There is a crunch of shoes on gravel. The slamming of a car trunk.
Ruby moans in her sleep.
The wind rushes past now: It coils all the way to Hammock County, where the motel owner, Willa, sits up late, kneading her knuckles. Lately, the insomnia has gotten her, and she doesn’t know why: Tears prick her eyes at the oddest times. It’s been happening since that investigator came to town. The man who killed Betty will soon be killed himself. He’ll be dead, and what difference will it make?
The bone sang to Willa, and at the same time, it lay its hand overhundreds of women: In that moment, all the flags on the map on Ruby’s wall laid down at once, and Ruby was paddling her feet in her sleep like she was running, running to her mom, her heart open and exploding in delight, but as the dream ended, she was standing in the field behind the poorhouse, and all the grass was mowed down.
24.
Ruby was driving from the Atlanta airport back to Pickleweed when an old truck pulled up sharply on the empty road behind her. The man driving wore a gimme cap, pulled down over his face so she wouldn’t be able to see him. Mud had been smeared on his plates.
She knew at a glance, hearing the snarl of his engine, exactly what he had planned.
He came up fast, running up on her bumper.
The woods were thick around the road, with narrow dirt shoulders for pulling aside. She knew better than to pull over. He would just pull in behind her, and—
She glanced in her mirror, increasing her speed. He matched it easily, driving crazy, driving close.
He pulled up even harder, honking. The blasts echoed through the foothills. He wanted her to pull over, be vulnerable to him in that moment.
Not a chance, she thought.
She was suddenly aware that her bag was in the back seat, and in it was everything important to the case, including the tape from the bar. If she disappeared, the entire case would go away. She would end up an invisible flag on her wall, before her building manager eventually emptied her apartment. She didn’t have any relatives that she knew about, and not even her friend Delaney would know what to do with her accumulated research. Her work would end up in the dumpster in the alley behind her building, and life would carry on—the way some wanted it.
She floored the gas, but the man’s truck was much more powerful than her cheap rental car, and he was riding right on her bumper.
She whipped around a curve, and glanced back.
He was holding a shotgun out his window.
The back window blew out. Glass went flying everywhere, and she felt the whoosh of hot air pressing against her head. She felt pain in the back of her neck, and knew that something had hit her.
Her car swerved. She was going too fast. She regained control. Her handgun was no match for a shotgun. If she pulled over to try to fight, he would blow her to pieces before she could even open her door.
She saw him lift the shotgun again.
The next shot would hit the back of her head.
There was a sign coming up, down the country road.
the pickleweed motel.
Swerving wildly, Ruby swung the car into the empty lot, thankful that no one was parked there at the moment. She felt the wheel slip beneath her sweaty hands, the tires spinning in helpless donuts, and she fought to regain control before the car flipped or went into the woods. She was breathing hard when she finally managed to shudder to a stop near the trees. She killed the engine.
Willa came running out of the motel.
The truck had slowed and then backed up to the front. The driver was idling his engine and watching Ruby. He looked at Willa and roared off.
Ruby got out, picking shards of glass out of her hair. One came away with a bloody swipe.
“You hurt?” Willa asked.
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
She turned to where the truck had disappeared. If asked, she knew she would have a hard time describing it. An older Ford, maybe—they were a dime a dozen in a place like this. The man had been wearing his cap.
But enough of his face had showed that she could tell he looked a bit like Tommy Lee Jones, and definitely not so nice around the eyes.
