With their names in every paper in the country and the feeling of Trent Hamer breathing down their necks, Duncan declares their safehouses unsafe. As a result, the gang spends the next few weeks camping in the woods in Oklahoma and Iowa, bathing in streams, and eating canned foods or whatever small animals they can shoot, sometimes not eating at all. Duncan insists it's just like a camping trip. No one shares his sentiments.
During the day, Duncan, Heather, and Al spend hours combing over places to rob. They plan carefully and pick the most worthwhile targets. But times have gotten tougher. There isn't more than five dollars in any of the registers they rob.
The Barrow Gang falls into a rhythm: pick a gas station or grocery store, take the money and supplies, drive the car six to ten hours, ditch the car close enough to civilization to hotwire the next one, find woods, camp, pick another target.
The couples take turns sleeping in the tent or in the car and pass Harold off every two days. Courtney lies next to Duncan every night without touching him. They spend weeks sleeping together without sleeping together, and Duncan makes no attempt to change that. She continues not speaking to Alejandro as well. Since Joplin, anything he wants to convey he sends through his wife or through Harold, and Courtney sends them back with one-word answers.
She tries to write some poems, but they all come out angry and end up in the fire. Another letter to her mother also ends in ashes.
Finally, one afternoon while the others are out on a heist and she's left watching the camp, Courtney writes, uncensored, to her sister. She tells her about that fateful day at the bank, leaving Dallas, the gun training, the heists—all of them, and her role in each one. She vents to Bridgette about Duncan's awful mood swings, her animosity with Al and with Heather, the insufferable car trips, the aching loneliness, her guilt over the murders she unwittingly assisted… Pages and pages on end until Courtney reaches for the next sheet of notebook paper and realizes she's run out. She folds up the letter and hides it in the seam of her dress.
On the mornings when there's no robbery, Courtney takes long walks through the woods by herself. She throws rocks into creeks and watches the trees finish changing colors and eventually strip bare for the winter. The treks aren't peaceful. Courtney draws her pistol on every small mammal or bird that so much as breaks a twig. She tells herself there isn't anyone following her. She tells herself the wind in the trees isn't Trent Hamer whispering behind her back, telling his men to wait for her to lead them back to Duncan and the others.
She takes the longest way back to camp anyway.
One evening, while Al sets up the campfire and Duncan fights with Heather over sewing up their tattered clothes, Courtney talks with Harold.
"I still have nightmares about Joplin," she says, sitting in the shade of a thick-trunked tree. She shuffles the fallen leaves with her heels. "The others don't even flinch at the mention of it."
"I flinch," Harold admits. "Every time I wake up, I think I hear a hail of bullets."
"I hear Trent Hamer's voice," she admits aloud. "Like he's hiding in the woods and watching me."
They're both quiet, letting the confessions sink into the nearly winter air. Courtney pulls out her top-break pistol, opening and closing it with a satisfying Clack! She runs her fingers over Duncan's inscription, then over the scarring flesh of her side.
"I thought I was going to die," Harold whispers. "I've never been close to something so loud, I didn't realize… I didn't know…"
"I'm sorry I shouted at you," Courtney mumbles.
"It's okay, Miss Bonnie," he says. "We were all out of sorts."
"Not all of us."
Duncan and Heather's argument devolves into name calling, insults, and accusations of sexism. Al exhales a long breath of Spanish swears, abandons the fire, and goes to take care of it. Courtney watches with no intention to assist.
Harold looks on and cringes, his shoulders drawing up to his ears. "Don't tell Clyde about this, okay? I know he already thinks I'm not cut out for this job."
"Okay."
Harold grabs a stick and starts pushing leaves around in the dirt. "Do you think we'll ever be like them?"
Courtney tenses. "We are like them, Harold. We're all criminals. We're all the same."
"No, that's not—I mean," Harold struggles to find the words, "do you think the nightmares will ever go away?"
"Do you still have that flask on you?" Courtney says.
Harold pulls it out of his pocket and hands it to her. Courtney takes a long swig, then shakes it for emphasis.
"I get a little bit closer every day."
When the cool autumn air turns abruptly into winter, the gang breaks into a clothing store for jackets and scarves. They drive more northeast than usual to keep out of their old pattern. As the temperature drops, the gang's money, and their patience, continue to dwindle.
Finally, in Lucerne, Indiana, two elderly owners of a grocery store decide to put up a fight for the ten dollars in their register. Heather and Al are in the aisles, bickering over whether to take more groceries than originally planned. Duncan is having the wife clear the register. Harold is in the car. No one is paying attention when the gentleman pulls out a hatchet and lunges at Courtney. Even with all of her paranoia, Courtney is caught unprepared. Duncan isn't.
He puts two bullets in the man's chest. Courtney hears the woman's screams for hours afterwards.
That evening, camped out in woods south of the city, Courtney numbly tends the campfire and nurses Harold's half-full flask of scotch. Duncan and Al stand out of her view, on the other side of the Ford, arguing loudly. Each brother blames the other for the incident. After a half hour of this, Harold rubs his temples and goes off to collect wood.
Another fifteen minutes later, and Heather comes to sit beside Courtney. From the inside of her woolen coat, she produces a metal nail file and begins to work on her nails in the light of the campfire.
"We need to talk," Heather says, without looking up from her hands. "Those two are inconsolable when they get like this. Might as well."
"What? Does my outfit look atrocious today?" Courtney asks sarcastically.
Heather sneers. "Clyde isn't doing his job if he hasn't gotten it through your head that there's a line between murder and self defense."
Courtney side-eyes her. "I know that."
"You didn't have your gun cocked at the grocery store today," Heather says to her hands. She clicks her tongue. "If Clyde wasn't a damn near prodigy on the draw, you'd be a pretty looking corpse right about now."
Scowling, Courtney brings her knees to her chest and gazes into the fire. "So? I'm still getting used to the new gun."
"Fuck, Bonnie. Save the damsel bullshit for the men."
Courtney glares. "Duncan saved my life today. I get that. It's not the same as—"
Heather looks up at her. "Joplin?"
"I've made my peace with Joplin," Courtney says tightly. With a wary glance at the woods, she adds, "Did Harold say something to you?"
"He didn't have to," Heather snips, "not the way you've been acting."
"What the hell do you know?" Courtney growls, pulling Harold's flask from her pocket. "How many people have you killed?"
"Three," Heather answers. "And if I spent as much time moping about it as you do over coppers you may not have killed, I wouldn't sleep a wink for the rest of my life."
The fire crackles in front of them. Duncan and Al are still shouting at each other a half dozen yards away. Courtney stares at Heather who averts her eyes and resumes filing her nails. Courtney catches the other woman's wedding ring glinting in the firelight.
"You don't choose who you care about," Heather says, "but you choose what you're willing to do to protect them."
Gazing down at her own hands, Courtney turns her wedding band methodically.
"They didn't deserve it, Heather," she murmurs.
"Of course they didn't deserve it," Heather says, looking at Courtney like she's crazy. She angrily gestures around them. "You think any of us deserve this? Starving, on the lam, camping in the woods? People are doing their jobs. And we're doing what we have to."
"Yeah?" Courtney says bitingly. "That what you tell yourself to sleep at night?"
"No," Heather says flatly. "I tell myself the truth. I tell it to myself until I'm sick of hearing the sound of my own voice, and then I tell it to myself some more. Then I fuck my husband because we're both alive and in one piece and who knows if that'll be the case tomorrow. Then I get to work." She looks Courtney in the eye. "And Bonnie Jones, you need to get to work."
Courtney doesn't say anything as Heather tucks her nail file back into her coat and pops the collar against the wind. She doesn't rise to leave. As the brothers continue arguing, somewhere far out of their awareness, the women each stare into the fire. Courtney's eyes begin to hurt just as Al comes around the car, calling Heather over to settle something.
Heather mutters a, "Fucking, finally," and walks over as Duncan follows his brother, looking furious.
"Bellisima, tell your brother-in-law that this grocery store and gas station nonsense has to stop. We need to make up for our losses. We need a big score."
"Unless ya got a printing press in the trunk, there ain't no big scores," Duncan argues. "Ya think the stores are bad? The banks are dry as a bone."
"I'm not talking about banks," Al says.
"No," Duncan answers. "No way in hell, Al."
"Listen to me—"
"We ain't doing jewelry."
"We don't have an abundance of options," Heather says, crossing her arms.
"How many times we gotta go through this?" Duncan starts ticking off fingers. "We've never done jewelry before, we ain't got the manpower or ammunition, and we ain't got the luxury of giving this the right amount of planning."
"All reasons we should do it," Al argues. "It's out of our pattern. No one'll expect it from us."
"Fuck, I don't fucking expect it from us! You trying to get us killed?"
"Better than starving on a couple dollars every six weeks!"
Harold comes back from the woods with his arms full of branches and sticks. Dumping them to the side of the fire, he squats by Courtney's side and warms himself.
"What are they fighting about now?"
"Don't care," Courtney mutters, sipping from her flask.
Harold looks between her and the Barrows. He reaches for Courtney's shoulder but stops a few inches short, then retracts his hand. Taking a deep breath, he straightens up and walks over to the others.
"Jewelry retains its value, unlike everything else in esta maldita economia!"
"Who're we gonna fence it to?" Duncan argues. "Huh? We've got a bonafide gumshoe on our tails. Our very own Bureau hound dog! Fults and Methvin wouldn't fence our goddamn shoelaces! And don't get me started on what we still owe McClean—"
"I agree with Al," Harold says loudly, cutting through the argument. "We should do jewelry."
"Stay out of it, Ginger," Heather advises. "Leave this to the pros."
"No," Harold says firmly. "We're all a part of this. Miss Bonnie and I should have a say in what you decide."
"Part of this?" Duncan turns from Al to Harold. "The only reason ya ain't on the side of the road somewhere right now is cuz ya'd run right to the coppers! Yer a shit driver and after the way ya botched Joplin, yer lucky I don't use ya as goddamn cover in the next firefight!"
"Hey!" Courtney stands up. "Don't talk to him like that!"
"Oh for fuck's sake, not you too."
Marching over to Harold's side, Courtney says, "He's right. We've been part of this gang for months now. We should have a say."
"I am keeping you alive," Duncan says, jabbing a finger in her face. "Ya do what I say when I say so!"
"Don't take this out on Bonnie," Al says, grabbing Duncan's arm.
Duncan whirls and smacks his brother's arm away. "Dontcha lecture me on how to talk to my woman!"
"I am not your woman," Courtney snaps.
"A jewelry store might be exactly what we need," Harold says, placatingly. "Can't we vote?"
"We shouldn't need a vote," Heather mutters, "if some of us had any common fucking sense."
Duncan focuses his anger on Heather. "Ya got something to say, Heath? Say it to my face!"
"I would, if you listened with anything but your ego," Heather says evenly.
"She's right, Clyde," Al says bluntly. "It's a good idea y lo sabes."
"Of course it's a good idea to ya," Duncan mocks, "Everything she fucking says is a grand ole idea! Cuz if it ain't, ya know exactly who she comes running back to, ya horsewhipped—"
Alejandro punches him in the mouth. The crack! of knuckles on teeth makes Courtney and Harold jump back. It makes Duncan rabid.
He tackles Al over the hood of the Ford, their bodies slamming loudly into the metal. They hit the ground, rolling as they try to overpower each other over the dip of the riverbank on the Ford's other side. Harold tries to hold Courtney back but she shoves off his arm and rushes to the treeline. Al and Duncan are knee deep in cold water, throwing wild punches and trying to hold each other under.
Heather strolls up beside Courtney, rolling her eyes and pulling out one of her guns.
"Men," she grunts.
She fires three shots at the water around them. The blasts of sound send woodland creatures scuttling and gain the boys' attention.
"Oh no, someone's given away our position," Heather says dryly. "Somebody better pack up the tent so we can get a move on before the law gets curious." She looks right at her husband. "Alejandro?"
Nostrils flaring and looking like a drowned dog, Al cuts one more glare at Duncan before pulling himself out of the river and trudging up the bank. He brushes past Heather, muttering foreign insults, and goes to get the tent. Heather follows with a casual remark to Harold about putting out the fire.
Courtney carefully slides down the riverbank as Duncan gets up, yanking off his sopping shoes and socks. His upper lip is bleeding freely.
"You get that out of your system?" Courtney asks.
"Oh yeah, I'm spiffy," Duncan snaps, wading to the bank. "I'm just grand. My brother thinks I'm a moron, my sis is in jail, my sister-in-law just shot at me, and my moll's treating me like a goddamn child."
"Until you apologize to her, yes, she's going to keep doing that," Courtney says, holding out a hand.
"Christ, how many times I gotta say it?" he grunts, swatting away her hand.
"You haven't said it once."
"Of course I—"
Courtney's glare doesn't flicker. Duncan thinks for a long moment.
Groaning, he sits down on the riverbank and curses to himself. His clothes make a splatting sound as he sinks into the mud and buries his face in his hands.
"Doll, I been under some mighty stress."
"It doesn't excuse you being an asshole," Courtney says, bunching up her dress and squatting beside him.
"Maybe it do."
They sit in silence. Courtney runs a hand through his hair and squeezes some of the water out with gentle fingers.
Duncan presses the back of his hand to his bleeding lip. "I haven't said it once?"
"No."
"Doll—"
"Don't say it just because I want you to."
An owl hoots somewhere in the woods and Courtney jumps, whisking a hand to her gun. She listens closely, but no other sounds follow. Before Courtney can suck in her next breath, Duncan grabs her and kisses her.
She pushes him off. He tastes like blood.
"What the hell?" he says. "Ain't this what ya want?"
"No, I want a goddamn apology," Courtney says, keeping a hand on his chest to keep him at bay.
"Ya just said ya didn't want me to say it!" he shouts.
"Figure it out, Duncan," she snaps. "I am not your mother, as you kindly just reminded me."
Duncan lets out a yell of frustration that sends even more night animals scurrying. Balling his hands into fists, he takes a deep breath and carefully eyes Courtney. She raises a brow in challenge.
Slowly, he leans close again. Though she flinches away, Duncan puts a steadying hand at the back of her neck and plants a tender kiss on her temple. He dusts the word 'sorry' down her jaw, across her throat and breasts.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his other hand tracing over where he'd hit her in the Oklahoma safehouse, "I'm sorry."
Courtney keeps perfectly still and keeps her glare harsh. Duncan pulls away and, after a long beat, groans. He falls back into the mud and tilts his head up to look at the sky with a mutter of, "Jesus fuckin' Christ."
When a minute passes without another word from him, Courtney gets up to go. Duncan doesn't stop her. She casts him one last look before returning to help clean up camp.
Duncan calls her Dollface and Darling for the rest of the night, being especially gracious as they pack up their supplies and start driving again. Courtney swears she can hear the bitterness just under his notes of affection. She hopes he can hear them in her voice too.
Author's Note: Aaaaand we're back! Thanks to CID-Vicious for another AMAZING illustration for "Chicago!"
Happy holidays, everyone! As winter comes for the Barrow gang, the cold brings an icy descent for our favorite gangsters and gun molls.