Free An American Outlaw by John Stonehouse Page A

moment?”
    She looks out at him. A slight frown on her brow.
    “My name's Whicher. John Whicher.” 
    She reaches to the keys in the ignition. 
    He flashes his badge. “I'm a US Deputy Marshal. Like to ask you a couple of questions.”
    She turns off the engine. “Marshal?”
    He notices the perspiration on her forehead. Tension in her eyebrows. 
    “Whereabouts you headed?”
    “Into Alpine.”
    “Y'all come far?”
    “Fifty miles or so,” she says.
    “From the south?”
    She nods.
    “Y'all see many vehicles out there?” Whicher looks at her.
    “Vehicles?”
    “We're looking for a red truck. Ford F150. Louisiana plate.”
    “I don't think so,” she said. “I don't remember one.”
    There's something about her. Beyond the disconcerting good-looks. Something; self-possessed. 
    Whicher reaches in his pocket. Pulls out a printed picture and description of Gilman James. 
    “Have you seen anybody that looked like this?” 
    He watches her study it. A little blank.
    “No. I don't think so.”
    “You don't think?”
    “Well, I'd remember.”
    “Ya'll came up from the south, you say?”
    She hesitates. “Uh-huh,” she nods.
    Why'd she hesitate?
    “You didn't see anything unusual? Anything different? Out of the ordinary.”
    “No.” She looks at him. Eyes a fraction wider. “That's a lot of cops,” she says. She points a finger from the steering wheel.
    “Right. We're after taking this guy in.”
    Her gaze shifts from one vehicle to the next. State trooper cruisers. Border Patrol SUVs. “Is he some kind of head-case?”
    “How's that?”
    “This man that you're looking for?”
    Whicher looks in at her, sitting up straight behind the wheel. “Why's that, Miss?”
    She touches the silver bracelets at her wrist. “I don't know.”
    “It's in connection with a robbery at the bank. Here in Alpine.”
    “I live alone,” she says, “in the hills. You know?”
    “Ma'am?”
    “It's not some nut, then?”
    “No ma'am. It's nothing like that.”
    She gives the faintest nod.
    “Y'all hear about it?"
    “Excuse me?”
    “The robbery?”
    She hesitates. A second time.
    “Yes,” she says. “I think so. Yes.”
    Whicher stares in through the truck's open window. Why'd she hesitate? Not once.
    But two times.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 11
     
    11 th & Holland Avenue,  Alpine.
     
    I found it. A white building. Flat roof, hand painted sign on the wall. It was two blocks up—not exactly where she'd said.
    Her truck was nowhere. I scanned the street. 
    There was no other store. It had to be the one.
    I walked fast, back down to Holland. Ducked under a porch roof. 
    The highway had been deserted when I'd crossed it; I'd had to stop myself from running. All it took was one thing out of place.
    But I could watch for her on the highway, if I was careful. 
    I got myself in behind a boarded-up feed store; stole a look east, up the road. A farm truck blew by. I ducked in. 
    When I looked back again, I could see there was a truck parked—a hundred yards further up. 
    It looked like her. 
    Alongside the truck, there's a man in uniform. A state trooper. Leaning in the window.
    I checked the ground behind the feed store. One-floor houses, container yards, empty concrete lots. If I took off, it was wide open; no place to hide. 
    I glanced back—the trooper was reaching for something, now; inside his shirt pocket. 
    I double-checked for a partner. Twenty yards further back, behind Tennille's truck, his cruiser's parked at the side of the road. No-one in it, that I can see.
    He's on his own, his back's towards me—she hasn't seen me. 
    But now he's stepping away from the truck. The door's opening; she's stepping out.
    He's handing her something. She takes it, flicks her hair to one side. 
    Then she turns and walks away.
    I was staring, now.
    The trooper hitched his belt and pants. He starts walking towards the cruiser.
    I ran behind the feed store; up twelfth street, parallel with eleventh. 
    I saw her reach