Chosen Girls

Chapter 8

8

6 DAYS REMAINING

Alice felt her pulse race and her stomach plummet. She drove beyond the welcome sign, fields of high-standing corn on either side of the road. Like walls closing in, threatening to gobble her up.

The sight of red and blue flashing lights snapped her out of it. They approached fast in the rear view. The patrol car slowed and sat on her tail. Gave her a whoop-whoop of the siren. It was a brown and white car belonging to the Mayflower Sheriff’s Office.

"Aw, s**t," Alice said.

She pulled over to the side of the road, dirt crunching under the skinny tires of the Honda. The patrol car stopped a short walk from her rear fender, an officer climbing out. He straightened the rim of his hat and walked in bow-legged strides, as if he'd just climbed off a horse. His right hand rested on the butt of his duty pistol, thumb unclipping the button on the black leather holster. A habit of a twitchy twenty-first century.

The man's uniform was a seamless blend of browns. Trousers, buttoned-up jacket, and a tie, tight to the shirt collar.

Mirrored aviator shades gave him a distant appearance that lacked humanity. He reached the driver's side, bent over, as if it were a chore, and knocked on the window.

"Aw, s**t," Alice said, once more with feeling. Her stomach plunged as she wound down the window with the cheap plastic lever. She turned to face the silver-haired man. She noticed the name Sheriff Don Lynch stitched in gold lettering onto the breast of his jacket.

Alice and Sheriff Lynch stared at each other in silence. The sheriff moved his attention beyond Alice, across the boxes and black trash bags piled up in the car.

"License and registration please," he said, in a gravelly Midwest voice.

"Are we really going to do this?" Alice asked, sifting through a mess of papers inside the glove compartment.

"License and registration."

"What did I do wrong, exactly?" Alice asked, sifting through a variety of odds and ends, finding her license. She passed it through the window, her hand trembling.

Sheriff Lynch looked at the card. "So it's Alice Parks?" he said, in a mocking tone.

"It's a name, isn't it? Officer?"

The sheriff handed back the license and put both hands on the doorframe. "It's Sheriff Lynch," he said. "And your left taillight's broken."

"No, it isn't—”

The sheriff straightened out and backed up a few paces. He took out a black baton and smashed out the taillight. He tucked the baton away in his belt, returned to the driver's window and leaned in. "Yeah, it's broken," he said. "There's a repair shop a few miles the other way."

Sheriff Lynch pointed out the direction with a cracked, sun-spotted hand.

"So it's like that, is it?" Alice asked, shaking her head. "You act like I'm the one at fault."

The sheriff ran his tongue inside a cheek, like he was searching for a chunk of meat. "This is a nice town," he said. "With nice people."

"Nice people? Like you?" Alice said, shaking her head.

"We don't need any trouble," said the sheriff.

"From what I hear, you've got plenty," Alice said.

"And we don't need any more."

"Well, sorry to disturb your idyllic lifestyle," Alice said. "But I'm here on business."

"What kind of business?"

"Private business."

"This town's full of private business," the sheriff said. "Now, like I said, there's a repair shop a few miles back, the way you came in. It's part of Maguire's Autos. A big dealership. You can't miss it."

Again, the sheriff pointed the way with a hand.

"Fine," Alice said. "This was a crazy idea anyway."

"I'll see you out safe," the sheriff said.

"As if you care," Alice said, under her breath, working the stick.

The sheriff stepped into the road and looked both ways. He beckoned Alice on. She wrestled the heavy, unassisted wheel to the left and spun the Honda one-eighty.

As she accelerated away, Alice watched the sheriff watching her. Once she passed the Mayflower sign, she saw him duck inside his patrol car.

Still with the window open, dust and loose stems of corn blowing in, Alice let out a primal scream. She pulled over, snatched the paper roadmap off the passenger seat and ran a finger over the local roads. She dumped the map back on the seat, let out the parking brake and drove another mile along the road. She took a left exit at speed, so fast she almost lost control. She revved hard up a narrow, unmarked road between fields. There was more than one way into Mayflower.