Five Star Fugitive

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The tall girl was restless. She had dark eyes with a hard flickering light in them, like black opals. Her mouth was wide and soft and sullen. It was ten o’clock at night in Baker, Texas. Her third-floor room in the Sage House had the hot breathlessness of the bakery she had once worked in, back when she was fourteen and had looked eighteen.

Five days in this hole. And it could be five more.

A half-block away a barn dance was in progress. She could hear the tiny whine of the music, the resounding stomping of boots. Somebody yelled shrilly, “Eeee-yah-hooo!”

“Damn silly cowhands,” she muttered. She threw the movie magazine away, sat up and tapped a cigarette on a long thumbnail the color of blood. As she lighted it a heavy strand of hair swung forward. The hair was the color of wheat, so expensively and expertly dyed that it looked natural. As she sucked the smoke into her lungs, she threw the strand of hair back with a quick movement of her head.

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