24.
Ruby was driving from the Atlanta airport back to Pickleweed when an old truck pulled up sharply on the empty road behind
her. The man driving wore a gimme cap, pulled down over his face so she wouldn’t be able to see him. Mud had been smeared
on his plates.
She knew at a glance, hearing the snarl of his engine, exactly what he had planned.
He came up fast, running up on her bumper.
The woods were thick around the road, with narrow dirt shoulders for pulling aside. She knew better than to pull over. He
would just pull in behind her, and—
She glanced in her mirror, increasing her speed. He matched it easily, driving crazy, driving close.
He pulled up even harder, honking. The blasts echoed through the foothills. He wanted her to pull over, be vulnerable to him
in that moment.
Not a chance, she thought.
She was suddenly aware that her bag was in the back seat, and in it was everything important to the case, including the tape
from the bar. If she disappeared, the entire case would go away. She would end up an invisible flag on her wall, before her
building manager eventually emptied her apartment. She didn’t have any relatives that she knew about, and not even her friend
Delaney would know what to do with her accumulated research. Her work would end up in the dumpster in the alley behind her
building, and life would carry on—the way some wanted it.
She floored the gas, but the man’s truck was much more powerful than her cheap rental car, and he was riding right on her bumper.
She whipped around a curve, and glanced back.
He was holding a shotgun out his window.
The back window blew out. Glass went flying everywhere, and she felt the whoosh of hot air pressing against her head. She
felt pain in the back of her neck, and knew that something had hit her.
Her car swerved. She was going too fast. She regained control. Her handgun was no match for a shotgun. If she pulled over
to try to fight, he would blow her to pieces before she could even open her door.
She saw him lift the shotgun again.
The next shot would hit the back of her head.
There was a sign coming up, down the country road.
the pickleweed motel.
Swerving wildly, Ruby swung the car into the empty lot, thankful that no one was parked there at the moment. She felt the
wheel slip beneath her sweaty hands, the tires spinning in helpless donuts, and she fought to regain control before the car
flipped or went into the woods. She was breathing hard when she finally managed to shudder to a stop near the trees. She killed
the engine.
Willa came running out of the motel.
The truck had slowed and then backed up to the front. The driver was idling his engine and watching Ruby. He looked at Willa
and roared off.
Ruby got out, picking shards of glass out of her hair. One came away with a bloody swipe.
“You hurt?” Willa asked.
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
She turned to where the truck had disappeared. If asked, she knew she would have a hard time describing it. An older Ford, maybe—they were a dime a dozen in a place like this. The man had been wearing his cap.
But enough of his face had showed that she could tell he looked a bit like Tommy Lee Jones, and definitely not so nice around
the eyes.
Willa used her office phone to call the local police.
“I can give you a ride into town once the police are done,” she said, hanging up. “This guy Donny, he rents cars from the
back of his shop. Won’t be no Enterprise, but it’ll be a car.”
Ruby looked out at the empty, glass-strewn road.
“I think I’ll stay the night here,” Ruby said.
She had six days until the execution.
“You sure about that?” Willa looked worried.
“Why not?”
“I just . . .”
Ruby remembered telling a counselor once that since she didn’t have a mother, it didn’t matter if she died. She still felt
that way. What was the point of living if you let others die?
“Do you think he’ll come back?” she asked.
The woman swallowed. “Maybe.”
“Got an idea who that was?”
“No.”
“Really? Seems like in a small town like this, you’d recognize each other’s trucks. I sure would.”
Willa flushed, looking upset.
“No,” she muttered.
“I’ll take room eleven again,” Ruby said, and Willa reluctantly fetched the key.
The Pickleweed police arrived, and Ruby left the office to meet them, curious if either of the officers would recognize her
name. If they did, they were still quite cordial.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Ruby said as they left their car uncertainly, hitching their belts. “Someone shot at me.”
The police left after scribbling a few indifferent notes. Ruby dined on candy bars and chips from the vending machine down
the hall, chased with cups of stale-tasting hot chocolate from the packages left in her room. She flossed and brushed her
teeth, washed her face, turned off all her lights, and sat by the window, peeking through the heavy curtains. They smelled
of mold and bleach.
The motel lot was quiet. A tow truck had come and hauled off the rental car, all the way back to the Atlanta airport. She
would take her ride from Willa in the morning and get a new car.
At ten p.m., Willa hung a closed sign in the office window, and the light went off inside. Ruby figured that Willa had an apartment back there. She wondered
what kind of life it was, if it was a happy one. Something told her it wasn’t.
It got silky dark. The woods came alive with night, and she could hear owls in the back, and deer moving through the trees.
She packed her bag and put it over her shoulder, then opened the window in the back.
She slid out, landing softly in the woods.
She made her way around the back of the motel, stopping and listening for any cars or footsteps in the dark. She saw that
the light was out in the apartment. The air conditioner dripped water.
At the end of the building, she paused. All was silent. She slid around the corner, then down the front walkway, watching, listening.
The front office was locked. She tried the lock, gently, then pulled a thin metal bar from her bag. This she slid under the
bolt, flexed the door, and popped the lock open. She had learned this trick from a retired detective, now dead.
She felt for the string that led to the bell, to silence it, then slid inside, closing the door gently behind her.
She felt around the counter. Underneath was the handwritten log, releasing the smell of even more soaps. She closed her eyes
for a moment, then held the log up to a sliver of moonlight coming in through the window and read.
Nothing there. Just names she didn’t know.
Putting the log back, she quietly rustled, touching a box of tissues, a few broken latches and curtain pulls. The cash register
was next. She felt for the release button, catching the metal drawer before it made noise. It was mostly empty, except for
some worn bills. She lifted it to find a checkbook underneath.
She picked it up, squinted at the name. Pickleweed Motel, it said. Proprietor: Willa Castle. Her signature was a scrawl underneath.
She stopped, scratching her chin.
There was the sound of footsteps from inside.
Ruby ducked behind the counter.
She could see a shape from the inside door, reflected in the motel window. It was Willa, wearing a nightgown.
“Is that you, Frank?” she called softly. “Should have never called you. I told you to leave her alone. She’ll be gone soon
enough,” Willa said.
There was a pause. “Frank?”
Willa sighed, crossing the office. She rattled the front door, and checked to see that it was still locked.
“Guess I was wrong,” she said.
Ruby heard her shuffle back to her room in her slippers.
Moving quietly, Ruby reached for a new room key. Room 10. Then she slipped from the office, back down the walkway.