Out of the Shadows Page 5

  “By now, I think you’re fully capable of knowing when you’re being pursued,” he said. “I can only assume he saw me and decided to wait for a more opportune time.”

  My blood chilled. “Do you think he’s following us?”

  Devon shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to deal with that as it happens. I don’t see anyone, but with satellites and drone technology, anything is possible.”

  Satellites and drones. I hadn’t even thought about that. But all those things were at the government’s disposal, so wouldn’t they use them?

  “We’re still alive and not in custody,” Devon said, reaching across the seat to take my hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. “There’s a reason for that.”

  I nodded, trying to feel comforted by his words, but it was hard.

  It was evening when Devon pulled off the highway into a truck stop for gas, which appeared to be the only business for miles around. Over a dozen semis were parked in the lot and more were edging the off- and on-ramps to the highway.

  Devon navigated to the fuel pumps. Cars were on the opposite side from the semis with a large building housing a convenience store, fast-food restaurant, candy store . . . and a place selling western-style boots.

  Hmm. I didn’t have any of those.

  “I can see it on your face,” Devon said in a resigned sort of way. He was leaning in the open driver’s side door, waiting for the tank to fill.

  I pretended innocence. “What do you mean?”

  “You want to go in the boots store.”

  “Pffft,” I waved him off. “Don’t be silly. What would I do with cowboy boots?”

  “You know, most women would go for the sweets,” he said.

  “I like candy.”

  His lips curved in a half smile. “Go on. You’ve got ten minutes, and no, I’m not buying whatever you fall in love with.”

  I grinned and popped out of the car, feeling almost like my old self.

  “Ten minutes!” he called after me.

  I could do a lot of damage in ten minutes.

  The bell over the door tinkled merrily as I walked in, and my nostrils were filled with the warm scent of leather that permeated the shop.

  “Wow,” I breathed, taking it in. There were rows and rows of boots lining the walls, along with a small section in the back of leather belts, and a case displaying buckles of every size and shape imaginable.

  I drifted toward the rows, taking it all in. It was like a nirvana for cowboy-boot lovers. One red pair in particular caught my eye and I couldn’t resist touching them, my fingers sliding over the detailed drawings of flowers and vines etched into the leather. I may not own any cowboy boots, but I could appreciate good quality and craftsmanship in any kind of footwear.

  “I bet I have those in your size.”

  Glancing behind me, I saw a wizened old man had approached, a smile buried under his gray beard and moustache. Eyebrows that could use a trim flanked eyes that assessed me as only a seasoned salesman could.

  “Oh no,” I protested rather weakly. “I’m just looking.” My eyes were drawn back to the boots like magnets and I was still touching them.

  “Might as well try them on,” he said. “You’re an eight?”

  Wow. He was good. I nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the back at a faster clip than I would have thought him capable. I considered that I should probably leave, but it would be rude to just walk out on him, right? Plus, I hadn’t used up my full ten minutes yet. And I was cheerful, a condition that had become all too rare lately. I was loath to give up the feeling so readily.

  “Here you go,” he said, returning with three boxes. He set them down on the floor next to a bench. “I brought those plus a couple of other pairs I thought you might like.”

  Oh, this was bad. Really, really bad, I thought as I sank onto the bench and started pulling off my tennis shoes. Yet I reached for the boot he handed me and slid it on. It fit perfectly, as did its mate. I tucked my skinny jeans inside and smoothed the denim.

  “Take a look at those, now,” he said proudly, gesturing to a full mirror attached to the wall. “They sure do look good on you, don’t they.”

  Yes, yes, they certainly did.

  “Try these,” he suggested, holding out another pair. They were a deeper red, and black, with more elaborate etchings. I snatched them up like an addict being offered a hit.

  “They feel better than the others,” I said, parading in front of the mirror. Okay, I was totally rocking these boots.

  “I have a buckle that would go perfectly,” he said, getting up from the stool he sat on. His knees creaked when he moved, but that didn’t slow him down as he went for the glass case in the back.

  I saw Devon in the mirror as he walked up behind me.

  “I think the plaid has gone to your head,” he said dryly.

  I grinned. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do it with a cowgirl?” I teased.

  “Somehow I believe real cowgirls rarely wear red boots.”

  Pointing at him in the mirror, I said, “You’re so wrong. I bet they do wear red boots.”

  “And how much are these shining specimens of American culture?” he asked.

  Good question. I dug around in the box for the price tag, swallowing hard when I found it, then I quickly pulled off the boots.

  “So I guess you’re ready to go?” I asked, being super careful as I put the boots away. They must have been inlaid with gold under that leather to justify the price.

  “Whenever you are.”

  “Did you decide on the boots?” the salesman asked. “This buckle would look mighty fine with ’em.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to pass.”

  “Are you sure? We’re having a sale. Buy a pair of boots and the second pair is twenty percent off.”

  I hesitated, looking longingly at the boots, then Devon gave me a shove out the door.

  “I’m going, I’m going,” I muttered. “Just looking at them, that’s all.”

  “Of course you were,” he said.

  We headed into the convenience store part of the building and I used the bathroom, then grabbed a soda and a bag of potato chips while I waited for Devon. Tinny country music played over the speakers and bright fluorescent lighting lit the aisles.

  Wandering around the place, I saw they had all kinds of kitschy souvenirs and knickknacks, though why someone would want to buy a two-foot-tall metal chicken made out of recycled Coke cans was beyond me. I paused by the dream catchers, done in every color of the rainbow. Now those I could’ve used a few months ago.

  Three truckers were milling about the coffee machines, chatting. Wearing worn denim, baseball hats, and various stages of facial hair, it wasn’t hard to peg their occupation. I couldn’t help half tuning in to their conversation as they sipped from their steaming Styrofoam cups.

  “. . . bear in the bushes up the road a ways,” one of them said.

  I paused in my browsing, the term catching my attention.

  “Shit. All the way out here?” another asked.

  The first man nodded. “Yeah. Word is smokeys are as thick as bugs on a bumper. Gotta be in Louisville by mornin’ and I can’t waste time with a brake check.”

  The door to the convenience store opened and a cop stepped inside.

  I sucked in a sharp breath, freezing in place.

  What if he recognized me? There was nowhere to go. I couldn’t even leave the store because I’d have to pass him to do it. I was trapped.

  “Easy there, missy,” one of the truckers said to me in an undertone. “Look somewhere else. You’re about to give yourself away, staring at him like a deer in headlights.”

  My startled gaze met his. He gave a little nod and nudged me toward the candy rack. I took the hint, dropping down to hunch by the candy and pretending to give much consideration to Kit Kat versus Snickers.

  The men casually stood close, their legs obscuring my view of the rest
of the aisle.

  “Evenin’, officer,” one of them said. I heard the officer mumble something in reply. A few seconds later, the truckers moved back.

  “He’s gone,” the same guy said.

  I got to my feet, my knees a little too shaky for my liking. “Thank you,” I said.

  “There’s a lot of smokeys out there looking for somebody,” he said. “I reckon that might be you?”

  It was rather obvious by my reaction so I didn’t bother lying and just nodded. “But I didn’t do anything,” I said. “I swear. I’m not dangerous.”

  One of the men snickered. “You got that right,” he said, his voice gruff. “You look about as dangerous as my Aunt Mae.”

  The others seemed to agree, with rounds of “Yep” and “No shit.”

  “You headed down 65?” he asked. I nodded. “You traveling alone?”

  “No. I’m with a . . . friend,” I replied, not really wanting to call Devon my “boyfriend.”

  “Where you headed?”

  I thought about not answering, but decided they might be able to help. After all, they already had. “Florida.”

  “You got a CB?” he asked. I shook my head. “Get one. It’s a good way to keep up with what’s ahead of you. My handle is Slackjaw. This here’s Meatloaf.” He jerked his head to the first guy. “And Kentucky George.” The last of the trio. “You can keep in touch with us. We’re all headed down south.”

  Given the names, I assumed those were all CB handles. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Got a handle?”

  “Um, no . . .”

  “Make one up and we’ll keep in touch,” he said.

  I was immediately at a loss. A handle was like a nickname, right? I’d never had a nickname in my life.

  “Uh, I-I don’t know—” I stammered.

  “Outlaw Annie,” Meatloaf interrupted.

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  “What?” he asked. “She needs a handle.”

  Slackjaw shrugged. “Outlaw Annie good with you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Who didn’t love Annie Oakley? I’d grown up out west, I knew who she was. She’d been a badass. “Thanks, guys.”

  “You be careful now,” Slackjaw cautioned.

  I met Devon at the counter and set my things on it for the cashier to ring up. I told him about the cop and what the truckers had said about police being all around. His expression turned grim.

  “Add a state map to that, please,” he said to the cashier, who obliged.

  Once we were back in the SUV, we spread the map open on the dash.

  “Best to turn off our navigation system,” he said. “Big Brother and all.”

  I hadn’t thought of that and now I realized why he’d bought the map. I felt better being able to see where we were going, which was a heck of a lot easier with a paper map. And knowing the government couldn’t track me was also a huge plus.

  “Did they say how far away they were?”

  I shook my head. “No. Just ‘a bear in the bushes.’”

  “Slang for a police car hiding,” he said.

  “We need to buy a CB,” I said. “That way we can hear about stuff like this.”

  Devon glanced at me. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps I should be alarmed at how your mind is starting to work like mine.”

  I didn’t tell him that Slackjaw had been the one to suggest it to me. “Great minds think alike,” I said with a shrug.

  We Googled the nearest Wal-Mart, which had us double back about five miles, but they had CBs so it was worth the trip. Turning it on, I put the channel on nineteen.

  We drove in silence for a while as I listened to the chatter on the CB. I noticed lots of semitrucks around. Traffic on the highway picked up as the evening wore on and more truckers were awake to avoid the daytime drivers.

  It was about an hour after we’d left the convenience store when something on the CB caught my attention.

  “Breaker one-nine, this here’s Slackjaw. You got a copy on me, Kentucky George?”

  His accent was the same thick Southern I remembered from the convenience store. The CB speaker crackled again.

  “Ten-four, Slackjaw. Kentucky George here, c’mon.”

  “There’s a checkpoint Charlie up 65 a ways. They’re stopping everybody. A manhunt goin’ on.”

  “Copy that, Slackjaw. How bad is the brake check?”

  “’Bout a mile now. Outlaw Annie, if you copy, you in particular might wanna get off the boulevard.”

  Devon and I glanced at each other. “That’s me,” I explained. “They gave me a handle, said I was Outlaw Annie.”

  “I thought it was your idea to get a CB?” he asked.

  Damn. So much for my mad spycraft skills. “Okay, so maybe they suggested it, but I agreed.”

  A smile flitted across his face. “A checkpoint and manhunt,” Devon said. “That’s not good.”

  “And if he’s calling me out by name, then they must be showing my picture around.” I had to thank my luck that we ran into the truckers.

  “And they recognized you.”

  “So much for the disguise.” I sighed. Cut and dye for nothing, it appeared, if even random truckers could spot me.

  “Outlaw Annie, you copy the checkpoint Charlie?”

  Picking up the CB, I pressed and held the button. “Annie, here. I copy your checkpoint, Slackjaw. Thanks for the heads-up.” I released the button, then remembered how you were supposed to do these things and quickly pressed it again. “Over.” I glanced at Devon. “That’s how you do it, right?”

  He was hiding a smile and gave me a mockingly serious nod. “Absolutely. You sounded exactly like a truck driver.”

  I gave him a narrow-eyed look, which he ignored while navigating us a lane over in between traffic that had slowed to a crawl. An exit was up ahead and he aimed for it. It was only as we were sliding out of traffic that we saw the flashing lights at the top that indicated more cops waiting for those doing exactly as we were trying to do—get around the checkpoint.

  Devon jerked the wheel and maneuvered back into the lane, bypassing the exit.

  “Better to stick with the motorway,” he explained before I could ask. “They’ll be under more pressure to move quickly there, what with traffic tied up like this.”

  I was nervous as we crept along, wondering what was going to happen. What if they recognized me? Would they arrest me on the spot? I assumed they would. What would happen to Devon?

  “Annie, this is Slackjaw. You off the boulevard?”

  I pressed the button and spoke. “Negative. Bears all around.” I hoped that meant what I thought it did.

  “Copy that. Meatloaf and Kentucky George, you copy?”

  The CB crackled. “That’s a big ten-four, Slackjaw. Mealoaf here. Any ideas for rescuing Annie?”

  “There’s a bull hauler in front of me. I reckon we can convoy us a spot of trouble, come back.”

  “Roger, Meatloaf. I’m comin’ up on your donkey now in the granny lane. Kentucky’s got eyes on the gumball machines. Annie is in front of me. Annie, I hope you got your ears on.”

  I couldn’t decipher most of that except the last part, and I thumbed the button.

  “Annie’s here,” I said. Now I noticed the semitrucks surrounding our SUV. I figured Meatloaf was in front of us while Slackjaw and Kentucky were behind.

  “Keep up, Annie. We’re about to put the hammer down. You copy?”

  “Ten-four.” I was getting good at this, though I still didn’t know what was going on. “What are they doing?” I asked Devon.

  “I believe they’re going to run the checkpoint,” he said, “with us in between them.”

  I stared at him, open-mouthed. “But . . . why would they do that?”

  “They’re American truck drivers,” he said dryly. “You probably have better insight into their behavior than I do, my dear. I’m guessing their love for the law is less than the
ir desire to assist a damsel in distress.”

  I couldn’t fathom it, so I decided to just be grateful for their intervention as the truck in front of us sped up. The headlights from the one behind us were blinding as they blazed through the rear window, right on our tail. Devon sped up and I could see the checkpoint up ahead.

  My palms were sweaty as I clamped my hands on my seat, my nails digging into the leather. I didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt Devon’s concentration as he stayed right on the bumper of the truck in front of us, accelerating.

  The police saw the trucks coming—they were kind of hard to miss—and started scrambling to get out of the way. Beyond the checkpoint, the highway was clear.

  People were yelling and drivers of the cars we passed watched in open-mouthed wonder at the caravan of three semitrucks and an SUV barreling past them. The trucks blew their horns and I couldn’t help covering my eyes as we crashed through behind Meatloaf. There was the screech of metal against metal and the sound of tires squealing. I held my breath, waiting for the crash. But nothing hit us, and a moment later, I chanced a look.

  “They’re barricading the road behind us,” Devon said. The SUV was still going top speed and accelerating.

  I twisted in my seat to look behind us. All three truckers had stopped, parking their rigs across the road to prevent any quick chase from the police. They had indeed covered for us.

  “Peach, are you through?” I heard over the CB. I quickly thumbed the button.

  “Ten-four. Thank you all for doing that.” I had no idea how much trouble they’d be in, but I hoped it wouldn’t be more than a slap on the wrist.

  “You take care now. Watch for bears. They’re thick as bugs on a bumper, searching for this woman named Ivy.”

  I swallowed hard. “Copy that, Slackjaw.” I let the button up with a sigh of relief.

  Devon drove fast, and took the next exit, handing me the folded-up map.

  “Going off the motorway will cost us time, but will be worth it to avoid the police,” he said. “Look and see the secondary route I’ve marked. See if it looks right to you.”

  I was no stranger to two-lane country roads, the winding curves and trees flashing by reminding me of where I’d grown up. Beyond the trees loomed impenetrable darkness that only thickened as the hours passed. It made my imagination work overtime, probably from watching too many episodes of the X-Files growing up. If I wandered past the initial barrier into the inky blackness, would I find evidence of the unexplained? Aliens and mothmen and Bigfoot?