Boots sat up. “Where are we?”
“They beat us here, you bitch!” Leeanne snarled. She smashed the gun into Boots’ forehead again. The woman slumped into the seat.
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“Hey, might not want to be doing that right here where people can see,” I said.
Leeanne looked like she wanted to punch me, then she looked like she wanted to kiss me, then cry. Instead, she threw the Sunbird into reverse and turned around. We were about half a block from the house, no one was paying much attention to us. Neighbors were coming out of their houses in slippers and robes. It was that kind of place.
“Maybe we can find out more if we ask the neighbors,” Leeanne said.
She parked the car on a street about a block away and we walked back. The Edmunds lived on a treelined street filled with the kind of big old houses Kansas City is known for. It was really nice. Their house was a two-story Georgian, in white, with black trim and a red door.
There was a swing in a tree in the front yard.
“So, what happened here?” I asked a couple standing at the foot of their driveway about two houses down.
“Kidnapping, we heard. Someone came in the middle of the night and took their three-year-old son, Chase,” the man said.
“It could have been our Reuben,” the woman said. “They go to preschool together. It’s just so sad.”
“Had to be my kid,” Leeanne muttered. “I’ll kill Boots when this is over.”
We walked back to the car. The back seat was empty. I turned around, Sarah was behind us. There was no sign of Boots.
“Ugg! I knew something like this was going to happen,” Leeanne said.
She slammed the driver’s seat upright and slammed the car door. People were starting to stare. Then I saw Boots. She had her back to us, and she was nearly on the other side of a small park on the opposite side of the street. Leeanne followed my gaze.
Then she was running.
“Help!” Boots screamed. “That woman has a gun! She’s one of the kidnappers, help!”
Leeanne skidded to a stop. The pavement was still slick with dew. We tried to look nonchalant. It wasn’t working. We got into the Sunbird as quick as we could. The damage was done. There were several people around Boots now.
Leeanne drove to the highway with one eye on the mirror. She went the speed limit, stopped at every stoplight. One mistake at this point and we were trying to explain things to a Kansas City judge, sometime three days from now.
“Now they think we stole my own kid!” Leeanne said.
“Well, isn’t that what we came here to do?” Sarah said.
Leeanne looked at her sister in the mirror and laughed. It was not crazy laughing. That was good.
“Damn. You’re right,” Leeanne said. “How far do you think she’ll go with this?”
We didn’t have long to find out, on the edge of Kansas City, we passed underneath a lighted, lettered billboard. There we were. Amber alert, description of the car, name of the driver, tag number, headed south on I-35.
“We have to get off the highway,” I said.
Leeanne took the next exit. Two Kansas City police cruisers whipped past, both with lights on.
“Not for us,” I said. “It’s a big city. We just have to stay low.”
We pulled into a gas station. I checked the GPS for a path that would keep us off I-35. The time went from just under seven hours to over nine.
“If we stay off I-35, we might make it. We could get there at 4 if we drive straight there,” I said.
“Who cares about time?” Leeanne said.
She got out and put a debit card in the pump. She filled up the Sunbird. I went around and popped the hood. It was an old car, we should probably check the oil before driving 600 miles. It needed a quart.
The only thing I’d had to eat since the pig pickin was a couple of truck stop donuts. I went in and bought oil, soda, chips and a hotdog. It would have to do. I walked back to the car.
“Here, you drive,” Leeanne said.
She handed me the keys. She had hit the end of her adrenaline.
Side roads can be fun to travel when you’re not in a hurry. But, when you are, they are the most frustrating way to go. Every six or seven miles, we were forced to drop to 30 MPH, through some little town, who had one cop with nothing better to do than bust anyone going one mile per hour over.
By lunch time, we were halfway there. We stopped for lunch at a diner in Wichita. The waitress delivered burgers and fries to us at the counter. There was a TV hanging over the register. A news camera focused on a familiar face.
Boots was telling them something. No idea what. The sound was down. Then a picture of Leeanne came up, with a description and tag number of the car. The waitress had gone to the kitchen.
“We’re out of here,” I said.
I dropped two twenties on the counter and nodded toward the TV. The girls said nothing. We left.