When the phone rings incessantly all day about a month into our stay, I get frantic. Anne is at work, and John and I have made a pact that while we’re in her house we will never answer the phone. We don’t want to give away our whereabouts, just in case. The continuous, foreboding ringing unnerves us, though.
As soon as Anne walks through the door, the phone shrills predictably again. She sees the fear on our faces, sets her grocery bags on the floor, and takes a resolved step to the phone.
“It’s Mom,” she says to John. A doe-eyed blank expression pales her summer tan. “She needs to talk to you.”
The call is brief. John doesn’t want to be on the telephone line for any length of time in case it’s tapped. He rakes his fingers through his hair, nervously setting his survival mode thinking into motion, and begins in a monotone: “The FBI was at my family’s in Ohio this morning. There’s a warrant out for both of us, and we’re on the FBI’s most wanted list. The FBI is involved because we crossed state lines. First they wanted me for failure to appear in court for the stolen computer in Huntington Beach, but now they want to charge me for the murders again.” He doesn’t blink. “We’re considered armed and drug-crazed.”
Nobody looks at each other for a long time, not wanting to project any negative energy to jinx us. We have no drugs. We have no weapons. We aren’t like that. I’m not like that, I think. I just want to get away and start over with my boyfriend.
John doesn’t mention why they want me too, but I remember the warnings of Detectives Lange and Tomlinson while we were in protective custody. They’ll be after you as long as you’re with him, Dawn. Instantly I worry about my family in Oregon. A dull awareness of anger toward John surfaces in my consciousness, suppressed over and over again almost like swallowing a surge of bile, for putting me in this situation. Again, I swallow the bitter taste back down. This is too much. Bewildered, I look at John, pleading once again for him to tell me what we should do next.
“We gotta leave. Right now!”
I know he is right and, without letting in any more emotions, zombielike, I gather and pack our things in just a few short minutes while John busies negotiating with Anne to borrow some money.
“Where will you go?” she asks him.
“Florida. Dawn is from Florida, and it’s far enough away from California. I think we’ll be safe.” John knows his sister won’t tell the cops about us, not for a while at least. His family wants him safe, of course, but they have no idea what that could cost them and I can imagine that they won’t protect him for long. Anne only nods at her brother, watching him change from that down-home good guy she grew up with in rural Ohio to an FBI fugitive, and she says good-bye. We leave our monthlong reprieve and, like a movie in fast-forward, escape from a rapidly approaching past to enter another looming, unsure future.
The highway reaches out endlessly before us, and John’s foot hits the gas as if he’s attempting to catch up with it. We are now in a mad rush to get out of Montana, where we know the authorities will be coming for us next. John’s focus is straight ahead, his speed lightning fast. The landscape is an elongated blur—seventy-five, eighty, eight-five. The Malibu strains with a constant high-pitched pinging noise, leaving miles of blessed freedom between us—until the red and blue lights of a highway patrol car blink haphazard signals for us to pull over.
“We’re caught!” I choke, feeling as if I have tripped just before the finish line in the 600-yard race.
“Shhh! Just stay calm and let me handle this.” John gathers his composure.
“Afternoon. Driver’s license, registration, please.” The officer’s voice booms with authority.
John slips into his down-home friendly persona again, letting the officer know he is cooperative and unaware of why he has been pulled over.
“The speed limit on Montana rural highways is fifty-five, Mr. Holmes. This isn’t California, you know.”
“Oh, it is? Why, no, sir. I didn’t know that, sir. It’s seventy-five in California and I, uh, thought…”
“What’s your business here in Montana, sir?”
“My sister lives in Billings. We were visiting for a few weeks. Summer vacation, you know, and now we’re headed home.” John tries to keep his story simple and close to the truth.
“I’ll be right back.” The officer walks back to run John’s license and car tags.
Every second we wait for the patrolman to return, John rhythmically digs his thumb into my palm enough to peel the skin off and, although I feel the pain, I don’t stop him. The sweat from my brow drips pearl-sized beads down my cheeks and rolls cool between my breasts. I look over at John and panic at the sight of his blond roots pushing out from underneath the dark hair dye, and I envision us sent back to California in handcuffs. I know the warrants for our arrest will show up on the police screen somehow. When the cop slowly, carefully returns to our car, checking out the paint job, I am positive he is taking us in.
“Well, uh, Mr. Holmes. I’m not finding any priors… so I’m gonna let you off with a warning this time. From now on, keep to the speed limit and make sure you get this young lady home safely.” He throws a smile my way.
I can’t believe our luck. I smile—a plastic, phony, innocent grin.
“Why, uh, yes, sir. I promise. Sorry ‘bout that.” John’s hillbilly tone is thick with appreciation. We wait for the officer to drive off ahead of us, pretending to let Thor out on the side of the road to pee. John waves, releasing his long-held breath. “That was close… real close!” John whispers without moving his lips.
Why John’s name didn’t come up when the officer radioed it in, I don’t know, but we learn from the stroke of luck. We are on the run from the law now. Not only the law, but the FBI… and this had been a narrow escape. John won’t make the mistake of bringing attention to himself again. Not for driving, anyway.
Florida. We are headed for Florida. Back to the East Coast and orange trees. “What do you want to see, baby? The Grand Canyon? Arizona?” Acting silly and goofy, John tries to get me to smile and relax.
“Sure, John. Can we see the whole thing?” I ask, loosening up a little. I remember the short stop I took with my father on the way to California over five years ago.
“Yeah, baby. Come on. Cheer up. We did it. It’s you and me again. Like we wanted.” He kisses my hand for reassurance.
I warm up to John’s charm, as I always do, and we saunter through Arizona like common tourists. Walking arm in arm and acting like sweethearts again, we gawk with the crowds at the Grand Canyon, walk the edge of the Meteor Crater near Flagstaff, and feel the age of the earth in the Petrified Forest.
We flit in and out of carefree moments, talking about the kind of home we would like to settle into and how long it might take for Sharon to meet up with us. We do it partially because it separates us from the severity of our situation, making it easier to cope, and partially because it reminds us that once upon a time we were happy.
Time and distance are our friends these days. Once out of the Southwest, we hurry through Texas and Oklahoma, paranoid on a different level to be stopped in these fanatically religious states.
Then we drift through Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama via rural highways. Spanish moss and mist in the evening hours make the scenery haunting. We hold hands and picture ourselves in Civil War garb rocking on the porch of an old plantation.
We are in Alabama, off a weathered side road, when John becomes fidgety again. We are running out of money, and he is doing his best to not let me know how low our finances have become. Checking into another unassuming cheap motel, we look forward to finally arriving in Florida the next day. Without warning, John makes the decision to take a walk by himself just after dark and slips on a pair of dark leather gloves. “Keep an eye out the window for me, baby. And shut the lights out if you see someone coming.”