Further South (3 page)

They opened the trunk and tossed in their bait, weights and lures next to the cooler of beers and the rest of their gear. The taller one scanned the horizon, making sure she was long gone before heading to the car.
Something wasn't right with that one
, kept repeating over and over in his head.

"Girls like that are traps," the pudgier one said. "Either tra
pping you with a baby they won't abort or some venereal disease they caught from their uncle or stepdaddy. Traps. I like a good lay same as the next guy, but I keep my eyes out for traps. I don't need that kind of shit in my life."

They got into the car, the taller one driving, and started her up.
Headed back up the highway. The stereo jammed some classic rock from a New Orleans station, but as they headed out of range, the speakers popped and crackled and fuzzed until the taller one could take it no more. He told his buddy to reach in back for a CD.

"Get me that
Allmann Brothers," he said and the chubbier one turned in the seat to rustle around in back, but stopped just short, suddenly not moving. "What's the hold up?"

"Uh, Todd--" stammered Pudgy as he sat back, resting against the dash with his hands skyward.

The taller one turned to look and stared into the barrel of Melinda's .22. She sat up in the backseat, holding the grip with both hands and pointing it into his face.

"Eyes on the road,
fratboy," she said. "Last thing I need today is you cracking this car and putting me in the ER."

"What the--"

"Keep your hands on the wheel and do as I say and I won't put any extra holes in your head don't belong there," she said. "Fatboy, you turn around and put on your seatbelt. And take a right at this junction up ahead. Your fishing trip has been canceled. You two are taking me for a little ride."

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