.