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wrong. We could have trouble at the border. The cops could figure out our car switching. Someone might have ID-ed us on some camera we went by—like at the convenience store where we bought gas or when we went through the drive-thru back in Idaho. Hell, she could double-cross us. I wouldn’t put it past that psycho-bitch.”
“Nah! Don’t worry about that,” Troy snapped. Though Ronny was making some legit points.
“She’s mental, man.”
Boxer forced a smile. “Hey, aren’t we all a little crazy? To pull off what we did?”
“A little nuts is different from fuckin’ crazy, the kind that puts you in the psycho ward.” A tic had developed near his eye. Boxer watched it pulse in the weird illumination cast by the dash lights.
“We knew it was risky going in.”
“Risky? It was damned near suicidal, and y’know, the jury’s still out on that one.”
Boxer didn’t like talk about juries or psych wards or getting caught. They were so close. So damned close. He glanced out the side window where branches were scraping the sides of the pickup. At least he wouldn’t have to hear Stillwell’s bitching and moaning and worrying aloud much longer. He drew a little line in the condensation on the glass and then let his hand drop down to his side, to the spot between the door and the passenger seat where his pistol was waiting. “Come on, bro, relax,” he suggested in the most calming voice he could find. “We’re almost home. Hey. Over there.” He pointed with his left hand. “There’s the turnout. Just like she said. See.”
The beams of the headlights showed a gap in what had once been a fence, and a rusted gate had been left open, yawning wide. A single set of tire tracks had crossed into the denser brush beyond.
Ronny, bless him, turned the wheel, the pickup shimmying a bit as the tires slid, and they drove through the open space, following the tracks. Like a lamb to the slaughter.
“I just don’t get why we had to meet up here,” Ronny said, squinting as he guided the truck through the trees, thick stands of fir and pine, branches laden with ice and snow. “I mean we passed by a dozen cheap motels on our way here. What was wrong with the Shilo or Motel 6? Or Double Tree?”
“Cameras, man. That’s what’s wrong. And people at the front desk, or guests or maids. Someone might recognize us. With the gear we’ve got in the back of the truck, we might look a little suspicious. Those aren’t golf clubs in those bags and it ain’t the weather to hit the links.”
“Lots of guys bring guns. Hunting rifles. No big deal.” But he was chewing on his lip, thinking it over as he studied the ruts leading deeper into the woods.
“But why risk it? Trust me. This chick knows what she’s doing. She’s careful. Y’know? Takin’ no chances that we’ll be spotted. The police in San Francisco have to be looking for us.”
“That’s far away.”
“My point exactly. No reason to fuck up now. Especially if there’s a BOLO out for us. Right now, we’re ahead of the game, on a roll.”
Or at least I am. You, Ronny, well, sadly, that’s another story.
The pickup bounced along the ruts of packed snow and Boxer relaxed against the passenger door, seeming aloof when inside he was strung tight as a bowstring, every muscle tense, electricity pulsing through his nerves. He had to ice Ronny quickly. Get it over with. He felt his jaw knot with tension and forced it to relax, to appear as calm as a clear water lake while inside he was churning. But he couldn’t tip his hand. Stillwell was already antsy, ready to run. It was Boxer’s job to keep him loose and sane.
At least for a few more minutes.
“What the fuck?” Ronny said as they pulled into a small clearing behind an aging Jeep Wrangler that was idling, exhaust blowing from its tailpipe. As the Silverado’s beams washed over the back of the dirty rig, the shadowy outline of the driver was visible behind the wheel.
“I told you she’d be here.”
“But what is this place?” Stillwell looked nervously around the isolated terrain.
“Hunting spot, I think.” Boxer was pulling on his gloves. “She said there’s a cabin not far and a duck blind.”
“Well, it’s in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”
“That’s the idea.”
“It still gives me the willies.”
It was a little eerie, the white landscape with its shadows where moon glow couldn’t reach, tall trees rising like sentinels, the undergrowth covered in frigid powder. “Let’s finish up and get the hell out. Cut the lights, will ya? No reason to attract any attention,” Troy advised.
“Right.” Ronny was already opening the truck’s door, wasn’t bothering to turn off the engine, only paused to switch off the headlights and grab his pack of smokes from the console as he stepped outside. But he wasn’t as quick as Boxer, who had slipped his pistol from the floor before opening his door and now held it in his right hand, away from Stillwell’s vision as he approached. Together they broke a path through ankle deep snow, their boots crunching into an icy layer as they made their way to the driver’s side of the Jeep.
She powered down the window. “About time.” Her face was as pale as the surrounding landscape. Ashen. White.
“We had to make sure we weren’t being followed,” Boxer said.
