SHE FOUNDthe orange blouse, but instead of ripping it, simply bunched it up and tied it to the bottom of a fence post fifteen long steps west of the tree where the money was. She went back to the truck, got the pistol she’d kept for self-protection, and threw it under the tree with the money and gold. Then she got back in the truck, called Poole, and said, “Okay, baby, the orange blouse is on the bottom of the fence fifteen long steps west, that’s WEST of the tree where the money is. You have to walk along the fence to see it. The gun’s with the money.”
“Move away from there, then. Take it slow. There’s probably a road past those buildings, or a driveway, see if you can sneak out of there...”
“I’m gone again,” she said. “I need both hands to steer, I’m back in this really rough place...”
She hung up, dropped the phone on the seat, and worked her way through the rough track to a smoother one, then down the track to the buildings. There was nobody around them, no vehicles, and she followed a driveway out to a dirt road and along the road for a few hundred yards parallel to the interstate.
The thought of surrendering to the police frightened her, more than she’d ever been frightened in her life. She cut across a hard-surfaced road, hesitated—it felt too exposed—then turned toward the interstate and drove past a restaurant and under the interstate and then south.
She might have gotten away, she thought later, if she’d only moved faster. Not a lot faster, if she’d just gotten under the interstate five minutes sooner. She’d crossed under it and was headed south, and she was thinking about the blue tarp on the back and how she ought to get rid of it because it was instantly identifying... when she felt the rhythmic beating on the windows.
She didn’t know what it was, only that it was close, and a moment later, a helicopter passed overhead, and low, turning in front of her, the pilot looking straight down at her.
The jig, she thought, was up.
She kept going, a mile, a little more, then caught sight of the flashing light bar behind her, the helicopter still there in front of her. “Screwed,” she said aloud. She picked up the phone, did a redial. Poole answered and she said, “They got me, I’m throwing the phone. Love you, Gar.”
“Love you, babe,” and he was gone.
She accelerated suddenly and the helicopter turned ahead of her, and she took the moment to throw the phone out the window. Another two hundred yards, the cop car closing from behind, and she pulled over, took a deep breath, got out of the truck, put her hands over her head.
The cop car stopped fifty yards away. The cop got out of the car, stayed behind his door, pointed a rifle at her; she thought itwas a rifle. Maybe a shotgun. He shouted, “Everybody out of the truck.”
“I’m all alone,” she said.
The cop ducked back to the car, said something, and then shouted, “Walk toward me until I tell you to stop.”
She did that, until he shouted, “Stop.”
Another car was coming up from behind her, and she turned and saw another patrol car. The helicopter was higher now, but still overhead, still making noise. The two cops took a while to check out the truck, then patted her down and cuffed her.
One of the cops had curly blond hair and a name tag that said “Oaks,” and he asked, “Where’d Poole bail out?”
“Who’s Poole?” and then, “I want a lawyer,” she said.
The other cop had dark hair with the shine of gel, and a name tag that said “Martinez,” and he said, “Listen, honey, if Poole’s back there in the trees and he shoots somebody to get a car, then you’re going to the death house with him. You can’t say, ‘I want a lawyer,’ and get out of this. You’re still an accomplice.”
She said, “I’m alone. I was always alone. I don’t know any Poole. I bought this truck from a guy in Texas and when the police officer started chasing me, I panicked. I thought the price was too good, and I thought maybe the truck was stolen, so I panicked. I was always by myself.”
Oaks said, “Nice try, Dora.” He reached into his back trouser pocket and took out a piece of paper and handed it to her. She remembered the photograph quite well: it had been taken at an office party when she was temporarily working at an auto parts place in Franklin before she went off with Poole. The likeness was excellentand her facial features had held up well over the seven or eight years since the photo was taken.
“I want a lawyer,” she said.
“You’ll get one,” the cop said.
They took her keys and locked up the truck and left it where it was: U.S. marshals wanted to take a look at it, they’d been told. Box was transferred to the back of one of the patrol cars, and then Oaks made a call.
“Looking for a Marshal Davenport,” he said.
“This is Davenport.”
“We got your Dora Box for you,” Oaks said. “You gonna pick her up or you want her delivered?”
“Tell me where you’re at,” Davenport said. And, “You’re the best news I’ve had in a long time.”
“I haven’t ever been anybody’s best news, not since my second wife went off with a toolpusher,” Oaks said. “I truly appreciate you telling me that.”
21
