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Authors: Carolyn Wheat
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Her face lit up as she caught a glimpse of Ron; the smile took twenty years off her face.
Breaking from the guards, she rushed toward the chair. Before they could stop her, she threw her arms around his torso and kissed him. It was a long, deep kiss with plenty of tongue.
I had never thought to see a woman kiss my brother that way again.
Luke Stoddard wanted Ron to testify against Jan.
It was my job to sell betrayal as a viable option.
But how could I ask Ron to betray a woman who kissed him as though he were still a whole man?
C HAPTER S IX
July 15, 1982
It was like being on speed. Black beauties with a hit or two of grass to fuzz the hard edges. Jan gunned the motor as the van sped along the black-topped T-square road toward Lake Erie. The summer wind licked her face, swished her long fine hair into her eyes, her mouth. She leaned back and laughed. This was aliveâthe most alive sheâd felt since the day she stopped drinking and doping seventy-nine days ago. Seventy-nine long days without a high, gray days in spite of golden summer sun, days as flat as the farmland on either side of the blacktop. The danger only heightened the high. Was this what Harriet Tubman felt leading slaves to freedom? Was this what Raoul Wallenberg felt smuggling Jews out of Hitlerâs Reich? Were all heroes danger junkies at heart?
âEh-slow down, por favor ,â the man in the passenger seat said, his Spanish accent heavy. Jan, loving the feel of summer wind in her hair, bristled at the peremptory tone behind the polite words. Miguel wasnât asking, he was ordering her to reduce speed.
She glanced at the speedometer. Sixty-five and rising. But hell, there was nobody around, even if it was afternoon. What was wrong with a little speed? She gunned the motor, taking the van another five miles over the limit.
A quiet voice from the back of the van said, âHeâs right, Jan. The last thing we need is to be stopped for speeding. Slow it down, okay?â It was Ron Jameson, strapped into the back of his specially equipped van like precious cargo.
He was right; she lightened her foot and the van slowed. But damn it, she was right too! If Miguel used that tone in front of anyone else, heâd never pass as a migrant farm worker. Humility was as much a part of his disguise as the guyabera shirt and calloused hands.
Anyway, Ron owned the van. He called the shots. So do the double nickel all the way to the lake. Fifty-five, stay alive . Her mind repeated the words like a mantra as her sandaled foot touched lightly on the accelerator. Fifty-five, stay alive. Fifty-five ⦠five .
Five . Five years. Five years if they got caught. That mantra, stronger than fifty-five , stay alive , took root in her brain. Five years, five years , she said to herself. Five years in a federal pen for transporting illegal aliens.
Could she do five years? No booze, no drugsâhell, as far as getting high was concerned, she was already in jail. Sobriety jail.
No men. Jan thought about that a moment, remembered Hal, her ex-husband, still actively alcoholic. Remembered the nameless, faceless men from the bars, men whoâd reeked of booze, just like her Daddy. No men. She shrugged; no loss.
No loss for her, but what about Ron? Would they really give five years to a man already imprisoned by paralysis? No, of course they wouldnât.
Right. And maybe the tooth fairy would drop by and slip some coin under her pillow for the two teeth Hal had knocked out just before he left.
âHow far?â Miguel asked, not for the first time. He looked like a typical Mexican-American migrant worker: face dark as a buckeye, wearing a loose shirt and a straw hat. Shorts and dusty huaraches. He had the look of a man whoâd spent his life squinting into the sun, squatting over strawberries, sweating over rows of sugar beet seedlings.
That was what Jan was counting on. That the weeks of working in the fields, sun beating down on
Her face lit up as she caught a glimpse of Ron; the smile took twenty years off her face.
Breaking from the guards, she rushed toward the chair. Before they could stop her, she threw her arms around his torso and kissed him. It was a long, deep kiss with plenty of tongue.
I had never thought to see a woman kiss my brother that way again.
Luke Stoddard wanted Ron to testify against Jan.
It was my job to sell betrayal as a viable option.
But how could I ask Ron to betray a woman who kissed him as though he were still a whole man?
C HAPTER S IX
July 15, 1982
It was like being on speed. Black beauties with a hit or two of grass to fuzz the hard edges. Jan gunned the motor as the van sped along the black-topped T-square road toward Lake Erie. The summer wind licked her face, swished her long fine hair into her eyes, her mouth. She leaned back and laughed. This was aliveâthe most alive sheâd felt since the day she stopped drinking and doping seventy-nine days ago. Seventy-nine long days without a high, gray days in spite of golden summer sun, days as flat as the farmland on either side of the blacktop. The danger only heightened the high. Was this what Harriet Tubman felt leading slaves to freedom? Was this what Raoul Wallenberg felt smuggling Jews out of Hitlerâs Reich? Were all heroes danger junkies at heart?
âEh-slow down, por favor ,â the man in the passenger seat said, his Spanish accent heavy. Jan, loving the feel of summer wind in her hair, bristled at the peremptory tone behind the polite words. Miguel wasnât asking, he was ordering her to reduce speed.
She glanced at the speedometer. Sixty-five and rising. But hell, there was nobody around, even if it was afternoon. What was wrong with a little speed? She gunned the motor, taking the van another five miles over the limit.
A quiet voice from the back of the van said, âHeâs right, Jan. The last thing we need is to be stopped for speeding. Slow it down, okay?â It was Ron Jameson, strapped into the back of his specially equipped van like precious cargo.
He was right; she lightened her foot and the van slowed. But damn it, she was right too! If Miguel used that tone in front of anyone else, heâd never pass as a migrant farm worker. Humility was as much a part of his disguise as the guyabera shirt and calloused hands.
Anyway, Ron owned the van. He called the shots. So do the double nickel all the way to the lake. Fifty-five, stay alive . Her mind repeated the words like a mantra as her sandaled foot touched lightly on the accelerator. Fifty-five, stay alive. Fifty-five ⦠five .
Five . Five years. Five years if they got caught. That mantra, stronger than fifty-five , stay alive , took root in her brain. Five years, five years , she said to herself. Five years in a federal pen for transporting illegal aliens.
Could she do five years? No booze, no drugsâhell, as far as getting high was concerned, she was already in jail. Sobriety jail.
No men. Jan thought about that a moment, remembered Hal, her ex-husband, still actively alcoholic. Remembered the nameless, faceless men from the bars, men whoâd reeked of booze, just like her Daddy. No men. She shrugged; no loss.
No loss for her, but what about Ron? Would they really give five years to a man already imprisoned by paralysis? No, of course they wouldnât.
Right. And maybe the tooth fairy would drop by and slip some coin under her pillow for the two teeth Hal had knocked out just before he left.
âHow far?â Miguel asked, not for the first time. He looked like a typical Mexican-American migrant worker: face dark as a buckeye, wearing a loose shirt and a straw hat. Shorts and dusty huaraches. He had the look of a man whoâd spent his life squinting into the sun, squatting over strawberries, sweating over rows of sugar beet seedlings.
That was what Jan was counting on. That the weeks of working in the fields, sun beating down on
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