At the crest of the last hilltop she stops and gathers the baby in both arms; thrusts the door open with her foot and gets out of the Jeep. Every bone and muscle is afire with pain.
North in the distance the two aircraft are still swooping in their odd Alphonse and Gaston dogfight.
Ellen reaches up with a finger and tugs at her lip. She gives the tiny finger a love bite and stares back down the road. In loops and whorls there are bits of it visible from here: several miles back is the steep hill she descended.
And there comes a dot that must be the fucking Bronco-hurrying down the switchbacks.
Not too far back; speeding to make up for it.
Son of a bitch.
She gets back in the Jeep and adjusts the baby in her throbbing left arm and drives down off the hill. Ahead in the distance above the trees she can see the V-shaped sign of the Citgo station.
Once in the woods she begins to search for turnings and when she sees a mailbox ahead she eases her foot back on the gas.
No good; an old house trailer up on blocks with a huge TV antenna on top of it and a Volkswagen beetle parked nearby and a fat woman hanging the wash on a line.
No place to hide there. She drives on, anxiety climbing.
Two more driveways give access to small newish bungalows near the road. No hope there.
Another mailbox. The dirt driveway disappears into the trees to the left.
She takes it.
Not far in there’s a small old barn beside the drive. It looks like a one-time carriage barn or a two-horse stable; not big enough for real farm work. The wood has gone pewter colored since its last coat of paint. There’s a rusty plow beside it-the wheeled kind that’s meant to be pulled by a tractor. The barn door hangs ajar-open a foot and badly warped, sagging on the ground and leaning.
Just behind it a stream cuts through, disappearing into tangled growth.
She stops the Jeep in the weeds and sets Ellen down on the seat. “Stay put ten seconds, my love. Be right back.”
When she gets out of the Jeep the baby starts to wail again. “I’ll be right back, damn it.” She grasps the twisted edge of the barn door and bends it out far enough to make room for her head and shoulders.
Inside there are two splintered stalls on the right. The rest is an open floor-mud puddles and wet straw. It looks as if it’s been in disuse for years but it still carries a horsey pungency compounded by damp earth and rotten wood.
There’s room inside for the Jeep.
She tugs at the barn door but it’s badly warped and jammed against the earth. It doesn’t want to move. She kicks the damn thing and stands back yelling at it. Her curses blend with the baby’s outcries.
She gets back in at the wheel and picks up the baby. “Shush now. You’ll get all hoarse.” She rocks the baby. Then with an abruptness that startles her an invention penetrates past the rage of frustration.
Of course.
She starts the engine and jockeys it back and forth until she’s positioned the mangled wreckage of the front bumper beside the edge of the barn door. She locks the wheels sharp right and backs up, hooking the jagged ruin of the bumper against the door.
Use the horsepower of the Jeep to pull the damn door open.
It gives. But she hears something snap with a loud report.
She parks the Jeep inside. Grabs her handbag and the sack of baby things out of the back seat, collects the baby in her arms and climbs out.
When they emerge from the barn she sees that the noise she heard was the snapping of the rusty bottom hinge of the barn door. Opening it has scraped a raw fresh wound across the earth.
Damn.
Holding the baby she puts her back against the sagging door and leans into it, thrusting her heels into the earth. The door slides reluctantly shut. It’s tilted against the building now, the bottom skirt bent out a foot or so away from the sill; but it’ll do. You can’t see the Jeep from out here.
No choice but to spend two valuable minutes kicking leaves and twigs across the tracks left by the Jeep.
Only when she’s satisfied by the look of it does she hike away.
Hauling Ellen back through damp tangles under the trees she remembers the revolver but to hell with it. Not worth the bother to go back for it. There may not be time anyway.
That grinding noise. Is that the Bronco? Christ …
She swings around and peers back through the tangle, walking backward, feeling her way with one foot and then the other. She hears the Bronco slow down at the mailbox.
She can see a corner of the barn through there. Not the road, though.
It’s stopping. The damn Bronco is stopping.
Easy now. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
It’s starting up again. Going on along the road.
Thank God!
She soothes the baby, whispering to her, stroking her tiny forehead.
“Give them a couple minutes, darling,” she murmurs. “Then we’ll be on our way.”
Oh Jesus. Oh Christ. It’s coming back!