Slice of Life Snippet 3
“Yeah, kid. If a reliable witness saw Jennae Thompson headed into Mexico, I’d go after her. Reluctantly.” It’d be far less hassle, though, to catch the felon before she crossed the border. In Mexico, bounty hunting was illegal. Dixie massaged the persistent driver’s knot at the back of her neck.
“’Cause she’d be better off in jail here, right?”
“Right. We’re the angels to deliver her from evil.”
After they signed off, Dixie studied the WANTED poster while finishing her beer. Marla Jennae Thompson might serve as an example to Ryan of how easily simple misconduct can leap to serious crime, and to a dark and lonely place to spend your life. Or a few years, anyway, if Thompson was lucky. What a waste to be a bad example at twenty.
The young woman certainly didn’t look like an average felon. Dixie’d seen guilt in every guise imaginable—old, young, rich, poor, dumb, brilliant—so nothing really surprised her. But the haunted expression in Jennae’s eyes gave Dixie an uneasy feeling. She’d seen that look on runaways and street kids. On frightened animals.
And long ago in her own mirror.
CHAPTER 2
“This little pig went to Houston.” Chanting to keep the voice out of her head, Marla Jennae Thompson sped along Interstate 59, whipping around slowpokes, easing past sixteen-wheeling roadrunners, sniffing out cops.
“This little pig went home.”
Steady at five miles an hour over the limit, she watched other cars zip past as she counted the mile markers.
“Three-forty-seven. This little pig went to heaven.”
Cops ignored five-mile speeders. So far, anyway.
But every mile tightened an invisible cover over Jennae’s head. She could see, but not breathe. Clear plastic. A cleaning bag. The kind with a printed warning: Keep Away From Children.
“Play,” the voice warned. “Concentrate.”
Her fingers fluttered over the keyboard as her brain flooded with red mist. Then the bag was gone. She gasped, and kept her fingers moving, moving, hitting the notes, hitting the notes.
“See how much better you play when you concentrate?”
All in her mind, of course. All in her mind.
Now, it was all in her mind.
Jennae hiccupped. Hiccups always accompanied the fear.
Shit, who was she kidding? When had the fear ever left her?
Never mind. Show no fear, shed no tear—her new motto. Three days till her birthday.
“Happy-happy-happy birthday … to me!” Three days.
“Three-four-six. Pick up sticks.”
Spotting the city limits sign—
“City without pity…”
—she tensed, tightening her grip on the wheel.
No panic, no panic. Miles to go before she could panic.
“Houston, Pasadena, Clear Lake, Dickinson, La Marque,” she chanted.
A few miles later, she took the 610 Loop headed south.
“Why, shut my mouth, I’m going south …”
And despite her constant chatter—
“Way down south in the land of Cotton-eyed Joe …”
—she heard the hated, blood-chilling voice …
Come home.
CHAPTER 3
Texans with a gambling addiction have several options: dogs, horses, a few privately owned Keeno rooms or poker games, and the lottery. Almost any convenience store sells lottery tickets, but a confirmed gambler needs more action than a two-dollar scratch-off.
Private games were harder to find on the run, and only two parimutuel race tracks exist in the greater Houston area. On a hunch, Dixie had gone out of her way to scout the parking lot at Sam Houston Race Park. Investors in the track had expected horse racing to bring mega millions into the Houston economy, while fear-mongers had warned that increased crime and rack-eteering would follow to destroy the city. Neither prophecy had come to pass, and now Dixie’s quick scan of the parking lot proved equally uneventful.
Jennae Thompson’s Ford Escort was not there. No big surprise. Spurred by her nephew’s high expectations, Dixie’d felt compelled to stop on her way to meet Parker, but hadn’t really expected to strike it lucky.
The surprise came at Gulf Greyhound Park, located in a tiny community between Houston and the newly revitalized Galveston Island. Through a crust of road film Dixie spotted the Arkansas license number and knew she had the right car. Apparently, Thompson preferred pups to ponies.
Dixie glanced at her watch and reached for her cell phone. The local law could take over from here. If they responded promptly … big if … she could still make dinner on time.
Finding the car, however, didn’t guarantee the thief would still be on the premises. The expansive circular parking area, filled with locally-owned vehicles but also with plenty of out-of-state cars and RVs, provided a perfect opportunity to dump the Escort and pick up a new set of wheels. Alerting the locals prematurely would only bring her flak the next time she needed their help. With a feeling of being handcuffed by circumstances, she closed her cell phone and parked near the entrance.
