Paul Kavanagh - Not Comin' Home to You

She couldn’t seem to get her breath. She looked at the palms of her hands. They glistened with sweat. She rubbed them against the front of her skirt but couldn’t get them dry, couldn’t get any warmth into her hands. She looked up again and the cops were nearing the corner. Just as they started to cross the street, she heard the gunshot. The cops heard it, too. She stared dry-mouthed as one of them took the other by the arm, turned him around. It seemed to her that both of them were staring straight at her. They just stood in their tracks for what seemed like forever,

She thought, Just a truck backfiring. That’s all it was, damn you, just a car backfiring or a truck, not a gunshot, so turn around again and walk away, walk away, keep walking, please turn around and walk away.

They were walking toward her now. Toward her. Toward the store. Not in a hurry but with a curious calm deliberation, as if they knew perfectly well that what they had heard had been nothing more ominous than a backfiring engine, but still resolved to go through the motions of investigation,

She managed to draw a breath. The motor was running, and there was no car parked immediately in front of them. If he came out now he could have the car in motion before they figured out what was happening. They were on foot; they couldn’t come after them.

What was he waiting for?

Then a second gunshot, and a third.

There could be no mistaking them for backfires. The cops had recognized them as gunfire and knew where they had come from. She watched as they sprinted to within thirty yards of the storefront. One had his gun drawn, the other was reaching for his.

And Jimmie John appeared in the doorway.

“Cops, Jimmie John! There!”

She had her head out of the window and she was yelling and pointing, and one of the cops was looking in her direction, his attention momentarily divided, and the other cop was shooting, and she heard glass break as his bullet starred a store window. He fired again and missed again and Jimmie John was down on one knee, the revolver held at arm’s length, and she saw the gun buck in his hand and the cop fall. He lay on his back and didn’t move.

Now the other cop was shooting. A bullet chipped the pavement a dozen yards behind Jimmie John. Jimmie John aimed, and he seemed to be taking forever, and the cop was snapping off one shot after another, all of them wide, and Jimmie John fired and the cop went down with a bullet in his shoulder.

She had the door open for him. He got in and yanked the door shut and dropped two boxes of cartridges on the seat between them. He floored the accelerator and the car leaped forward. When he was abreast of the cops he braked hard and she pitched forward, then fell back as he leaned across her and pointed the gun out the window. He squeezed the trigger and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

He said, “Shit,” and took hold of the wheel again and put the gas pedal on the floor again. He took the corner on two wheels, turned again at the end of the short block.

He said, “Keep an eye out the back window. And hang onto the back of the seat with both hands. I got some fancy driving to do.”

She turned obediently and looked out the rear window. She didn’t see anyone behind them and told him so.

“They come up in a car? Those two back there.”

“No, they were walking.”

“That’s something. Not that either of ’em’s fit to drive, but if they had a car handy they could radio in. The one of them, I didn’t hit him but in the arm.”

“I know.”

“Think I killed the other. Just the thing to make the day complete, isn’t it? Nothing takes the heat off a person like killing a cop. Makes other cops know you mean business, and then they know better than to mess with you.”

“I thought they really go after somebody who shoots a policeman.”

“I was being sarcastic. Still clear in back? Jesus, he had me deader than hell if he knew how to shoot. Wouldn’t you think they would teach a cop how to shoot a gun? He had me cold and all he could do was shoot up the rest of the town. Like I said all along.”

“What?”

“How things break for you if you stay on top of them. That gas station back in what is it, Grand Island. I had the safety catch on, if you can believe that. Trigger wouldn’t move. And then I was forever finding the damn safety and getting it off, and all that time he’s just standing there, standing there. He could of picked up anything and come at me and he just stands there, stands there. You know what you just did? You saved my life is what you did.”

“I was so frightened. I didn’t think I could even move.”

“But you did what you had to do. Saved my damn life. I never even thought a cop might be out there waiting for me. Never gave it a thought, just grabbed the shells and figured to be home free. You know what you are?”

“What?”

“Question should be do you know what you aren’t. What you aren’t is a hostage.”

“Huh?”

“A hostage. We still had a shot at making it work that way. If they caught us. You could say you were being held prisoner, like we talked about before. Can’t do it now, though. You can sit down now. We’re far enough out of town so there won’t be anything coming up behind us.”

She turned around, settled herself in her seat.

“But there’s no way you can be a hostage now. Man don’t leave a hostage alone in a car with the motor running and expect to find her there when he gets back. And a hostage don’t yell to warn him about the police.” He shook his head. “That’s why I tried to get that second cop. Then the gun comes up empty. Well, that was one time I’d been better off with six bullets in it instead of five. Hell, I should of stopped and reloaded and shot him, but I didn’t, and now you ain’t a hostage and everybody knows it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you’re an accomplice. Means it’d be a good idea not to get caught. Prison for you, if they catch you.”

“What about you?”

“They’d have to kill me to catch me. And I don’t feature letting them do that.” He threw an arm over the seat back, gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Oh, the hell,” he said. “No reason why they should catch either of us.”

“HANGING’S too good for them.”

Between Hondo and Ruidoso a little gravel road wound off to the southeast. He took it for a few miles until he came to an adobe cabin set off by itself. The cabin was a good ways back from the road. There was a small panel truck parked close to the cabin and a beat-up Chevy at the roadside. The Chevy had a key in the ignition. Once he had established that, he got back in the Pontiac and backed it to where it could not be seen from the cabin.

“Now you keep an eye out,” he said. “Anybody slows down for a good look, you hit that horn.”

He transferred their belongings to the Chevy — their bags, the bag of food, the boxes of shells. The gun, loaded once again, was in place under his belt. He used the Chevy to screen his body from the view of anyone in the cabin, and he covered the open ground rapidly each time he had to move from one car to the other.

From the Pontiac’s trunk he took the plates he had removed from the Dodge Coronet before dispatching it over the cliff. He removed the front and back plates from the Chevy and replaced them with the Coronet’s plates. When he had finished, he squatted on his heels behind the Chevy’s rear fender, his eyes on the cabin. There was no sign he could see to indicate that anyone had observed him.

He returned to the Pontiac. He asked her if she could drive, and she said she couldn’t. “You never drove at all?” She shook her head, eyes downcast. “One of these days remind me to teach you,” he said. “There’s times it comes in handy.”