The Hummingbird's Cage by Tamara Dietrich Page B

were gas stations along the way, sure, but not many. And in between were long stretches of nothing. I couldn’t begin to guess if I could make it from one filling station to thenext, or if I’d end up stranded on the interstate waiting for Jim to track us down—which he surely would, and most efficiently. Then there’d be nothing left but to get hauled back to the house, and what was waiting for us in the shed.
    Jesus, I’d even handed him the perfect story to tell anyone who asked—his miserable, mental wife had taken their child and run off to distant parts, never to be seen around here again. He’d play the abandoned husband as skillfully as he’d played the doting one.
    I groped for options. First was giving up—abandoning hope like the fickle cheat it was and driving back to the house. Chasing this last hour, these last two weeks, out of my memory. Burning the envelope and its contents, swearing Laurel to secrecy. But Jim would be checking the car’s mileage after his shift, and how would I explain the extra miles? An emergency trip to the grocer’s?
    â€œJoanna?”
    I turned toward a familiar voice, guts twisting. There stood Deputy Munoz in civilian clothes, tanking up an SUV with two kids inside. There was genuine concern on his face.
    â€œYou okay? You’re shaking like a leaf. Is that gas coming from your car? Let me take a look.”
    â€œNo!” I barked as he flinched. I caught myself, pitched my voice to something less full-on crazy. “We’re all right. We’re fine. We’re . . . going home now.”
    I was backing away as I spoke, till I collided with the Toyota. Then I turned and snatched at the door handle. I fell into the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition, Laurel watching, her eyes as big as hen’s eggs. Munoz was heading toward the car, leaning over to peer inside. I pulled out so fast the tires squealed.
    My one thought was the Palomino. Bernadette would know what to do. Maybe we could hide out there. Sleep on the floor if we had to.
    It was a stupid idea, and I knew it. Selfish, too, because it would put her in more danger than she already was. But in the end it didn’t matter—at the motel there was no sign of a motorcycle anywhere.
    Bernadette and Sam might be back any second, or they could have checked out already and left for good. There was no time to wait and find out. And no way I’d ask at the motel office and implicate Bernadette even further.
    One thing I was absolutely sure about: Munoz would be calling Jim up by now. Munoz was a good guy. He’d figure Jim would want to know his wife was having car trouble and needed help. That she looked really upset. Maybe she was sick. Maybe someone could call the motor club. Maybe Jim could swing by in his unit and help her out himself. Wives appreciate that sort of thing.
    I sat idling in the motel parking lot, gripping the wheel, weighing terrible options. But the one image that crowded out every other was that of the shed behind the house and what was buried behind. The machete on the wall.
    Laurel was staring at me. Willing me to do the right thing. More than ever, I felt the weight of her little life in my hands.
    As I looked back into those frightened eyes, it was clear what I had to do. For her sake, if not for mine. She’d lived long enough in the shadow of a psycho.
    I shoved the car in gear and pulled from the lot, beelining for the highway.
    For Albuquerque, for freedom, one way or another.
    The insurrection was still on.
    *   *   *
    The gas got us to the big truck stop near Continental Divide, about halfway to Grants. Grants is a good-sized town, and there’d be more stations once we got there. By now I was beginning to believe we might.
    I bought three plastic gas cans, gallon size, and filled them. I loaded them in the trunk, then started to tank up.
    It’s a popular truck stop along Interstate 40. A