And like that, I was in the mood for a drive.
The other two pickups sped off in different directions, as she and I climbed into the cab of her yellow Ford. Fastidiousness and nutritional fussiness were not among her faults; the floor was covered with crushed Bud cans and balled-up candy wrappers, and the lady appeared to own a bald dog, because tiny gray hairs were matted everywhere. Also, on the dash, directly in front of the steering wheel, was mounted a small video screen, presumably the one she had used to observe me inside the van.
Her right hand kept her pistol leveled at me, and with the other she removed her black balaclava hood and shook out her blond hair. As Chief Eric Tanner's witnesses attested, this was a lady who could spin a few heads; a little past thirty, cool blue eyes, tanned skin just turning wrinkly, pouty lips, and a firm chin. She was quite pretty, though a little slutty. Definitely not the type of girl Mom dreamed you'd bring home, but I think Pop would've enjoyed her. Except this lady had no heart and the black soul of a murderess.
Obeying perhaps her only law of the day, she buckled her seat belt. She said to me, "Don't buckle yers. Try crashin' this truck, yer goin' through the windshield, not me." She waved her pistol in front of my nose. "What'n the hell you lookin' at? Move it."
I pulled forward, and she directed me toward the far end of the parking lot. We sat on a long bench seat, and, showing sound survival skills, she scooted up against the passenger door and faced me. She said, "Don't speed, neither. Git back on Route 50, toward D.C."
After a moment, I commented, "You lied."
"I lie all the time. What's yer point?"
"There was no bomb."
"Oh… yeah." She looked around to see if any cops were in the vicinity. Unfortunately, they were all attending a convention on the other side of the mall, and it was smooth sailing. She looked at me and giggled. "Now, don't you feel like a stupid ass? Law degree and all that… still, I bullshitted you down to yer underpants. You were shittin' yer drawers."
"I never believed you in the first place."
"Liar." She laughed. "I saw yer face through the camera, and heard you tell the FBI. Like hell you din't believe me."
I laughed, too. "It did kind of suck."
I kept my eyes on the road, but after a moment I said to her, "You know, every cop in the entire world is going to come after you. Forever. You murdered a lot of important people. They'll never forget. Never. Eventually, they'll get you."
"Shut up."
"I just thought you should know they're really pissed."
"So what? They ain't impressed me yet."
That was probably true. After another moment I said, "What should I call you?"
"Don't call me nothin'. Shut up and drive."
"Come on. Give me a name. You're going to kill me anyway. Think about it… What will it hurt?"
She seemed to consider this. Obviously, she had removed her balaclava because in this era of terrorphobia people get a little stressed when they see hooded people riding around town. Yet allowing me to see her face was bad news for me. In fact, I was clueless as to why they hadn't already whacked me. Somehow, I fit into their agenda. Probably it suited their purposes to keep a hostage until they were free and clear, not a second longer. In any event, her failure to contradict my assertion confirmed that I didn't have to worry about my dinner plans. She said, "Mary-Lou."
Why do all these people from Texas sound like country singers? I said, "Pretty name."
"Don't try that shit. We ain't gonna be friends."
I looked at her. "You're right, MaryLou, we'll never be friends. I'd just like my last few hours to pass pleasantly. Okay with you?"
We could hear, off in the distance, the screams of sirens, and again she twisted around and looked to be sure there weren't any flashing lights on our tail. No such luck.
I mentioned, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The Bureau already knows about you."
"Yeah, right-nice try. They don't got a clue about me."
"Well… look, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news here… but yeah… they really do."
"Bullshit. They don't-"
"They know you're from Killeen, they know you've been pilfering weapons, and they know all about your pal Clyde Winner."
As intended, this disclosure got a big jolt out of her. She sort of recoiled backward, the pistol dipped a little, and her eyes went wide.
"Investigators are running all over Killeen," I continued. "What I'll bet is somebody will remember seeing you and Clyde together." I added, "With your looks… the boys do take notice, don't they?"
"I… when… I mean, how-"
"Hey… you should see the composite of you they're flashing around. From that range theft-the day you ran around Fort Hood in the range control getup. Those guys on the range sure remembered you. In fact, seeing you in the flesh-wow, it's you… a dead ringer." I glanced at her and said, "Hey… you seem a little tense… upset. Should I be telling you this?"
"Jus'… fuck- Jus' shut up."
"Fine. I'll just, you know, drive."
I stared straight ahead. MaryLou was apparently not one of those people who accepts bad news gracefully. Neither am I.
I was thinking on my feet, looking for an angle, trying to get a bead on this lady. Having grown up in Army bases in the South, I knew girls who at least looked and sounded like MaryLou- rednecky, bred on the wrong side of the tracks, and willing to do anything to get to the right side. Mentally underendowed, but overendowed with great looks, great knockers, and the drives and instincts of a true carnivore.
Okay, I was constructing an overused stereotype, but stereotypes have their uses, and often even have roots in some useful and telling truths. For instance, I guessed that MaryLou probably was a little insecure about her background, resentful toward authority figures, and probably had a history with the coppers. Like most people from hardscrabble backgrounds, she was perhaps prone to believe that every piece of good fortune comes wrapped in a shitty lining.
Motive was also a factor. I would guess MaryLou beat the odds of early disaster, and now the shadow of long-term failure loomed; she was too old and carried too much baggage to impress a rich boy, her good looks were getting wrinkly, and a fork-lift was required to keep her boobs aloft. For MaryLou, it had become all or nothing, which was not really happy news for me.
As I suspected she might, she waved her pistol and asked, "Hey, you. What else the cops know?"
"MaryLou, it's not what they know now-it's what they'll soon know. You born and raised in Killeen?"
"So?"
I shook my head. "So, that's unfortunate for you. For the cops, it's one-stop/one-shop. The thing with cops is, they may get off to a slow start, but they're resilient and very persistent." I added, "By nightfall, they'll know your name, your history, even your shoe size."
Actually, from the molds taken at the Hawk's place, they already had her shoe size, width, an estimate of her weight, and even her shoe type. Under the circumstances, however, it probably was best not to bring that up. I suggested, "But maybe you don't have a problem."
"How's that?"
"Well, I'm sure you've got a good disguise and a fake passport to get out of the country. Right?"
"Nope. I know where I can git one, though."
"Killeen?"
"So?"
"What do you think?"
"Too hot, huh?"
I allowed her to think about that. She didn't strike me as overly bright, but I would be foolish to underestimate her. At least given our brief history together, there was no risk she would overestimate me. I suggested, "I'm not saying you're going to get caught, but I don't really see how you're not."
From her expression, these thoughts were disturbing for her. Actually, I was a little astonished. These people had thought out everything; why not a reasonable escape plan? Then again, success breeds overconfidence, and we all know where that lands you: sloppy