'One of these days you're going to learn that happiness isn't wrapped up in a dollar bill, Holly Grace. There's more involved than that.'
'Since when did you get to be such an expert on happiness? It should be pretty much apparent to anyone who isn't half brain-dead that rich is better than poor and that just because you intend to be a failure all your life doesn't mean I'm going to be one, too.'
They kept on hurting each other like that for a while, then they spent a few minutes stomping around the bedroom without talking. Dallie made a phone call to Skeet; Holly Grace went into the bathroom and got dressed. In the old days they would have broken their stony silence with angry lovemaking, trying unsuccessfully to use their bodies to solve all the problems that their minds couldn't handle. But now they didn't touch each other, and gradually their anger ran out of steam. Finally, they went downstairs together and shared the rest of Miss Sybil's coffee.
The man behind the wheel of the Cadillac frightened Francesca, although he was handsome in a scary sort of way. He had curly black hair, a compact body, and dark, angry eyes, which kept darting nervously toward the rearview mirror. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she'd seen that face someplace before, but she couldn't remember where. Why hadn't she stopped to think more clearly when he'd offered her a ride instead of just jumping into the Cadillac? Like a fool, she had barely looked at him; she'd just climbed in. When she had asked him what he'd been doing in front of Dallie's house, he had said he was a chauffeur and that his passenger didn't need him any longer.
She tried to shift her feet out from under the cat, but he planted his weight more firmly across them and she gave up. The man looked over at her through a cloud of cigarette smoke and then glanced again into the rearview mirror. His nervousness bothered her. He was acting like some sort of fugitive. She shivered. Maybe he wasn't really a chauffeur. Maybe this was a stolen car. If only she'd let Skeet drive her to the airport in San Antonio this wouldn't have happened. Once again she'd made the wrong choice. Dallie had been right every one of the dozen times he'd told her she didn't have any common sense.
Dallie… She bit her lip and pulled her cosmetic case closer to her hip. While she had sat numbly in the kitchen, Miss Sybil had gone upstairs and gotten her things together for her. Then Miss Sybil had handed her an envelope containing enough money to buy an airplane ticket to London, along with a little extra to tide her over. Francesca had stared down at the envelope, knowing that she couldn't take it, not now that she had begun to think about things like pride and self-respect. If she took the envelope she would be nothing more than a whore being paid off for services rendered. If she didn't take it…
She had taken the envelope and felt as if something bright and innocent had died forever inside her. She couldn't meet Miss Sybil's eyes as she slipped the money inside her case. The lock clicked and her stomach rebelled. Dear God, what if she really was pregnant? Only by swallowing hard could she prevent herself from losing the slice of toast Miss Sybil had forced her to eat. The elderly woman's voice had been kinder than usual as she said that Skeet would drive her to the airport.
Francesca had shaken her head and announced in her haughtiest voice that she had already made plans. Then, before she could further humiliate herself by clinging to Miss Sybil's thin chest and begging her to tell her what to do, she had grabbed her case and run out the door.
The Cadillac hit a rut, jolting her to one side, and she realized that they had left the highway. She stared out at the rutted, unpaved road that lay like a dusty ribbon across the flat, bleak landscape. They had left the hill country behind some time before. Shouldn't they be close to San Antonio by now? The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. The Cadillac bounced again, and the cat shifted its weight on her feet and looked up at her with a baleful glare, as if she were personally responsible for the bumpy ride. After several more miles had slipped by, she said, 'Are you certain this is right? This road doesn't look very well traveled.'
The man lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of his old one, then snatched up the map that lay on the seat between them.
Francesca was wiser now than she had been a month before, and she studied the shadows thrown by a few scraggly mesquite. 'West!' she exclaimed after a few moments. 'We're going west. This isn't the
way to San Antonio.'
'It's a shortcut,' he said, tossing down the map.
She felt as if her throat were closing up. Rape… murder… an escaped convict and a mutilated female body left at the side of the road. She couldn't take any more. She was heartsick and exhausted, and she had no resources left to deal with another catastrophe. She fruitlessly searched the flat horizon for the sight of another car. All she could see was the tiny skeletal finger of a radio antenna standing miles in the distance. 'I want you to let me out,' she said, trying to keep her tone normal, as if being murdered on a deserted road by a crazed fugitive were the furthest thing from her mind.
'I can't do that,' he said. And then he looked over at her, his eyes hard black marbles. 'Just stay with
me till we get closer to the Mexican border, and then I'll let you go.'
Dread coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach.
He took a deep drag on the cigarette. 'Look, I'm not going to hurt you, so you don't have to get nervous. I'm a completely nonviolent person. I just need to get to the border, and I want two people in the car instead of one. There was a woman with me earlier, but while I was waiting for her, this cop car turned onto the street. And then I saw you walking down the sidewalk with that suitcase in your hand…'
If he had meant to reassure her with his explanation, it didn't work. She realized that he truly was a fugitive, just as she'd feared. She tried to suppress the hysteria creeping through her, but she couldn't control it. As he slowed the car for another rut, she grabbed for the door handle.
'Hey!' He hit the brake and caught her by the arm. The car skidded to a full stop. 'Don't do that. I'm
not going to hurt you.'
She tried to twist away from him, but his fingers bit into her arm. She screamed. The cat jumped up from the floor, landing with its rump on her leg and its front paws on the seat. 'Let me out!' she screeched.
He held her fast, talking with the cigarette clamped in his mouth. 'Hey, it's okay. I just need to get nearer the border before-'
To her, his eyes looked dark and menacing. 'No!' she shrieked. 'I want out!' Her fingers had turned clumsy with fear, and the door handle refused to give. She pushed harder, trying to throw the force of
her body against it. The cat, disturbed by all the activity, arched his back and spat, then sank his front claws into the man's thigh.
The man gave a yelp of pain and pushed at the animal. The cat yeowed and sank his claws deeper.
'Leave him alone,' Francesca shouted, turning her attention from the door to the assault on her cat. She slapped at the man's arm while the cat maintained its bloody grip on his leg, hissing and spitting all the time.
'Get him off me!' the man yelled. He threw up his elbow to defend himself and accidentally knocked the cigarette out of his mouth. Before he could catch it, the cigarette wedged itself inside the open collar of
his shirt. He swatted at it with his hand, yelling again as the burning tip began to sear his skin.
His elbow hit the horn.
Francesca pounded on his chest.
The cat began to climb his arm.
'Get out of here!' he screamed.
She grabbed for the door handle. This time it gave, and as it swung open, she vaulted out, the cat springing after her.
'You're crazy, you know that, lady!' the man screamed, yanking the cigarette from his shirt with one hand and rubbing at his leg with the other.
She spotted her case, abandoned on the seat, and raced forward with her arm extended to claim it. He saw what she was doing and immediately slid across the seat to pull the door shut before she could reach it.
'Give me my case,' she yelled.
'Get it yourself.' He flipped her his middle finger, threw the car into gear, and hit the accelerator. The tires spun, spitting out a great cloud of dust that immediately engulfed her.
'My case!' she yelled as he peeled away. 'I need my case!' She began running after the Cadillac,
choking in the dust and calling out. She ran until the car had faded to a small dot on the horizon. Then
she collapsed to her knees in the middle of the road.
Her heart was pumping like a piston in her chest. She caught her breath and laughed, a wild, broken sound that
