The Hummingbird's Cage by Tamara Dietrich Page A

called out, smiling. Then she turned back to me and murmured low: “Remember—the gas station just this edge of town.”
    I nodded. I knew this. Of course I knew this. The game plan was ridiculously simple, straightforward. But even so, it helped to have her spell it out one more time.
    â€œThen turn right around, and it’s a straight shot to Albuquerque. Don’t stop—no food, no nothing. McGill is a big county, and there’s more prying eyes and gossiping tongues around than you know. Get out fast, and don’t look back.”
    â€œWhat about you? It might mean trouble.”
    She grunted. “Knowing that
pendejo
, there’s no ‘might’about it. Which is why—as much as I’d
love
to stay and watch the meltdown—Sam and I decided to pack up tonight and head out. We’re thinking Reno—honey, I’m feeling lucky.”
    She winked and began pulling her gloves back on. “Don’t linger, Jo,” she murmured again, this time in earnest. “I mean it. Get your ass in gear.”
    I nodded, clutching the envelope to my chest. It struck me that this would likely be the last time I would ever see Bernadette—a stranger who was sticking her neck out, at no inconsiderable risk, to help a woman she’d just met. And why? Was the goodness of her heart that profound? Or was her desire for revenge against Jim that deep?
    Maybe it was a mix of both, and if so, that was fine by me.
    â€œWait—how do I get in touch with you? How do I thank you?”
    Bernadette didn’t answer. She swung onto the bike and kicked it to life. She punched the throttle twice and the big engine growled back in response. Laurel covered her ears as Bernadette laughed. Then she nodded in my direction.
“Adiós, hermana!”
    She accelerated hard, her rear tire raking the edge of the lawn, spraying grass and dirt behind. The front of her bike was airborne for a second; then it squealed on the pavement as she raised a hand in salute, barreling back toward Wheeler.
    â€œShe’s
loud
,” Laurel said in wonder. I laughed as I dried my face on my sleeve.
    â€œYes, sweetie, she is that. How do you feel about going for a drive?”
    For us, it was an outrageous idea. I might as well have asked if she wanted to sprout handlebars and spoked tires and go bicycling on the roof. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t askquestions. I fetched the car keys from the hook inside the front door.
    The air was warm; the sun was shining. The engine started right up. I felt giddy, and so weightless I could have floated up like a hot-air balloon. Laurel was studying my face so earnestly that I laughed. She smiled back, but her eyes were still so anxious I felt a pang of guilt.
    No matter. I was doing this for her. For both of us.
    It was four miles to that first gas station on the outskirts of town. I gave the attendant a twenty from Bernadette’s envelope and began to tank up, the meter clicking away.
    It was clicking for a minute or so before I noticed the choking odor of gasoline getting stronger by the second. It was then that I saw liquid running out from underneath the car, streaming toward the road.
    I froze—fairly sure what it was, but not daring to believe it.
    I forced myself to pull the pump handle from the filler neck of the car and set it back in its cradle. Then I dropped to my hands and knees and peered under the chassis. I saw the gas tank and understood: a hole had been punched in the side of it, near the middle. Gasoline had chugged out onto the pavement.
    No wonder Jim never kept more than a few gallons in the thing. No wonder he never took it in for service, but maintained it himself or had a friend tend to what he couldn’t.
    A starving gas tank meant a short leash on me. And this was his insurance policy.
    I pushed myself back to my feet, rocking on legs ready to buckle. I could never make it to Albuquerque on just a few gallons. There