“I'd just as soon not make it easy for them,” Bidwell said. “What if we ditch the SUV instead of filling it up?”
“And leave on foot?”
“We might be able to do even better than that,” Hardesty said. “Look here.” She had brought a local giveaway advertiser out of the farm-supply store a few moments earlier, and folded it open to “For Sale: Autos by Owner.”
“Oooh, that color would be great!” Taylor said, tapping an ad.
Bidwell, looking over his shoulder, whistled softly. “That,” he said mildly, “would outrun anything but a radio, if it's in good shape.” He studied the photo and the description of the car carefully. “Tim, why don't you call and see if it's still there? I had one of those when I was in high school. I think it's why Taylor's mom went out with me, at least at first. I was smarter than the average kid my age – I had a three-on-the-tree and a front bench seat. She used to make me double-date a lot ....”
Wilson demurred. “Not exactly a family-type vehicle ...”
“Exactly,” Bidwell said mildly. “That's why Becky loved ours – it was so not-soccer-mom, she said, and she got such a kick out of driving it.”
“She?” Wilson said, surprised.
“We,” Hardesty answered. “I had one in college. I thought it was the coolest thing ever, even if I did have a six and an automatic.”
“A woman who knows enough to complain about a six cylinder engine and an automatic transmission,” Bidwell said quietly, “in a car built to be a hot rod, knows way too much about cars, Tim.” Wilson eyed Hardesty. Hardesty looked at Bidwell and winked over Taylor's head. Bidwell looked away to keep from cracking up, and then said, “Let's get a bite to eat. If there's a pay phone inside, we can call from here, see if it's still for sale, find out where it's located.”
There were, in fact, few vehicles at the truck stop. Hardesty walked in from an edge of the parking lot; Wilson entered from a different door, holding Taylor's hand while Bidwell pumped gas and washed the windshield. Hardesty quietly asked the attendant about the price and wait for showers while Wilson picked out snacks and drinks for himself and Taylor.
“Five bucks, ten minutes' wait for the men's shower,” Hardesty said very softly as she passed him en route to the cashier's line. Wilson's nod would've done credit to a movie spy. He stepped up in line, gestured at the SUV and began counting out payment. Ostensibly he left, then, holding Taylor's hand and carrying their purchases in a plastic bag.
She didn't see him talk to Bidwell; she paid for a large coffee, an oversized T-Shirt, and a shower and headed to the waiting area. She found a phone, called the number in the ad, made an appointment to look at the car that afternoon, and wrote down directions. When the attendant called for the shower number she'd reserved she finished her coffee and headed back to the facility, swinging the backpack off her shoulder as she went.
Three quarters of an hour later she walked up to the table where Bidwell sat. “Hi,” she said perkily. “Is this seat taken?”
He recognized her voice – but the damp blonde-streaked ponytail, the thermal undershirt and black leggings, the hiking socks, laced-up boots, truck-stop T-shirt and the sunglass frames with the lenses popped out so altered her appearance he couldn't help but do a double-take.
“Umm,” he said. “I guess it is now, if you want it.”
She flashed him a smile and slipped into the chair. “Thanks. It's ... well, it's rough on a girl by herself in a place like this.”
He, too, had benefited from the chance to change clothes: dun-colored carpenter's pants, a brown canvas snap-front shirt, a baseball cap and wedge-soled work boots would send any eye searching for a vice president of the local bank running past him, let alone someone looking for the vice president of the United States. Her smile developed dimples.
The waitress reappeared. “Can I get you something, miss?”
Hardesty ignored the older woman's vocal tone and disapproving expression. “Sure,” she said, suddenly acquiring a Southern drawl thick enough to cut with a knife. “I'd love a burger, and fries, and a glass of milk.”
“This,” Bidwell said to the waitress, “can go on my ticket, please.”
The woman smiled very tightly. “Anything you say, sir.”
“So, where are Taylor and Tim?” Hardesty asked softly, amused at how hard the woman's shoes tapped as she bustled away.
“Tim's in the showers,” Bidwell said. “Taylor is sitting over there waiting for him, at that video-game console. I can't believe he's being that quiet.”
“I can,” Hardesty said. “He's had enough to tire out a teenager lately. Besides, that's a smart young man you're bringing up, sir.”
“If I'm going to call you Angela,” Bidwell said gravely, “hadn't you better call me Jason?”
“If we get through this and you still want me to,” she answered, “I'd be honored.”
“Meanwhile,” and then he stopped as the waitress arrived with a plate – his – of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans and cornbread. “Thank you.”
Hardesty watched the waitress refill Bidwell's tea. The woman left them again, and Hardesty noted her run-over shoes had taps on the heels. She sighed and slurped the straw against her empty water glass. “Good thing,” Bidwell said between bites, “you're not chewing gum.”
“I thought that might be a little over the top,” she answered. “I've got an appointment to go look at our new transportation in an hour. I have the directions written down.”
He nodded. “So how do we get there?”
She shrugged. “We'll think of something.”
Wilson appeared and Taylor jumped up.
“Dad!” He ran over and hugged the man. “I won! Come look!”
Bidwell nearly managed not to flinch and Hardesty leaned in to peck him on the cheek. “I told you he was a smart young man.”
Tapping heels approached, and the plate with Hardesty's meal rang against the table; the waitress set her glass down so hard the milk sloshed, but it didn't – quite – spill. Hardesty looked up at her and batted her eyes. “Why thank you, ma'am.”
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
“Just the check,” Bidwell said, letting a little snap of annoyance into his voice. Hardesty bit her lip, made a moue. “Do y'all have any lemon meringue pie?”
“No,” the waitress said. “We're out of all the desserts until tomorrow.” She marched away, stopping to check on Wilson and Taylor at their separate table, barely able to smooth her manner to friendliness in time to ask the boy, “Would you like some cake or ice cream, or cobbler?”
Bidwell snorted and Hardesty chuckled. “Good thing I don't like lemon icebox pie.”
She quickly dispatched her burger and fries and milk; the waitress came back with the check as a bus pulled into the parking lot; it disgorged a high-school volleyball team, and Bidwell headed for the cash register. Under cover of the milling teenagers trying to find seats, Hardesty brushed Wilson's chair on her way out the door. “Pick us up around back– we're going to look at the car.”
“Okay, Bobby,” she heard Wilson say to Taylor. “Go wash up while I pay the bill.”
The door closed behind her and Hardesty dawdled away from the entrance; on the other side of the bus, she changed direction, snarling under her breath as an incoming police car cut off her intended route. The cop slowed, watching her, and Hardesty shifted her backpack onto both shoulders then picked up her pace toward the highway. He slammed the door of his cruiser on his way inside.
Bidwell walked purposefully out the far entrance just then, turning the corner toward the parked SUV. He didn't appear to see Hardesty, but jangled keys and whistled, a little out of tune, as he went. Taylor and Wilson followed from the other door. Hardesty reached the highway, checked for oncoming traffic, and seeing none slowed her pace. She turned at the light, heading away from town, hoping Wilson or Bidwell had seen her. A minute or two later the SUV blew by, then the brake lights came on and the vehicle pulled over.
“Need a lift?” Wilson's voice came from the passenger seat as Hardesty reached the vehicle.
“Thanks,” Hardesty said. The back door swung open, and Hardesty hefted her backpack inside as though it were much heavier.
“Wow,” Taylor said. “You look different.”
“So do all of you,” Hardesty said. “Nice job back there, Taylor.”
“Proud of you, son,” Bidwell added.
“Never got to put my dirty clothes in the trash before,” Taylor said. “I like it, though.”
“Me, too,” Wilson said. He had taken a cue from Bidwell in choosing the new clothes both he and Taylor wore: jeans, multi-pocketed hunter's vests, long-sleeved polo shirts. With his green eyes and dishwater hair, Wilson looked like Taylor's ... uncle, or big brother, or dad.
“I guess it's time,” Bidwell said. “What's in the backpack, Angela?”
“The stuff I trusted out of my belt bag and Taylor's,” Hardesty said. “Some odds and ends from the drug store – first aid, personal hygiene. Camera, binoculars, ponchos, the water bottles, matches, the trowel. There wasn't much food left, but I've still got my stove and fuel. I ditched the beans-and-weenies MRE, though.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said sincerely. “I ate enough of those things to last a lifetime, while I was in Afghanistan.”
Bidwell raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were career Secret Service.”
“Doesn't mean I'm not a reservist,” Wilson said. “ROTC paid my way through college. I did my first tour in 2002, my second in 2004 and my third one in 2006.” He looked steadily at the driver. “I know you ... lost ... your wife over there, sir. I'm lucky to be able to have come home.”
“God willing,” Bidwell said, “All our people will be able to say that soon.”
“Not if Robertson wins,” Hardesty warned. “We're about all there is stopping him.”
“Well then,” Bidwell said, unconsciously echoing his son, “we just can't let him catch us.”

To be continued ...