curtains closed all the way, so he pushed the table near the wall and propped up one of the chairs to hold them together.
He placed the automatic on the bed closest to the window and walked outside to check if anyone could see in. Then he drove the Suburban three full blocks away and parked on aresidential street that looked rougher than a cob. He retrieved the handgun from the glove compartment and placed it in the back of his jeans, letting his shirttail cover it. It would be just his luck if he shot himself in the rear.
The shower was going behind the closed bathroom door when he returned and he wondered if she was still there. He stood at the door, ready to call out her name or knock. Then the toilet flushed and he relaxed. He tossed the key on the table and hid the pistol in the nightstand under the Gideon Bible and the Book of Mormon. He lay on the bed, his boots on, and listened to the air conditioner hum. It wasn’t the Hilton, but the room was a step up from Slocum’s place.
Exhaustion reached him like a wave, something he tried hard to keep at bay on the farm. Of late they had been stopping outside work at eleven because of the heat, but he found it hard to stay inside. He gravitated to the shade tree behind the farmhouse where the kids would find him and bring a cool drink, then stay out to push each other on the tire swing. The sounds of their giggling and calls to go higher took him back where he didn’t want to go. Just a hand on the tire was all it would take to make them happy, and he couldn’t give it.
What had become comfortable and normal was gone. How had his life fallen apart so quickly? The answer stood in the plastic shower stall fifteen feet away, naked as the day she was born. He pushed that thought away when he heard her crying. At least he thought he heard soft sobs through the thin walls.
He clicked the TV remote and was about to flip the channel when the local news teaser appeared.
A woman with blonde hair and thick makeup looked into the camera. “Here are the stories we’re working on in the Action 4 newsroom.” Video of yellow police tape at Dr. Mercer’s officeflashed on-screen. “A beloved Benson doctor is dead and police are following leads on the shoot-out that took his life. Details at six.” There was nothing about the man in the Escalade.
He switched to ESPN and watched grown men kicking a soccer ball and grown men and women in the stands by the thousands, and he thought there was no hope for the world. Like watching cows graze. Actually, the cows were more interesting. At least with golf, the ball went in the cup at the end of each hole. Plus you could make fun of the clothes.
Maria walked out barefoot, her hair wrapped in a towel. She had pulled up her sweats, revealing scratches and bruises on her legs. She had removed the bandages. She looked through the peephole, moving like a cat, no wasted motion, and it reminded him of high school and his first sweetheart, a gymnast. Just the way she walked down the hall with her books clasped tightly to her chest could have been an Olympic competition.
“See anything?” he said.
She shook her head and sat on the edge of the other bed.
“You getting hungry yet?”
“No.” She dried her hair with the thin towel, droplets falling on the bedspread and leaving little dots. “Are we safe?”
“You’re asking me? From what you say, I don’t think we’re safe anywhere, but you won’t go with me to the police.”
“No police.”
“Right. I seem to remember you saying that a time or two.” He told her where he had parked. “How do you think that fellow in the Escalade found out where you were?”
She shrugged.
“It could have been dumb luck that he showed up at Walmart and before that found us out in the sticks. But for him to be heading toward Win’s place is wrong. I think he was tracking us.”
“Maybe your truck had something on it.”
He scratched his face, covered with three or four days’ worth of