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?

Like now.

7

At fifty miles an hour, the Chevy felt like an amusement park ride with the safety features removed, bouncing so hard on the ruts that Peter could barely keep his foot on the gas. He had to clamp his mouth shut so he didn’t bite off his tongue by accident. Every tool in the cargo box had already fallen from the shelves, but now he heard them rise and fall again with each leap of the truck. Beside him, his passenger held her huge belly tight with both arms, her feet up on the dashboard to lock her into her seat. Her face was flushed pink with excitement, and her tangled hair blew wild in the wind through the open windows.

Peter had allowed himself to hope that whoever was after her would linger by the river to examine the small white car. No such luck. Looking in the side mirror, he saw a dark vehicle crest the rise behind him. It trailed a boiling brown cloud and grew a little larger in the glass each time he checked. Close enough now that he could tell it was a pickup, a big one, riding high on oversized tires with the heavy line of a roll bar showing above the cab. Better suited to this rough road than Peter’s old Chevy.

Not that he was slowing down. In his experience, the deciding factor between success and failure was how badly you wanted it.

He showed his teeth and put his hand on the dashboard. He knew this good Detroit steel. Come on, old girl, he said silently. Let’s show ’em what you’re made of.

At sixty, somewhere between liftoff and a broken axle, the truck found equilibrium. A kind of levitation over the muddy ruts and weedy humps that made Peter feel like Luke Skywalker in his landspeeder. The grassland flew past in a blur. He checked the mirror and a smile spread across his face. The big black truck was falling behind.

He raised his voice over the wind. “How are you feeling? Okay?”

She nodded. Her arms were supporting her belly, but her eyes were on her fingers, plucking at the hem of her skirt.

He said, “Tell me the best possible way this ends for you.”

“Best case?” She leaned to check her own mirror. “He rolls that truck back there, and you get me all the way to Valentine. I catch the first bus to Minnesota.” She took a hand off her belly to rake her hair from her face.

“What’s in Minnesota?”

“My aunt. At least, I think she’s there.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re running from?”

“My husband.” She looked away. “Soon to be ex-husband. Turns out he’s not a very nice man.”

“Why don’t we just go to the police?”

She snorted. “They never helped before. Besides, my husband used to be the police.”