The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

21

TWO DAYS AFTER Becky shot Brad Falon, she and Sammie headed for Rome just for supper and to stay overnight. Despite Anne’s and Mariol’s support she needed to be with her mother, and Sammie needed her grandmother, they needed Caroline to talk with and to soothe them both. She watched the streets as they left Morningside but was sure that no black car followed them. She wondered if Falon might have made it back to Rome, to Natalie or to his long-suffering and usually ignored mother. She hoped he was holed up somewhere in Atlanta hurting bad from the wound she’d inflicted. They left directly after work, Becky swinging by Anne’s to pick up Sammie and tuck their overnight bag in the car. The traffic wasn’t heavy once they were out of the business and residential areas and on the two-lane highway heading north. Before they pulled away from the house she had slipped her new revolver from under the seat and belted it to her waist.

The day after the police took her gun for evidence she’d driven out to a gun shop on Decatur Road and bought a .32-caliber snub-nosed revolver and a holster, a gun small enough to wear under her suit jacket or under a two-piece dress. Such a move might seem silly, and even the .32 felt unnatural against her side, but it might save their lives. She’d given Sammie strict instructions about not handling the gun, and they had gone over the rules carefully. Becky had also shown her how the revolver worked, in order to fully understand the principles of safety. Maybe she was foolish to be driving to Rome when she didn’t know where Falon was. Maybe he’d found a doctor who wouldn’t report the wound, maybe he’d been properly treated and was up and moving again. She’d read that some psychopathic personalities could ignore a lot of pain. As they moved north between vegetable plots and chicken farms she was sharply aware of any car parked on a side road, as well as those few approaching from behind. Sammie wanted to know when she could start school, she talked about the hamsters they’d had in her classroom in Rome, the playhouse they’d built from cardboard cartons, about the colored Georgia map on the wall and the stories their teacher had read to them. Sammie didn’t mention Falon’s attack; she sat close to Becky, a favorite book in her lap, was soon buried in the story. Only when she’d turned the last page did she look up, her words startling Becky.

“Are you going to tell Daddy you shot Falon?”

“No, I’m not. Daddy has enough on his mind.” Becky pulled Sammie closer, hugging her. “We don’t need to worry him. I hope, after I shot Falon, he’ll stay away from us.” She looked down at Sammie. “We’ll be watchful, though?” Sammie nodded. Becky knew the ugliness mustn’t be buried, that they must talk about it. If they shared their fear, discussed what to do about it, tried to understand it, she thought Sammie could deal with it better. They were perhaps an hour north of Atlanta on the narrow, deserted two-lane when she saw a car pulling up fast behind them.

She thought it would pass them quickly, a black car, sleek and low, but there were plenty of black cars in the world. Probably some local farmer who had turned out of his gate behind them. Though few locals drove so fast, knowing there might be loose livestock or a dog on the road. This was all open country, pastures and woods separating the scattered farms. They were east of Kingston, had already left the larger town of Cartersville behind. They would not pass through Kingston, only near it, and then there were no more towns until Rome. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she eased her jacket open to better reach the revolver.

But when the car drew close she saw that it wasn’t black at all, it was dark blue, and was pulling a small trailer. It passed them, a low, dark blue sedan driven by a white-haired woman, pulling a slat-sided trailer with a big yearling calf inside. Becky felt silly, as if she were too wildly dramatic. Falon was probably miles away, laid up from her gunshot. The next car that approached gained on her quickly, speeding up behind her. She slowed to let it pass, watching in her rearview mirror the lone driver—then staring at him, at the silhouette of his thin head and puffed hair, backlit behind the car’s windshield. As he drew up on her tail, her rearview mirror reflected back to her Falon’s thin, pinched face.

They were nearly ten miles from Rome, there would be no more gas stations, no towns before Rome, only small homeplaces that didn’t have police but depended on the county sheriff, who might be miles away. She scanned the passing farms, praying to see a sheriff’s car parked in one of the yards and wishing she had a more formidable weapon than the small revolver. When Sammie started to turn in the seat, to look back, Becky stopped her. “Don’t, honey, don’t turn. Don’t let him know you see him.”

Sammie sat very still, looking straight ahead. They were coming to a narrow bridge across a creek that fed the Etowah River. When, starting across, Becky gunned the car, Falon sped up beside her, crowding her against the rail. She floored it, burning rubber. He slammed against her so hard she skidded and careened, thought she’d go through the flimsy rail. She slammed on her brakes, grabbed Sammie to keep her from going into the dashboard. They were in the middle of the bridge, her fender crumpled against the rail. She spun the wheel, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and swerved out. Their fenders caught, metal screaming against metal. She leaned on the gas; it took everything her car had to jerk free, bent metal squealing as she surged ahead. She was past him for only an instant, enough to careen off the bridge onto the rough road, and now his car was even with her again. She unholstered and cocked the .32, laid it on the edge of the open window. She fired, hardly taking her eyes from the road.

“Get that box in my purse. The bullets.” She fired again, and a third time as Sammie scrambled to find the box. She wondered if she could reload while driving. But suddenly Falon’s car slowed and fell behind. Had she hit him? Or he was only afraid she would? Wishing she’d killed him this time, she jammed her foot to the floor, took a curve on squealing tires, and headed fast for Rome.