Read Online We Will Be Crashing Shortly by Hollis Gillespie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hollis Gillespie
Ads: Link
is April Mae Manning. Should you catch sight of subject, use extreme caution to apprehend immediately, she is considered armed and dangerous.
Roundtree turned to me with a look of sheer excitement. “See?” he clapped his hands and pointed. “You are a fugitive!”
“Scooter, get in the car,” Flo demanded. He hopped in the backseat just as I closed the hatch and lay flat on the back floorboard. Flo gunned it to the Kroger entrance just in time to catch Anita on her way back from the restroom. “Get in, girl! Hurry!”
Anita jumped into the front seat with a hoot of excitement. “What now?”
“The police have a BOLO out on April. They think she set the fire and killed Malcolm’s dad.”
“Why? What . . . how?”
“Evidently they have two asshole witnesses who said so.”
We all knew who those witnesses were—Hackman and Ash. They must have made good on returning to the rubble to dig out what they wanted from the ashes, only to find that we’d escaped and taken Trixi with us. I closed my eyes and tried to rest while Flo uncharacteristically followed the traffic laws with agonizing precision. The Humvee was enough of an attention magnet on its own; add frantic driving and we’d probably be swarmed with SWAT helicopters within minutes. Flo threw her cellphone out the window as we entered the freeway in case Hackman alerted the police that she may be accompanying me. No need to be concerned about the phone belonging to Roundtree since Hackman had no reason to expect we’d be with him. I watched the stars in the night sky as we seemed to crawl down the highway at the pace of a herd of pachyderms. I didn’t even have to ask Flo where we were going. I knew we were headed straight to Otis’s place.
CHAPTER 8
Uncle Otis was standing in his driveway when we arrived. He had a police radio, too, and wisely knew not to call Flo in order to avoid having her cell ping off a nearby tower, thereby enabling the police to triangulate our position. Instead he simply expected us to come, and we did. Flo had barely braked to a stop before the doors flew open and we clamored out of the car.
“Flo!” Otis exclaimed pleasantly, his arms outstretched as he came toward her.
“Back off, Bluto,” Flo held her arm outstretched and plowed past him. She called all of her ex-lovers “Bluto.”
“Anita!” he extended her the same greeting, but got the same response, because Flo had told Anita everything about the philandering Otis during their bonding session over Trixibelle’s pumpkin-poop episode in the back of the Humvee.
“April!” Otis turned toward me and I flung myself in his arms. “That’s my girl!” he laughed. “Murder and arson. I’m so proud. Did you shoot Ash?”
Shooting people seemed to be Otis’s answer to everything. Like me, Otis is into lists, and he has lists taped up all over the house: “Top 8 Reasons to Never Answer the Door,” “5 Easy Ways to Disarm an Intruder,” “4 Best Ways to Escape a Choke Hold,” “9 Reasons Why You Should Shoot First and Ask Questions Later,” and “The 8 Components to Optimum Situational Awareness.”
If Otis ever actually shot anyone I never heard about it, though he did narrowly miss me once. He argued that I should not have been breaking into his home at the time. But what is a girl supposed to do when she lost her key and her uncle lives in an old biscuit factory with no doorbell? Besides that, he is the one who taught me how to pick locks in the first place.
Otis stepped into the role as my caretaker when my stepfather Ash was revealed to be the lying, thieving, heartless ball of buttholes I had been telling everyone he was since he lied and thieved his way into getting full custody of me a few years ago. But Fulton County family court moves like a comatose turtle. Waiting for it to correct a grievous mistake requires time-lapse photography and a hibernation pod. I mean, they literally found all the pieces of the bombed plane I was in, shipped
Roundtree turned to me with a look of sheer excitement. “See?” he clapped his hands and pointed. “You are a fugitive!”
“Scooter, get in the car,” Flo demanded. He hopped in the backseat just as I closed the hatch and lay flat on the back floorboard. Flo gunned it to the Kroger entrance just in time to catch Anita on her way back from the restroom. “Get in, girl! Hurry!”
Anita jumped into the front seat with a hoot of excitement. “What now?”
“The police have a BOLO out on April. They think she set the fire and killed Malcolm’s dad.”
“Why? What . . . how?”
“Evidently they have two asshole witnesses who said so.”
We all knew who those witnesses were—Hackman and Ash. They must have made good on returning to the rubble to dig out what they wanted from the ashes, only to find that we’d escaped and taken Trixi with us. I closed my eyes and tried to rest while Flo uncharacteristically followed the traffic laws with agonizing precision. The Humvee was enough of an attention magnet on its own; add frantic driving and we’d probably be swarmed with SWAT helicopters within minutes. Flo threw her cellphone out the window as we entered the freeway in case Hackman alerted the police that she may be accompanying me. No need to be concerned about the phone belonging to Roundtree since Hackman had no reason to expect we’d be with him. I watched the stars in the night sky as we seemed to crawl down the highway at the pace of a herd of pachyderms. I didn’t even have to ask Flo where we were going. I knew we were headed straight to Otis’s place.
CHAPTER 8
Uncle Otis was standing in his driveway when we arrived. He had a police radio, too, and wisely knew not to call Flo in order to avoid having her cell ping off a nearby tower, thereby enabling the police to triangulate our position. Instead he simply expected us to come, and we did. Flo had barely braked to a stop before the doors flew open and we clamored out of the car.
“Flo!” Otis exclaimed pleasantly, his arms outstretched as he came toward her.
“Back off, Bluto,” Flo held her arm outstretched and plowed past him. She called all of her ex-lovers “Bluto.”
“Anita!” he extended her the same greeting, but got the same response, because Flo had told Anita everything about the philandering Otis during their bonding session over Trixibelle’s pumpkin-poop episode in the back of the Humvee.
“April!” Otis turned toward me and I flung myself in his arms. “That’s my girl!” he laughed. “Murder and arson. I’m so proud. Did you shoot Ash?”
Shooting people seemed to be Otis’s answer to everything. Like me, Otis is into lists, and he has lists taped up all over the house: “Top 8 Reasons to Never Answer the Door,” “5 Easy Ways to Disarm an Intruder,” “4 Best Ways to Escape a Choke Hold,” “9 Reasons Why You Should Shoot First and Ask Questions Later,” and “The 8 Components to Optimum Situational Awareness.”
If Otis ever actually shot anyone I never heard about it, though he did narrowly miss me once. He argued that I should not have been breaking into his home at the time. But what is a girl supposed to do when she lost her key and her uncle lives in an old biscuit factory with no doorbell? Besides that, he is the one who taught me how to pick locks in the first place.
Otis stepped into the role as my caretaker when my stepfather Ash was revealed to be the lying, thieving, heartless ball of buttholes I had been telling everyone he was since he lied and thieved his way into getting full custody of me a few years ago. But Fulton County family court moves like a comatose turtle. Waiting for it to correct a grievous mistake requires time-lapse photography and a hibernation pod. I mean, they literally found all the pieces of the bombed plane I was in, shipped
Similar Books
