22
ROBINSON TOOK A step back from the cop, using the gun to point toward the door of the police car. “Bonnie,” he said to me, “you’re going to need to drive the cruiser.” He turned to the cop. “I haven’t taught her how to drive a stick yet,” he explained.
By now I was nearly numb with shock, but I climbed into the driver’s seat of the black-and-white. Gas pedal, turn signal, ignition. Everything looked to be in pretty much the same place. Meanwhile Robinson was gently shoving the cop into the back. Thank goodness for the glass between us, because, even cuffed, that guy petrified me. If looks could kill, Robinson and I would have been goners.
“You gonna be all right?” Robinson asked me, poking his head in the front window.
I put both hands on the wheel, one at ten and one at two. I tried to seem like I wasn’t having a small heart attack. “Well, there aren’t any parking meters to hit.”
He gave me a crooked smile. Maybe it was totally inappropriate, but I needed it.
“Awesome, you’re good to go, then. Now follow me,” he said. He got into the Porsche, drove a little way, then took a dirt road off to the left. We followed it for a couple of miles, passing nothing but dirt and scrubby sage.
I refused to look into the rearview mirror because I could practically feel the death glare the police officer was giving me. I was so on edge from the last fifteen minutes that I knew if I met his eyes I was going to freak out completely, crash, and end up killing us both. I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers were turning white.
When Robinson stopped, I braked too hard and scrambled out of the car, barely remembering to put it in park.
“Whoa,” Robinson said, catching me by the elbow as I stumbled toward him. “Everything okay? He’s all locked up in back?”
“No, I let him out,” I snapped, yanking my arm away. Breathe, Axi. “Sorry. Nerves.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“But—” I glanced at the police car. The cop was sitting motionless in the back, but I thought I could hear him cursing.
“Someone will find him, don’t worry,” Robinson said, pointing into the distance at what looked like tract houses—or a mirage. Everything was flat all around us. The desert was so empty. There wasn’t even a cactus.
Robinson took my arm again and led me toward the Porsche. When we were strapped in, he gunned the engine, and we shot out of there in a great cloud of dust that billowed up so high it hid our crime completely.
“We’ve got to ditch the Porsche,” Robinson said as he pulled onto the main road. For some reason he was heading back into town.
Suddenly I began to shake. My legs jumped and twitched and even my teeth were chattering. Had we just done what I thought we did? “Robinson—” I said.
“What?” He looked at me, concerned.
“I can’t steal a car right now. My nerves can’t take it.”
“No problem,” Robinson answered. “We can go back to Axi’s Plan A.”
“I don’t even remember what that is,” I moaned.
“The bus, of course—petri dish for superbacteria. Because I don’t know about you, darlin’, but I’m just itching for some kind of dreadful infection.” Then Robinson grinned maniacally.
“Tell me—honestly. Have you lost. Your. Mind?”
As usual, Robinson ignored my question and instead pulled into a bus station on the edge of the city. “There it is! Our ticket to bacterial meningitis.”
We got our backpacks and left the Porsche in a fire lane. I just wanted to be gone. I didn’t have time to write a thank-you note to the owner, but it was probably just as well. Now that we were bona fide criminals, we should try to leave fewer clues behind.
Inside the station, it was dark and cool and grimy. All my adrenaline-fueled courage had faded, and I wanted to curl up in a ball in the corner. “Where do we go? We were supposed to see the Great Sand Dunes next,” I whispered.
Robinson scanned the departure board. “Interesting,” he said. “Because these famous dunes of sand happen to be near Alamosa, Colorado, correct?”
I frowned in confusion. “How did you know that?”
“My dear, that bus leaves in moments. See?” Robinson pointed. “The luck of the traveler is with us.” He was already walking toward the ticket booth, one hand reaching for his wallet.
Could it really be that simple? “I thought it was luck of the Irish,” I called weakly.
He turned around and shrugged. “Who cares? We’ve got our ride. But for your information, my grandma was an Irish rose from County Cork.”
I looked at him in surprise, because Robinson never, ever talked about his family. “Okay, but what about the cop?” I asked, hurrying up to him. “We can’t just leave him. We have to call someone.”
“I thought you weren’t GG anymore,” Robinson said.
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Just because I want to make sure someone doesn’t die of heatstroke?” I found an old pay phone and fished in my pockets for change. I told the woman who answered that I’d been out riding my horse when I’d come upon a cop car in the middle of nowhere. I made myself sound young and stupid, but I gave all the necessary details.
She wanted to know my name. “Carole Ann,” I said.
“You did a good thing, Carole Ann,” she said.
Lady, if only you knew.