Alien Tango

nothing.
    I cried through the whole song and then forced myself to think again. Thankfully, Social Distortion’s “Prison Bound” was the next song. I probably was, but at least it didn’t make me want to kill myself.
    Something was wrong with my theory—the one about how Reid was tracking me, not the one about Chuckie, which I was now fairly sure was accurate. The jet was at Area 51, so if there was a tracking device on it, the most likely place for one to be, then Reid should be in Nevada.
    Helen had gotten my cell phone number, so that would explain why he could call me. Martini had registered us weeks ago, so it would have been easy to know where we were supposed to be this weekend, which explained Shannon’s presence at the reunion dinner, and probably Chuckie’s as well, with or without Mom’s assistance. But how had Reid found us at Terminal Two? We’d parked the Porsche at Three, and it seemed overly lucky to assume he’d spotted us in the terminal bus by chance.
    Chuckie’s comment about satellite technology came back to me. They were tracking me via my phone. That meant the headlights way in the distance behind me were a good bet to be hostile. I dug the phone out of my purse. It was dead and now my personal albatross.
    I resisted the urge to toss it out the window. Do that, they’d know I’d figured it out. I was coming up on Casa Grande, not the biggest burg in existence, but like the rest of the area, it was growing. Pulled off the freeway and into a gas station. Dumped the phone in a trash can, got back on the road. Two minutes used, max.
    Decided to go for the high-level risk and turned the headlights off, though I could keep the instrument panel lit in this car. Now I’d only show up if they had radar or I had to brake. Additionally, no moon meant no reflection on a lot of the road. The highway was empty again, and I was the fastest thing on it as far as I could tell.
    I drove on through the night, watching the headlights get closer. They faded at what I was pretty sure was Casa Grande. Fifty percent chance they’d assume I’d headed back to Pueblo Caliente. Of course, that was the same chance Martini had given for the jet being okay. I assumed they’d be after me shortly.
    I came up on a group of cars and had to turn the headlights back on while moving through them. There were a lot of trucks in this portion of the road, and they were unintentionally impeding my ability to get around them. Within minutes we were down to a crawl. I saw signs—roadwork ahead.
    The people after me had no compunction about murdering innocents. Karl Smith, the cleaning lady, the care-taker, the man in the bathroom, lord alone knew who else. I couldn’t stay on the highway—they’d just blow through the truckers and the families around me.
    The train tracks were to the left of the freeway, and soon I wouldn’t have a chance to get off due to the construction I could see ahead. I waited for the next highway patrol turnout, drove across the dirt divider, floored it across the oncoming traffic. The Mazda was low to the ground, but it was a worker. I bumped over things I wasn’t supposed to be driving on and reached the tracks. A huge train was there, but that was fine. I could go faster for certain. If I was lucky, I could get ahead of the train and cross the tracks, thereby hiding myself from my pursuers. I didn’t expect luck, but I was going for it anyway.
    The 69 Eyes’ “Perfect Skin” was growling at me. I loved this song. I put the pedal down and started gaining on the train’s engine. Reached the head before the song was halfway done. Risked a look in the rearview. A large SUV that looked a lot like an Escalade was crossing the highway. And SUVs were far more equipped to handle off-road driving than sporty little Mazdas.
    “Come on,” I said to the car. “Prove you’re girl enough to run with the big dogs.” The car and I decided we were. I had the accelerator to the floor. Top speed was supposedly 140, and we were almost there. I could see an area up ahead where I might have a chance of crossing the tracks without flipping or being rammed by the train.
    Time to see what the skills really were. The needle hit 140, and we passed the engine as if it were standing still. Reached the might-be-a-crossing and turned. It worked great if I didn’t mind being airborne. No Jerry to tell me how to land this one.
    I was a child of pop culture. The Duke Boys had never had an issue flying in the