Mortal Prey

don’t like it down there, Springfield, and I don’t blame you, but I want to go home someday and see my folks and be able to walk down the street without worrying.”
     
    RINKER TOOK A quick turn around the living room, intent now. “You know what? If you’re gonna do this, if you really want to, you gotta do it now, right away, and you’ve gotta turn me in.”
    “What?”
    “Yeah. That’ll alibi you. You tell them I showed up and insisted on staying, and you got scared and ran for it, and decided to turn yourself in. You could use that in a trial, good faith and all that. Do you know an attorney?”
    Pollock nodded. “I got a name from the Memphis magazine—she’s a criminal attorney and she’s a big feminist deal down there. She’s got a reputation for defending women who were beat up, and did something about it.”
    “Is she good?”
    “The magazine says she is. She was like a winner in their mover-and-shaker issue.”
    “Okay, then. This could work. This could work. But you’ve got to think about it harder. I’ve got money, we could get you out of here. Seattle, or somewhere really out of it.”
    “Nah…” Pollock looked around. “I hate this place. Everything’s gray, nothing’s mine. I never felt like I could hang a picture, because Old Lady McCombs would get pissed about me hammering a nail in the wall. If I go somewhere else, it’d be the same thing all over again.”
    Rinker looked at her for a long moment and then said, “Let’s think about it.”
    “You think…?”
    “I think it’s reasonable,” Rinker said. “Tell me about this attorney.”
     
    THEY TALKED THE rest of the afternoon, and then Pollock went out and brought groceries and a bottle of wine, and they had fish and white wine and a nice spinach salad. Halfway through, Pollock started to sob, and Rinker said, “You’re gonna be scared for a while.”
    “Ah, jeez.”
    “And it’s a risk. The papers say first-degree murder.”
    “It’s no risk. I’m dying right here, one inch at a time.”
    “Then let’s run with it.” Clara grinned at her, the first smile since she heard about Gene. “But not until tomorrow. I got a couple of things to do tonight. You could call the lawyer tomorrow morning and head down to Memphis in your car.”
    “I’d like to talk to Mama first.”
    “I shouldn’t go out until after dark—things’ll be safer on the street then,” Rinker said. “We can make the call from the gas station.”
     
    THEY WENT OUT after dark, both wearing skirts and dark blouses, hoping to look like old women. They went downtown first, to the Heartland National Plaza. Rinker found a Federal Express station and took an envelope. She called a cab from a pay phone, then put the booby-trapped cell phone in the envelope with a note she’d written that afternoon, and walked out to the sidewalk and waited.
    The cab showed in five minutes, and she gave the driver the envelope and twenty dollars, and took his card. As soon as the cab was out of sight, she waved Pollock over, and they wandered farther west, found a gas station with an outside phone, and Pollock called her mother and told her what she was planning.
    Rinker watched the rearview mirror for fast-moving cars, and after two minutes, gave Pollock the hang up sign. Pollock talked for another thirty seconds, then hung up, and they pulled out.
    “Davenport,” Pollock said.
    “What?”
    “Davenport was at my folks’ home. Mama put a bug in his ear, sounds like.” She smiled, and suddenly looked almost happy, Rinker thought. “She remembered his name because she always called a couch a couch, and Dad always called it a davenport.”
    “Really,” Rinker said.
    “So we’re going back to my place? I oughta pack a few things and maybe put some stuff in a box and send to Mama tomorrow. I could go to the post office before I leave for Memphis.”
    “I could mail it for you…. Tell you what—let’s get out of town someplace, someplace over in Illinois, and get us an ice cream. One big last calorie blast before you take off.”
    Pollock started crying again, and Rinker let her go. A minute later, Pollock wiped her nose on the shoulder of her blouse and said, “That’s sounds really good, Clara.”
    “ LUCAS WAS AT the hotel, reading an Esquire about fall fashion, and what anyone not a savage would be wearing in October, when Mallard called: “Showtime,” he said.
    “She’s coming in?”
    “No. She sent Levy a cell phone in a cab, in a