I kept my eyes on the road, but after a moment I said to her, "You know, every cop in the entire world is going to come after you. Forever. You murdered a lot of important people. They'll never forget. Never. Eventually, they'll get you."

"Shut up."

"I just thought you should know they're really pissed."

"So what? They ain't impressed me yet."

That was probably true. After another moment I said, "What should I call you?"

"Don't call me nothin'. Shut up and drive."

"Come on. Give me a name. You're going to kill me anyway. Think about it… What will it hurt?"

She seemed to consider this. Obviously, she had removed her balaclava because in this era of terrorphobia people get a little stressed when they see hooded people riding around town. Yet allowing me to see her face was bad news for me. In fact, I was clueless as to why they hadn't already whacked me. Somehow, I fit into their agenda. Probably it suited their purposes to keep a hostage until they were free and clear, not a second longer. In any event, her failure to contradict my assertion confirmed that I didn't have to worry about my dinner plans. She said, "Mary-Lou."

Why do all these people from Texas sound like country singers? I said, "Pretty name."

"Don't try that shit. We ain't gonna be friends."

I looked at her. "You're right, MaryLou, we'll never be friends. I'd just like my last few hours to pass pleasantly. Okay with you?"

We could hear, off in the distance, the screams of sirens, and again she twisted around and looked to be sure there weren't any flashing lights on our tail. No such luck.

I mentioned, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The Bureau already knows about you."

"Yeah, right-nice try. They don't got a clue about me."

"Well… look, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news here… but yeah… they really do."

"Bullshit. They don't-"

"They know you're from Killeen, they know you've been pilfering weapons, and they know all about your pal Clyde Winner."

As intended, this disclosure got a big jolt out of her. She sort of recoiled backward, the pistol dipped a little, and her eyes went wide.

"Investigators are running all over Killeen," I continued. "What I'll bet is somebody will remember seeing you and Clyde together." I added, "With your looks… the boys do take notice, don't they?"

"I… when… I mean, how-"

"Hey… you should see the composite of you they're flashing around. From that range theft-the day you ran around Fort Hood in the range control getup. Those guys on the range sure remembered you. In fact, seeing you in the flesh-wow, it's you… a dead ringer." I glanced at her and said, "Hey… you seem a little tense… upset. Should I be telling you this?"

"Jus'… fuck- Jus' shut up."

"Fine. I'll just, you know, drive."

I stared straight ahead. MaryLou was apparently not one of those people who accepts bad news gracefully. Neither am I.

I was thinking on my feet, looking for an angle, trying to get a bead on this lady. Having grown up in Army bases in the South, I knew girls who at least looked and sounded like MaryLou- rednecky, bred on the wrong side of the tracks, and willing to do anything to get to the right side. Mentally underendowed, but overendowed with great looks, great knockers, and the drives and instincts of a true carnivore.

Okay, I was constructing an overused stereotype, but stereotypes have their uses, and often even have roots in some useful and telling truths. For instance, I guessed that MaryLou probably was a little insecure about her background, resentful toward authority figures, and probably had a history with the coppers. Like most people from hardscrabble backgrounds, she was perhaps prone to believe that every piece of good fortune comes wrapped in a shitty lining.

Motive was also a factor. I would guess MaryLou beat the odds of early disaster, and now the shadow of long-term failure loomed; she was too old and carried too much baggage to impress a rich boy, her good looks were getting wrinkly, and a fork-lift was required to keep her boobs aloft. For MaryLou, it had become all or nothing, which was not really happy news for me.

As I suspected she might, she waved her pistol and asked, "Hey, you. What else the cops know?"

"MaryLou, it's not what they know now-it's what they'll soon know. You born and raised in Killeen?"

"So?"

I shook my head. "So, that's unfortunate for you. For the cops, it's one-stop/one-shop. The thing with cops is, they may get off to a slow start, but they're resilient and very persistent." I added, "By nightfall, they'll know your name, your history, even your shoe size."

Actually, from the molds taken at the Hawk's place, they already had her shoe size, width, an estimate of her weight, and even her shoe type. Under the circumstances, however, it probably was best not to bring that up. I suggested, "But maybe you don't have a problem."

"How's that?"

"Well, I'm sure you've got a good disguise and a fake passport to get out of the country. Right?"

"Nope. I know where I can git one, though."

"Killeen?"

"So?"

"What do you think?"

"Too hot, huh?"

I allowed her to think about that. She didn't strike me as overly bright, but I would be foolish to underestimate her. At least given our brief history together, there was no risk she would overestimate me. I suggested, "I'm not saying you're going to get caught, but I don't really see how you're not."

From her expression, these thoughts were disturbing for her. Actually, I was a little astonished. These people had thought out everything; why not a reasonable escape plan? Then again, success breeds overconfidence, and we all know where that lands you: sloppy

Eventually she said, "Maybe yer not as smart as you think, Drummond."

"Maybe. I know this; once the cops ID you, you'll be as recognizable as Madonna. As will your partners. You murdered some very important people, MaryLou, and you painted a bull's-eye on the President's ass. They're calling this the crime of the century"

"I kin still get away"

"Maybe. But what if you don't?"

"What's that mean?"

"A smart person considers the alternatives."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes shit happens, MaryLou. But it doesn't have to happen to you."

"I'm listenin'."

"We're talking multiple counts of murder in the first degree, extortion, and conspiracy to commit murder…" I looked at her and explained, accurately, "The government will have to ask for capital punishment. At least a couple of you will fry." I paused to allow that reality to register, and then suggested, "But I'll bet one of you won't."

I directed my eyes back to the road, though I could sense her studying me. Eventually she said, "Look, asshole, I got maybe twelve million comin' to me. Now yer tryin' to jerk me around, like I got a problem."

"Don't you?"

"Turn there, on Glebe." She added, "Way I see it, only problem I got's how to spend all that cash."

"Fine. Good luck."

"Yeah? Well, nobody kin prove shit on me."

"Except your partners." I smiled.

She raised her pistol and pointed it at my head. With a quick glance I saw that her trigger finger was white with pressure and her pupils were dilated with anger. Uh-oh. She said, "I think I'll jus' blow yer friggin' brains out."

"Boy, is that my thanks for trying to help you out here?"

Her fingers tightened a little more, and she was about a millimeter short of ending this conversation. "Don't, MaryLou. I'm driving, we'll crash, the cops will come, and you might have a little trouble explaining those suitcases in the truck bed." I very reasonably added, "Take a deep breath. Forget everything I said."

She obviously couldn't, however. She said, "Clyde's smart-erin' you anyway"

"Probably"

"He thinks things through."