BooksBarbecue
Back The Runaway
Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY NICK PETRIE
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  79. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  80. What’s next onyour reading list?

She raised her chin. “I’m a grown woman, I can do what I want. All I got’s a rented trailer and a boss who won’t even pay minimum wage.” She wasn’t going to mention the county badge on Bogaloosa’s chest. She was going to leave him choking on her dust.

The shirtless guy sighed as if he already knew how things would end. “Risk-reward, Roy. I’m telling you, this is a bad idea. We have things to do, remember?”

Roy put the gas nozzle back in the pump. “Relax, Frank. She won’t be in the way. I’ll put her in a hotel while we work. If things don’t work out, we’ll drop her at the bus station with money for a ticket, wherever she wants to go. Maybe even a little cash stake to get her started.”

Frank yawned, scratched his naked chest, and turned away, his face in shadow. “Whatever. That’s on you, not me. I’m going to crawl in the back and get some shut-eye.”

Roy opened his door and turned to Helene. “Is that little pink backpack all you’ve got?”

4

PETER

NOW

The gravel road followed the top of the high, grassy bluff along the river, so Peter Ash saw the car from a long way off in the angled light. It was only the sixth vehicle he’d seen all day.

He didn’t mind the lack of company. In fact, solitude was half the point of the trip, getting his old green 1968 Chevy pickup from storage outside Portland, Oregon, and driving it to Milwaukee, which had been home for the last year or so. He had the windows down to feel the cold breeze on his face. The countryside seen through a windshield was, to Peter’s mind, one of the finer things in life.

His rule of thumb was to stay off the highway wherever possible. He didn’t much like the view of America from the interstate, with its chain restaurants, chain hotels, and chain gas stations with identical corporate snacks, everything the same with only minor variations, coast to coast. He preferred smaller local roads that followed the contours of the land, cracked, lumpy asphalt with no center line and no guardrail between him and the drop-off.

Gravel roads were better yet. There were a lot of them in the great wide open of the western plains. Like this pitted one-lane track, more dirt than stones, which wandered halfway across northern Nebraska before easing down the slope to the wide brown Missouri river. The winter had been hard and the spring came late, so the fields were still sodden with mud. The wind had dried the roads, though, and a plume of dust rose up behind him.