Authors: John Gilstrap
Up ahead, she saw a woman about her size break eye contact and walk casually on a collision course while talking into a paper bag. More security. Christ, this place was tighter than Fort Knox.
April wished she had a plan. She realized now how stupid she'd been to even consider robbing a high-end store such as this, what with all of its cameras and security guards, but there wasn't much she could do about any of that now. Getting away-even for a few minutes-was her only priority. Behind her, she could hear the pace of footsteps pick up as the army of security people closed in on her. Up front, still more closed in on the doorway from the sides, even as she saw uniformed guards approaching from out in the mall, and it occurred to her that with every security guard in the Western Hemisphere descending on the front entrance of Macy's, other robbers could have the run of anywhere they wanted.
This was going to be tight. Shooting a quick look over her shoulder, April focused on that one undercover lady with the radio in her shopping bag. Only about twenty feet separated them now, and the guard stood flat-footed, hoping to block her quarry's path. April never even slowed down as she headed directly for the other woman, her shoulder low, and the impact barely made her stumble as the guard went airborne, crashing into the little pillar that was supposed to beep if you were stealing merchandise. April had no idea what those sensors were made of, but they didn't hold up well on impact.
The football-style block seemed to catch everyone else by surprise as April darted out into the mall, all of them slowing down long enough to see that their co-worker was all right. April knew those few seconds could mean a lifetime for her. The store security people were essentially out of the race now, leaving her to beat only the three uniformed guys from the mall. April charged toward them, making this ultimately a battle of strength and will. The uniforms were all men, so they had her beat on the former, but when she pulled the little .25 from her jacket pocket and held it up where everyone could see, their will dissolved, and their strength became irrelevant.
"Jesus, she's got a gun!" one of the guards shouted, and all three of them slid to an abrupt stop.
Off to April's right, a lady screamed, igniting a panic like a match ignites straw. Some shoppers dropped to the ground while others took off the other way, and still more just stood, frozen with fear. April had never seen such a response. The security guards seemed most frightened of all, dropping to the hard tile and shouting frantically into their radios.
Whatever she was going to do, this was the time to do it. Never breaking her stride, April sprinted through the mall park, easily dodging the loosely rooted trees and oversize synthetic rocks. Her Keds dug deeply into the mulch as she struggled to find her footing. Reaching the waist-high handrails that separated the public from an intensely chlorinated babbling brook, she scooted under the closest side, landing knee-deep in the frigid water, and scrambled on her hands and knees under the railing on the other side. She plowed through the arrangement of pansies and marigolds, past a small cluster of dogwoods, and finally came out on the other side of the park.
The people on this side seemed much calmer than the ones on the other, as if they were oblivious to the commotion around them. A quick look left and another to the right. Nothing between her and the doors leading to the long hallway to the emergency exit.
She crashed through the double doors, only vaguely aware of the dweebie-looking store clerk-had to be from an electronics department somewhere-that she sent ricocheting off the wall and onto the floor.
Behind her, she could hear the electronics dweeb picking himself up off the floor as the army of security guards crashed through the same doors. April heard the impact against the poor guy's body, and as he said, "Oof," someone else said, "Oh, shit. Sorry."
She didn't know why that struck her as amusing, but this trip to the mall had been so surreal that everything had a bit of a twist to it now.
She turned her body sideways at the emergency door to hit the crash bar with her hip. It flew open as if it were made of cardboard, and as advertised, the tiny speaker on the lock bleated an ugly screech of an alarm.
Finally out in the daylight again, April headed for the parking lot, still wishing that she had some semblance of a plan. Where could she hide? How could she get away? She briefly considered firing a shot back at her pursuers, just to get them to hold back, but dismissed the idea as stupid. With her luck, her random bullet would score a fatal hit on somebody.
Running was an option for only so long. Her legs had grown as heavy as her belly, made heavier still by the two pounds of water soaked into the fabric of her pants, and her wind was giving out. To surrender meant losing Justin, though, and she wasn't about to do that. Not without a hell of a fight.
But what kind of fight would it be? The way she figured it, in fifteen seconds, thirty at the most, they'd be on her, and with that many against one, God only knew what might happen.
So, she fired a shot. Into the ground at her feet. In the vastness of the open parking lot, it sounded like nothing-tinier than a firecracker-certainly not enough to put fear in the hearts of her pursuers. So, she fired again. This time, she saw the sunbaked pavement dimple at the spot where the bullet drilled in.
And the pursuing footsteps stopped. She still didn't dare turn around to look, but she'd have heard them if they were still coming. This was good. This was her chance.
Her legs had grown rubbery by the time she reached the end of the long row of cars. Directly in front was a road that crossed her path at a right angle, and beyond that, more parking lot. How on earth--
She never even saw the guy coming. From off to her left-could it possibly have been over the top of a parked car?-she saw a flash of blue shirt, and then she was airborne. She didn't fall, though. Rather, she felt a beefy arm around her waist, and the sheer momentum of the tackle drove her sideways into the back panel of an enormous sports utility vehicle. A wiper arm gouged her flesh, and as her ear rammed into the back window, she heard a crunch and was instantly bathed in a shower of tiny glass beads. Blue and yellow lights flashed behind her eyes as she tumbled to the pavement amidst all the broken glass, but it seemed as if she never made it to the ground. It was just one long fall without an impact. Somehow, though, she found herself on the ground, covered with glass, and surrounded by people who were all shouting at her to do something. When she tried to stand, the glass beads bit deeper, and she saw blood on her hands. Blood? Where did that come from?
Finally, she was able to raise her head high enough to see a face or two. She recognized the flashes of blue uniform, and curiously, she noted that the boy closest to her-that's what he was, too, a teenager; nowhere near old enough to call himself a man-had pretty eyes that nearly matched the color of his shirt. Handsome, too, with teeth that sparkled when he smiled, just like in those toothpaste commercials.
Only, this wasn't a smile, was it? No, this was a sneer, and the sneering boy had a stick in his hand. As April saw the stick coming around toward her head, she tried to say something to make him stop, but there really wasn't any time.
BOBBY TURNED OFF the radio and closed his eyes. He sat still in the Explorer for a long time before pushing the button to activate the garage door. This magnificent house-the one they'd extended themselves so far to afford, in hopes of filling its five thousand square feet with a tribe of screaming, laughing children-seemed to mock him now. As daylight entered his side of the garage, he could see the planks that he'd stacked against the far wall with the intention of one day building shelves, and he gasped at the realization that none of the grandiose home projects he'd planned would ever be started, let alone completed.
As the door rumbled upward, he wondered just how long he had. He thought about the letters he should write to his parents and his childhood friends, but checked himself. Everything he did between now and whenever was just so much more evidence to be used against him. He was playing for keeps in a game where every move counted.
His empty spot gaped at him, and his mind conjured a giant bony finger-Death's bony finger-beckoning him to take his foot off the brake and just glide on into the spot from which he'd never be permitted to leave.
Kidnapping. Murder.
Both capital crimes and he was guilty on both counts. Jesus, what was he going to do?
He knew the solution, of course. All he had to do was muster the courage. There were two solutions, actually, but he knew he could never take his own life.
But he could run away. He could lift his foot from that brake and whip the wheel hard to the right, and he could be doing eighty miles an hour to anyplace else in the universe in less than ten seconds. It was that simple.
He'd miss Susan, of course. Miss her terribly. But she'd have the baby she'd always wanted, and she wouldn't have the sword of his eventual capture hanging over her head. She could get on with her life.
But what could she reasonably expect from her life? How could she ever justify or explain the sudden appearance of this child? A three-year-old child at that. She couldn't possibly explain it. Truly, they were painted into this corner together.
They could move away, he supposed; just disappear from everyone they knew and then raise the child as if they'd always had him, but what would be the point of that? Bobby's whole desire for children was rooted in his need for family, his need to project and absorb even more love than he already felt for his parents and his wife and his siblings. To have a child merely to disappear made no sense. No sense at all.
But to stay meant facing the music. If not today, then certainly another day soon, and when the music played, their future together would evaporate anyway.
What about a midnight drop-off on the steps of a church or a hospital? Given that he could even talk Susan into doing such a thing, would that make his situation better or worse? And what about the boy? How many times could an innocent child be abandoned before the damage became permanent?
These thoughts made his mind lock up, paralysed by more emotion and information than he could process in a lifetime. He knew there was an answer-there always was in these things-and he knew that if he did things correctly, he could make everyone understand that the story he had to tell was true. The truth sets you free, right? That's what the Good Book said. Or so he'd been told. The Good Book had never quite made it to the top of his recreational reading pile.
Whole minutes passed as he sat in the driveway contemplating his escape from reality. So much of this didn't add up for him. For example, why would a cop be out there in the woods at such a ridiculous hour? And if there was a mysterious partner named Samuel, why didn't he step forward to help?
Why was the little boy so terrified of a police officer who presumably was there to help him out?
Answer: Good deeds weren't on the police officers agenda. God knew there were enough examples of cops stepping over the line to join the bad guys. And why hadn't any of the radio news reports mentioned that the dead man was a cop? They talked about solid leads and an ongoing manhunt, but never a word about such an important detail.
Bobby understood that perhaps the police would withhold certain aspects of an investigation, but could they possibly keep a detail like that quiet? And why would they want to? It seemed to Bobby that the public would be all that much more willing to assist in the manhunt if they knew that they were hunting a cop killer.
There hadn't been a word about a missing child, either. What about that? Maybe, because it had all happened in West Virginia, that portion of the story was considered of local interest only, and therefore hadn't made the cut for the Washington broadcasts, but surely even the dimmest bulb in the journalistic lamp would speculate on some possible connection between the two stories.
On the other hand, maybe Bobby was simply grasping for straws here and didn't have a clue what the hell he was talking about. Maybe the police and the FBI knew everything they needed to know, and they were merely amassing the forces they needed to swoop down on sleepy little Clinton with a SWAT team the size of the 101st Airborne.
Fact was, Bobby didn't know a thing, and the more he thought about it, the faster his heart raced.
Finally, his foot released the brake and he glided into his parking space, just as if this were any other day. As he opened his door and stepped out into the chilly garage, he realized that he was all alone; Susan's aging Chrysler Concorde wasn't in its slot. The butterflies that had never stopped their frantic beat in his stomach grew three times in size. Where the hell could she have gone? He left the plastic Kmart bag on the concrete floor and hurried toward the door.
His key found the lock, and he rushed into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. "Hello!" he called, but silence swelled all around him. "Susan?"
No answer.
"Susan? Where are you?"
Instantly paranoid, he noticed that the note he'd left on the kitchen counter was missing, and he gently touched the spot. Off to his right, he threw a casual glance toward the sprawling, under-furnished, two-story family room, where the grand stone fireplace stretched a good twenty-five feet all the way up the far wall. No sign of anyone; not even the daily paper, which always lay in neatly stacked sections on the ottoman.