Karen said, "Glenn?"

His head turned and she was looking at his designer shades, small oval lenses in a gold wire frame.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

She watched him hesitate, uncertain.

He said, "It couldn't have been out at Glades, if that's what you're thinking. I was never out there."

Karen shook her head.

He raised his hand to stroke his hair away from his face.

"But you're sure we've met, huh?"

"A couple of times."

"Is that right? Where?"

"Last fall," Karen said, "I drove you from the Palm Beach county jail to the federal courthouse, twice. You're Glenn Michaels. I never forget anyone I've cuffed and shackled."

He didn't move or say a word, staring at her now like he'd been turned to stone.

Karen said, "Let's think for a minute, Glenn, see if we can work this out. Is there a gun in the car?"

Foley had his head down, chin on his chest, fingers working at a button caked with muck. Buddy, watching him, said, "You're pulling at it. If you want to do that-here." He laid the shotgun in the grass, came up to take the guard shirt in his two hands and ripped it open, popping buttons and tearing the shirt. He wiped his hands on his khaki pants as Foley threw the shirt in the bushes, picked up the raincoat and put it on.

"Why you brought Glenn," Foley said, "I'll never know."

"Since I got so many friends here," Buddy said.

"He came through and you treat him like shit."

"He wants something. It's the only reason he's here. He gets picked up doing one of his cars, he'll make a deal and give us up."

"He talks too much, that's all."

"That's what I'm saying."

"Get rid of the cap."

"I don't know why, but every time he opens his mouth I want to punch him out."

"He ain't the problem, Jack."

"Look. I couldn't leave her in the trunk. And that's all I can tell you."

"You don't want to leave her here, either."

"She's in the car. You want to go or stand here talking about it?"

"I have a choice? Okay, first take your head out of your ass, then tell me why you want to bring her."

Buddy waited.

"You gonna tell me?"

"It's hard to explain," Foley said.

She touched his arm, leaning in close like she was creeping up on him and Glenn turned away, all the way around to look straight ahead, get out of her face, Jesus, and try to think. He wanted to know what Foley and Buddy were doing, if they were coming, but didn't want to look to find out. He had planned to tell them, when they got in the car, he'd had the Audi up to one thirty-seven in less than half a mile; German iron, it cruised, man… She said his name.

She said, "Glenn, don't think, okay?" Knowing that's what he was trying to do. She said, "Just listen. You're in a tough spot, but I think I can help you."

He said, "Hey, wait a minute…" but didn't know what to say after that. She asked him again if there was a gun in the car. The way she put it this time, "Do we have a gun in the car?" We.

Like they were together in this. He remembered her voice now from before, riding in the GMC van. She had a nice voice and never raised it, not even when she was in some moron's face who was giving her a hard time. He remembered you could bullshit with her about different things, this girl no older than he was. She said his name again.

She said, "Glenn, Foley's not going to make it. You said yourself he's too fucking wired to think straight. And if he goes down… Glenn, you go with him." She touched his shoulder and he jumped. She said,

"If I had hair like yours, all that body, I'd never have to put it up."

She said, "I can understand if you and Foley are close…"

"We're not. I'm helping him, yeah…"

She stopped him.

"Wait. Have you helped him, Glenn? At this point, technically, I doubt you could be charged with aiding a fugitive. So you still have a choice." She said, "You can help him and risk going down again, get cuffed and shackled, hope to God you pull a reasonable judge, not some hard-on. Or, if you want to play it another way…"

She paused and Glenn said, "How?"

"All the time we're in the trunk," Foley said, "we're talking, we're getting along, you might say."

Buddy said, "Jesus Christ," turning his head, as if he didn't want to hear it.

"Listen to me, all right? I kept wondering if she and I had met, you know, under normal circumstances like at a cocktail lounge…" He stopped, running out of words, Buddy staring at him again.

"You want to take her up to my place," Buddy said, "and get cleaned up?

You come out of the bathroom with your aftershave on and she goes, "Oh, I had you all wrong'?"

"I want to talk to her again, that's all."

Buddy kept staring at him.

"You're too late, Jack. You're what you are, clean or dirty.

The best either of us can do is look at nice pretty girls and think, well, if we had done it different…"

Foley began to say-he wasn't sure what, something; repeat himself, not wanting to give up? He heard Glenn start the car and looked over to see the headlights pop on.

"He wants to go," Buddy said, "get out of here, and I don't blame him."

They walked toward the car.

Then stopped and watched as it took off, tires squealing as the rubber hit pavement. They watched the taillights until they were out of sight down the turnpike, neither of them saying a word.

EIGHT

At Good Samaritan they told Karen she was lucky, all she had was a concussion, but they'd keep her here till tomorrow, do a few more tests to make sure.

Her dad came with newspapers and magazines to camp here and watch over his little girl. Milt Dancey, her supervisor, came up from Miami to stand by her bed for two hours. Flowers came. Ray Nicolet came, he kissed Karen on the cheek and touched her hair but could only stay a few minutes; he was on the Violent Crimes Task Force hunting the escapees. More flowers came. When Daniel Burdon, FBI special agent, arrived he asked her dad to please wait outside, they had some business to do here. He had in his hand a copy of the statement Karen had dictated to a court reporter that morning.

It was midafternoon now, sunny outside, the private room pleasant enough, flower arrangements gathering along the window ledge.

Burdon asked her, "What's in the IV?"

"I think just glucose."

"You sweet enough, Karen. Tell me how you got the bump on your head."

"Isn't that my report?"

"Read it," Milt said.

"That's why you have a copy."

"I have read it. What I want is to hear Karen tell it, if it's all right with her," Burdon said.

"I don't give a shit if it's all right with you, Milt, or it isn't all right. You don't even have to be in the room. This is my investigation."

Karen's gaze moved from the black special agent who looked like a lawyer to the overweight old-boy marshal who was all cop, and said,

"Don't hit him, Milt, Daniel's being important. I don't mind."

Burdon smiled at her.

"I love the way you talk, Karen, like you one of the boys. So tell me what happened. You tried to grab the wheel-where was this?"

"Coming to the Okeechobee exit. I wanted to get to a phone and thought of the tollbooth. We went off the exit ramp, down the grade and I guess hit the abutment."

"Must not've had your seat belt on."

Milt said, "For Christ sake…"

"No, but I did think about it," Karen said, "once I was in the front seat. I climbed over…" Swung her leg over the seat in the tight skirt and told Glenn not to look. Actually told him that, Don't look.

And smiled for just a moment remembering it. Burdon was frowning at her. She said, "Glenn had it up to a hundred and twenty, blowing past cars… I don't mean when we went off the road. As soon as I saw the exit and grabbed the wheel, he hit the brakes. We were going about fifty when we went off."