“Way dumb is right,” the big man said, and Junior gave him a quick look.
Gracie continued reading about her case, the investigation- hey, Dad’s IPO went through! — the arrest of the abductor, the abductor’s suicide, and her soccer shorts.
“You left my shorts in the woods? So everyone thinks I’m running around in my Under Armour? That is like, so totally disgusting.”
“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” the big man said.
Gracie read more. “They found my jersey in this guy’s truck? And my blood?”
“From your elbows,” Junior said. “Pretty smart, huh? I thought of that myself.”
“Oh, yeah, real smart. This guy killed himself.”
“That was just lucky. We set him up pretty good, but we was only hoping for a couple days’ head start. Didn’t figure on him hanging hisself. Now we’re home free.”
The story said this Jennings guy had hung himself in his jail cell, and the police had closed her case. Gracie Ann Brice was presumed dead. Her body would probably never be found now that the abductor had killed himself. Gracie didn’t understand: Why didn’t Jennings just tell the police that he didn’t take her? Why would he kill himself? It didn’t make much sense to her, but it didn’t change what she knew.
“No, you’re not. He’s still coming.”
Junior was shaking his head. “That wimp ain’t coming to save you just like he didn’t save you from that fucking asshole yelling ‘panty check’ at the game. Was me, I’d’ve shot the son of a bitch. I about did.”
Ms. Fist made an appearance. Gracie wanted to pummel Junior just like she had the snot. “First of all, numb-nut”-she wasn’t sure what that word meant, but she had heard a boy call another boy that at school and he didn’t like it-“don’t call my dad a wimp. He may be a doofus, God bless him, but he’s a genius, smarter than you two meatbots put together.”
Junior: “The hell’s a meatbot?”
“And second of all, he didn’t even hear the big creep. He was multitasking. And third of all, do you really think that’s appropriate language to use in front of a child?”
“Aw shit, I’m sorry, honey,” Junior said like he really meant it. “I won’t say them words no more.”
The big man turned in his seat to face Gracie. He wasn’t smiling. “I will. Listen up, sweet cheeks. If that boy calls himself your daddy’s smart enough to figure out Jennings didn’t take you and stupid enough to come looking for you, I’m gonna take my Bowie”-he held up what looked like an oversized steak knife-“and gut his scrawny ass from his dick to his neck and use his innards for bear bait, you understand? So sit back, enjoy the trip, and shut the fuck up!”
He was big and ugly and scary and he smelled bad. Gracie’s chin began quivering and her eyes watered. Just as she was on the verge of blubbering uncontrollably, she thought of her mother, the toughest, strongest, meanest person she knew. Gracie wasn’t like her mother, but it was in her genes-she could be if she needed to be. She recalled more of her mother’s advice: curse. Unexpected profanity from a woman, she had advised, intimidates men. Gracie remembered that word her mother often used when she thought Gracie wasn’t around and sometimes even when she was. She jutted her jaw out, leaned forward toward the big ugly scary stinking man, and enunciated each letter deliberately, which would have made Ms. Bradley, her English teacher, very proud.
“Fuck you.”
The big man gave her a hard look like he wanted to backhand her into next week, but Gracie’s chin held its ground; he abruptly broke into loud laughter.
“Where’d you learn to talk like that, girl?”
“My mother. She’s a lawyer.”
The two men looked at each other and shrugged. “Oh.”
“And FYI, A-hole-”
The big man just shook his big head. “You’re a piece a work, girlie. Makes me glad I didn’t have no brats-except maybe with some whores in Saigon.”
He thought that was funny.
“Anyway, FYI, I’m not talking about my dad. I’m talking about Ben.”
“And who the hell’s Ben?”
“My grandpa.”
The big man laughed again, even louder, and slapped Junior on the arm. “Her gramps.” He sucked on his cigarette like Sam sucking on a Slurpee, then he started coughing smoke like he was choking and his face got all red. “Damn angina.” He bent over and dug around and came back up with a pill bottle. He put a little pill in his mouth.
Junior said, “No one’s coming for you, Patty. You’re dead.”
“Ben knows I’m alive.”
“How?”
“He just does.”
After a few minutes the red left the big man’s face. He threw his left arm over the seat back again and said, “Well, shit, Junior, gramps is coming to kill us all and save her sweet little ass. We might as well give her up right now.”
A stern voice, her best imitation of Elizabeth A. Brice, Attorney-At-Large: “Yes, you should. Because he’s on his way right now. And if you two idiots had the sense God gave dirt, you’d let me out of this car so he never catches up with you.”
“Well, sweet cheeks,” the big man said, “I ain’t gonna lose no sleep over your gramps coming after me.”
“You should. He’s got one of those, too.”
“One a what?”
He was looking right at her now. His eyes followed her hand as she extended it and pointed her finger at the big man’s tattoo, almost touching his gross arm.
“One of those.”
The big man’s eyebrows crunched down. “Your grandpa’s got a tattoo says ‘viper’?”
“Yep, he sure does.” She gestured behind her with her thumb. “And he’s somewhere back there right now, catching up fast.”
The big man’s eyes shot up; he stared out the back of the car, as if Ben were tailgating them. His face was different now.
Because Ben was coming.
“We’re never gonna get to Idaho in this piece of shit!”
“Try it again!” Ben yelled from under the raised hood of the Jeep. John turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal, filling the engine well with the smell of gasoline; the image of a Vietnamese child drenched in napalm flashed through Ben’s mind.
The jet had arrived in Albuquerque at 0900 local time. They had retrieved their bags and located the old Jeep in the parking lot. But the damn thing wouldn’t start again. Ben was under the hood and tweaking the carburetor, which usually worked. John was sitting in the Jeep, impatient and annoyed and becoming more of both by the minute.
Ben slammed the hood shut and came around to the driver’s side. John climbed over to the passenger’s seat. Ben got in, determined that the Jeep would start this time. He turned the ignition and pushed the accelerator to the floorboard.
“Come on, you son of a-”
The engine coughed and wheezed like a two-pack-a-day smoker then turned over. Ben quickly shifted into reverse; the Jeep jerked itself back out of the parking space. Then it died.
“Cripes!” from the passenger’s seat.
Ben jammed his boot down on the accelerator again; the Jeep fired up again. He rammed the stick shift into first before the Jeep could change its mind. The vehicle lurched out of the airport, belching a cloud of black smoke.
Once they were on the access road leading to the interstate, Ben glanced over at his passenger. John was his mother’s son-the same sharply etched facial features, the same curly black hair, the same slender frame, the same brilliant mind. He was so unlike his father. Ben’s thoughts turned back again to that night when “Stop!” John shouted.
Ben slammed on the brakes. “What?”
John pointed. “Pull in there!” Then he started punching the buttons on his cell phone like he was calling 911 to report an emergency.
“Hi, this is Gracie. I can’t answer the phone right now ’cause I’m on a date with Orlando Bloom- I wish! Actually, I’m like, at school or soccer practice or Tae Kwon Do class or chasing E.T. around the house. Anyway, I’m not here to answer my phone, duh, so leave a message or whatever. Bye.” The machine beeped.