Tabitha recognized the guard. He had escorted her through the prison for her previous visit. "You must have impressed him," he said.

"Mr. Boyle?"

"You're the only one who's been here twice."

"He's a nice guy," she said without thinking.

He frowned over his shoulder at her. "For fifteen minutes, maybe. Most nice guys don't spend decades at a time in prison."

"Last I heard, he might not, either."

The guard huffed. A new deal Jimmy Boyle was negotiating with the prosecutor could shave a few years off his sentence. It had also earned him a transfer from a medium security prison to an honor farm six months ago.

Since the transfer, Boyle Senior had arranged for an escort to pay his son a visit once a month, fifteen minutes a pop. The cost was exorbitant. Conjugal visits were normally limited to spouses, so on top of the escort's wage, Senior had to bribe the guard.

Tabitha didn't go through the normal visitation procedure. The guard led her down a flight of stairs to an administrative wing, past a locker room, and into a corridor where all the rooms appeared to be unused.

The guard didn't talk to her for the rest of the walk. He carried a shotgun slung carelessly over his right shoulder.

The room contained nothing but a threadbare couch. The guard's cell phone chirped as he unlocked the door. He popped it off a belt holster. "What is it? Tending to the prodigal son's entertainment. I'll meet you on the court later." He shut the door behind her. She sat on the couch and wished she had a cigarette. She had left her purse at home for this visit. The guard had held onto it last time.

Tabitha squirmed. She had something to give to Boyle, but she didn't want to take it out until the guard gave them their fifteen minutes. She gazed at the bare white walls, her mind drifting back to the antiseptic room where she had last talked to her sister. Lauren's inpatient treatment was halfway done. Forty-five days to go.

The door opened. Boyle was twenty pounds lighter than his father. He had the same fleshy nose and a softer widow's peak.

"Fifteen minutes," the guard said. He closed the door.

Boyle stopped in the center of the room. He stared at the wall and sucked on his lower lip.

"Do you want it now?" Tabitha said. "'Cause I think it might get in the way, you know?" She gave him a coquettish grin.

Boyle looked at her as if noticing her for the first time. "Let's see it."

Tabitha reached under her skirt and pushed aside her panties. A moment later she handed Boyle a cigar-shaped tube.

"It's only about the size of a tampon," Senior had said when he was trying to convince her. She made a mental note to describe her walk through the prison the next time Lauren mentioned Kegel exercises. Someday, she hoped, maybe they could also share a grin at the irony of muling drugs to pay for rehab.

Boyle unscrewed the two halves of the tube. Inside was a plastic cylinder slightly longer than his thumb. A knob protruded from a lengthwise slot on one side of it. Boyle popped the cap. A shell slid into his hand.

Tabitha's stomach dropped.

Boyle reassembled the zip gun. "Change of plan, baby. Just do what I say and everything's gonna be fine."

He stood against the wall halfway between the couch and the door. Tabitha sat with her knees locked together.

"You might want to take your shoes off," he said.

Tabitha didn't move.

After a few minutes he said, "Make some noise."

"What?"

"You know, fake it."

Tabitha tried a few moans.

"Jump on the couch," he said. "Make it squeak."

She bounced up and down, feeling more foolish by the second. Her calves ached before he finally gestured for her to stop. The room went stone quiet. Boyle watched the door.

The guard's knock startled her. "One minute," he said.

Boyle showed her a palm. He moved next to the door.

There was another knock. "Ten seconds."

"Can you give us a moment?" Boyle said. "She's having trouble with her bra."

"Five... four… three…"

The door opened. Boyle held the zip gun outstretched in both hands. It made a sharp pop. The bullet punctured the guard's right eyeball. He toppled into the room and landed on his face with a sickening crack.

Tabitha jumped to her feet. The room filled with the smell of singed plastic. Boyle dropped the half-melted cylinder and kneeled next to the corpse. No sidearm. Boyle checked for an ankle holster. He grabbed the shotgun and stood upright.

"You'll need a hostage," Tabitha said abruptly.

"I already thought of that. Don't move." He scanned the hallway. Nobody there. He thought he heard a distant voice. He waited with his ears perked. A door slammed somewhere deeper in the building. The hallway turned quiet again. He took the guard's keys out of the door and checked the shotgun's load and looked back at the room.

Tabitha stood next to the body with her hands folded awkwardly above her waist.

"Let's go," he said.

He walked next to her with one hand gripping the nape of her neck. They came to a three-way intersection. Boyle stopped. "Shit."

"Where do you need to go?"

He looked at her sideways.

"Do you need to go by the locker room?"

"Yeah, I do."

Tabitha pointed with her head. "It's to the right."

"Is that so?"

"I don't want to be a hostage any longer than I have to, and I sure as hell don't want anything to go wrong."

They went right. A short flight of stairs off the locker room led to an outside door. Boyle found its key on the fourth try. The door opened onto a parking lot. Sixty feet away a white van sat facing the road on the other side of an open gate.

"Take those ridiculous shoes off," he said. "You won't do me any good if you can't keep up with me."

Tabitha left her stiletto heels in the doorway. Boyle took a deep breath and sprinted across the lot with the shotgun in one hand and Tabitha's wrist in the other. She scrambled to keep pace.

They were twenty feet from the van when the sirens started. The van's rear doors swung open. Senior beckoned them inside.

Tires caught pavement as the doors slammed shut behind them. Tabitha heard gunshots. She curled on her side with her arms covering her head. The van wobbled and smashed through some sort of barricade. She slid sideways and smacked her hip against the wheel well.

"Weave through it," Senior told the driver. "I don't want to see another road until we cross 83."

Boyle kneeled between the front seats. His father had taken the passenger seat. The driver was a gaunt blond man with a three-day beard.

"Nothing behind us yet," the driver said. "Now we just need to scoot across the highway without being seen and change cars before the dragnet closes."

"You sure the car'll be there?" Boyle said.

"We dropped it off this morning."

"I hope you're as good as Pop says you are. They'll put the whole state on our ass."

"I never said it would be easy." The driver's voice was a growl. "Two points on our side, cover of darkness and the sheer amount of land they have to patrol."

"We still got some daylight left."

"After we get to the Jeep, we'll wait until sunset to start moving again."

Boyle turned to his father. "You check on our people at the coast?"

"Transportation's ready," Senior said. "We'll be on the Gulf before the water gets warm." He poked his head around the seat. "What are you doing back there?"

"Nothing," Tabitha said.

"You're up to something. Show me your hands."

She took her palms off her lap.

Senior glared suspiciously. "Get your ass up where we can see you."

Tabitha crawled next to Boyle and sat with her back against the side door.

"Why didn't you leave her at the farm?" the driver said.

"Figured they wouldn't be so quick to shoot if we had a hostage."

The driver glanced back at her dispassionately. "I don't like so much she's seen my face."

"I have a rotten memory," Tabitha said.

"It's a problem," the driver said.

Everyone turned silent. The van shimmied for another twenty minutes. The driver made an abrupt stop. They stepped out of the van onto a thirty-foot clearing. Weeds had fought their way through the gravel. Narrow paths led back into the woods. A Jeep Cherokee sat next to the van.

The driver lit a cigarette. "We'll wait about fifteen minutes."

"Why don't we roll now?" Boyle said.

"We're not out of the woods yet, but we will be soon. I want it to be dark when that happens. What about the hooker?"

"My name's Tabitha."

"She's a problem."

"I'm a professional," Tabitha said. "I know how to keep my mouth shut."

Boyle grimaced. "She's played ball so far. What difference does it make she's seen our faces?"

"Ask the guy who's not leaving the country," the driver said. He looked at Senior. "I'm not comfortable. It's a problem, boyo."

"Come talk to me, Jimmy," Senior said.

Boyle tossed the shotgun to the driver. "Keep an eye on her." He joined his father at the rear of the van. They spoke in harsh whispers. The driver rolled his cigarette around his lips, moistening the filter. Tabitha looked away from him.

Boyle returned with a pistol. "Come on." He motioned Tabitha toward the edge of the clearing. He nudged her with his palm when she faltered. "I just wanted you to know, I didn't want to have to do this. That guard was an asshole, but you seemed okay."

Tabitha stumbled backwards. "You don't have to do it."

"Yeah, I do. We can't bring you with us."

"Just leave me here. You'll get all the head start you need. Look around. I could walk all day and night, and maybe I'd eventually find Brownsville? By the time I see another human being, you could be in Egypt."

"It'll cause too much worry. You're a professional, right? You know how it is."

"Jimmy, wait."

"Sorry, babe." He aimed the pistol at her forehead.

Tabitha heard a crack in the distance. Blood spattered her face. Boyle collapsed.

"What the fuck!" Senior and the driver swiveled their necks. The shotgun arced for a target. Tabitha turned and ran toward the trees. Pebbles gored the balls of her feet. She collided with a man in a black tactical uniform.

"Get down!" He dragged her behind cover. A dozen more officers swarmed the clearing, pointing assault rifles and shouting orders.

Senior and the driver were cuffed and prone in a matter of seconds. Boyle lay motionless in the blood pooling from his head wound. The officer led Tabitha to the police SUV that had blocked one of the paths to the clearing.

A plainclothes officer watched them approach. "Are you Tabitha?"

"Yes."

"Detective Morales. Are you okay?"

"I think so."

Morales leaned against the SUV's grille and exhaled through puffed cheeks. He got a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Tabitha accepted one gratefully.

"I assume you made the call," Morales said.

"Yeah."

"The dispatcher couldn't hear much, but she kept the line open. It only took a couple of minutes to realize it was the dead guard's phone. We’ve been tracking the signal ever since."

"Glad you figured it out."

"How'd you hide it inside the van without them noticing?"

"It's not inside the van," Tabitha said. "If you want it, I'll need a moment in private."