Shiver

occurred to her, but the last attempt hadn’t gone so well and she doubted that exiting any faster was going to be possible: getting the balky door open just couldn’t reliably be done in an instant. Maybe a half mile up ahead was the junction with Story Avenue. If she followed Storyalong to St. Clair, the route would take her past bars and strip clubs where there would be people, i.e., witnesses, which should make him even less likely to shoot her if she jumped. It was also where, she calculated, she had a fairly good chance of encountering a cop. If she had to drive right into the side of a fuzzmobile to get out of this, that’s just what she was going to do.
    Only there was the small matter of the two men she had just shot. It had absolutely been self-defense, but what would it take to convince the cops of that? In East St. Louis, the residents universally mistrusted police. The police, in nice reciprocation, equally universally mistrusted the residents. In the “us” versus “them” world in which she had grown up, the cops were “them.”
    They probably weren’t going to believe her. And even if somebody ultimately did, how long would it take to convince the powers that be to release her from jail, where she was sure to be taken as soon as the first cop got the first whiff about there being two dead bodies involved?
    If she was taken into custody, even for a short while, what would happen to Tyler? Kendra would take care of him, as would Mrs. Menifee, but . . .
    Sam felt the tiny muscle beneath her left eye start to twitch. An annoying barometer of her emotional state, it was something that happened when she was under extreme stress. Automatically pressing a cool forefinger against the jumping spot, she cast her captor a look of supreme loathing.
    “I don’t want any part of this,” she said. “Whatever’s going on, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
    “It does now.”
    That was so horrible to contemplate that, staring at him, Sam drove off the road again.
    “Watch out!” His one good eye widened with almost comical alarm even as the vibration of the tires rolling onto the shoulder jerked her attention forward. It was just in time to allow her to avoid driving straight into a drainage ditch. She yanked the wheel, and with a couple of bounces they were on the pavement once more. “The last thing we need is for you to wreck us. The goal is for us to get away from here, remember?” He sounded like he was speaking through his teeth. “Although probably the gunshots and squealing tires back there screwed the whole ‘let’s try to sneak away quietly’ thing. To say nothing of the fucking air horn.”
    “You can have the truck, okay?” Sliding him a sideways glance, Sam wet her dry lips. They were nearing the intersection with Story, which was a little far from her duplex, although the distance didn’t constitute anything resembling a problem under the circumstances. She could hitchhike. She could walk. Whatever it took. “Just let me go and take it. I won’t report it stolen, I swear.”
    “With my leg like it is, I can’t drive.” He said it flatly, as though that was the end of the discussion. The words rang in Sam’s head like the tolling of some terrible bell. If he couldn’t drive, he wasn’t going to let her go. He needed her. God help her.
    The atmosphere inside the truck was suddenly thick with tension. As the hard truth sank in, Sam stared up ahead without really seeing anything.
    “What part of ‘we’re on the same side’ did you fail to understand back there?” His voice was lower and grittier, and, glancing at him, Sam got the impression that he was in considerable pain. She had a happy thought: maybe he’ll pass out.
    Then what?
    I’ll push him out of the truck and drive like hell.
    Call that plan B. What she needed was a plan A. Something that was actually likely to work.
    Maybe she could reason with him.
    She took a deep breath. “Look, whatever you’re involved in, I don’t want anything to do with it. I’ll drop you off anywhere you say, okay? Just tell me where.”
    A beat passed. “Fair enough.”
    Did that constitute a deal? Sam couldn’t be sure, and realized she wouldn’t trust it even if she thought it did. He had given in way too easily: it didn’t take genius to suspect that he was stringing her along, trying to keep her cooperative while he got what he wanted out of her. His breathing was sounding a little ragged; out of the corner of her