Judith McNaught (17 page)

Behind

him, Zack moved out from the cover of the dumpster, went into the men's room, and carefully locked the

door behind him, all his attention fastened on the overflowing trash can inside it. If anyone had emptied it

in the last two days, his luck had just run out.

Grabbing it he turned it over. A few paper towels and beer cans came loose. He shook it again and loosened a deluge of refuse, and then—from the very bottom—two nylon duffel bags tumbled out onto

the grimy linoleum floor with a satisfying thud. He yanked open the first bag with one hand and started unbuttoning his prison shirt with his other. That bag yielded up a pair of jeans in his size, a nondescript black sweater, an ordinary denim jacket, boots in his size, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. The other bag contained a map of Colorado with his route highlighted in red, a typewritten list of directions to his

ultimate destination—a secluded house deep in the Colorado mountains—two thick, brown envelopes, a

.45-calibre automatic pistol, a box of shells, a switchblade, and a set of car keys that he knew would fit

into the ignition of the black coupe across the street.

The switchblade surprised him. Evidently, Sandini didn't think the well-dressed, escaped convict should be without one.

Mentally ticking off the precious seconds, Zack stripped off his clothes, pulled on the new ones, then he

stuffed the old ones into one of the duffel bags and refilled the trash can with the debris from the floor.

Vanishing, without leaving a trace or clue about how he'd done it, was vital to his future safety. He opened the thick envelopes and checked the contents: The first contained $25,000 in unmarked twenty-dollar bills and a passport in the name of Alan Aldrich; the second contained an assortment of prepaid airline tickets to various cities, some of them in the name of Alan Aldrich, others in different names that he could use when and if the authorities discovered the alias he was using. Showing his face at

an airport was a risk Zack had to avoid taking until things cooled down. Right now, he was pinning most of his hopes on a plan that he had conceived and directed as best he could from a prison cell, using the

expensive expertise of some of Sandini's contacts who'd supposedly hired someone who could be mistaken for Zack—a man who was waiting in a Detroit hotel for Zack's phone call. Once he got it, he

would rent a car in the name of Benedict Jones and cross the border into Canada at Windsor later tonight.

If the police fell for the scam, then the massive manhunt they were bound to unleash would be centered

in Canada, not here, leaving Zack able to head for Mexico and then South America when the search for him lost some of its momentum.

Privately, Zack had grave doubts the diversion would work for long or that he'd ever reach his first destination before he was killed. But none of that mattered right now. At the moment, all that mattered was that he was temporarily free and that he was practically on his way to the Texas–Oklahoma border,

ninety miles to the north. If he made it that far without being apprehended, he might be able to make it

across the narrow Oklahoma Panhandle, a distance of only thirty-five miles, to the Colorado border. In Colorado, somewhere high in the mountains, was his first destination—a secluded house deep in the woods that, he had long ago been assured, he could use for a "hideaway" whenever he wished.

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Between now and then, all he had to worry about was crossing the borders of two states, getting to the safety of that house without being observed by anyone, and, once there, controlling his impatience while

he waited until the initial furor over his escape died down so that he could embark on the second stage of his plan.

He picked up the pistol, rammed a full clip into it, checked the safety, and put the gun in his jacket pocket along with a fistful of twenty-dollar bills, then he grabbed the duffel bags and car keys and opened the door. He was going to make it, he was on his way.

He rounded the corner of the building and stepped off the curb, heading toward his car, then he stopped dead, momentarily unable to believe his eyes. The tow truck he'd passed when he crossed the street on his way toward the service station a few minutes ago was pulling away. Hanging from its winch was a black coupe with Illinois plates.

For several seconds, Zack stood there, immobilized, watching it sway through traffic. Behind him, he heard one of the gas station attendants shout to the other, "I told you that car'd been abandoned. It's been sitting there for three days."

Their voices snapped Zack's brain out of its temporary paralysis. He could either go back into the men's

room, change into his prison clothes, leave everything behind, and try to reschedule everything for

another time or he could improvise now. The choice was really no choice at all. He wasn't going back to prison; he'd rather be dead. Once he remembered that, he did the only thing he could think of—he dashed toward the corner, looking for the only other sure means of getting out of town. A bus was coming down the street. After snatching a discarded newspaper from a trash container, he flagged the bus down and climbed aboard. Holding the

newspaper in front of his face as if intent on an article, he

made his way down the aisle, past a horde of college students chattering about the next football game, to the back of the bus. For twenty agonizingly slow minutes, the bus lumbered through traffic, belching out

fumes and passengers at nearly every corner, then it swung to the right onto a highway that led toward the interstate. By the time the interstate came into view, the passengers had thinned down to a half-dozen

rowdy college students, and all of those got up to leave when what seemed to be a favorite beer joint/roadhouse came into view.

Zack had no choice; he left with them via the rear doors and began walking toward the intersection a mile ahead where he knew the interstate on ramp and the access road all joined with the highway.

Hitchhiking was his only option, and that option would only be good for a maximum of thirty minutes.

Once Hadley realized he was gone, every cop in a fifty-mile radius would be looking for him and focusing

their attention on any hitchhiker on the road.

Snow clung to his hair and swirled around his feet as he bent his head into the wind. Several trucks roared past him, the drivers ignoring his upraised thumb, and he fought down a panicky premonition of

impending doom. Traffic was heavy on the highway, but everybody was evidently in a hurry to reach their destination before the storm struck, and they weren't stopping for anything. Up ahead at the intersection was an old-fashioned gas station/café with two cars in the large parking lot—a blue Blazer and a brown station wagon. Carrying his duffel bags, he walked up the driveway and when he passed the café, he glanced carefully through the large front window at the occupants. There was a lone woman in one booth and a mother with two young children in the other.

He swore under his breath because both cars belonged to women, and they weren't likely to pick up hitchhikers. Without slowing his pace, Zack continued toward the end of the building, where their two cars were parked, wondering if the keys were

in the ignitions. Even if they were, he knew it was insanity to steal one of those cars because he'd have to

drive it right past the front window of the café in order to get out of the parking lot. If he did that, whoever owned the car would have the cops on the phone, describing him and his vehicle, before he got
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out of the damned parking lot. What's more, from up here, they could see which way he went on the interstate. Maybe he could try to bribe one of the women in the café to give him a ride when she came out.

If money didn't persuade her to agree, he had a gun that could convince her. Christ! There had to be a better way to get out of here than that.

In front of him and below, trucks roared down the interstate making miniblizzards with their wheels.

He

glanced at his watch. Nearly an hour had passed since Hadley had gone into his meeting. He didn't dare

try hitchhiking on that interstate any more. He'd be visible down there from the overpass for a mile. If Sandini had followed instructions, Hadley would be sounding an alert to the local cops in about five minutes. As if his thought had caused it to happen, a local sheriff's car suddenly appeared on the overpass, slowed down, then turned into the café's parking lot fifty yards away from Zack's hiding spot, coming toward him.

Instinctively, Zack crouched down, pretending that he was inspecting the tire on the Blazer, and then inspiration struck—too late perhaps, but maybe not.

Yanking the switchblade out of the duffel bag, he rammed it into the side of the Blazer's tire, ducking to one side to avoid the explosion of air. From the corner of his eye, he watched the patrol car glide to a stop behind him. Instead of demanding to know what Zack was doing loitering around the café with duffel bags, the local sheriff rolled down his car window and drew the obvious conclusion. "Looks like you got a flat there—"

"Sure as hell," Zack agreed, slapping the side of the tire, careful not to look over his shoulder. "My wife tried to warn me this tire had a leak—" The rest of his words were drowned out by the sudden frantic squawking of the police radio, and without another word, the cop wheeled the patrol car into a screeching turn, accelerated sharply, and roared out of the parking lot with its siren wailing. A moment later, Zack heard more sirens coming from every direction, and then he saw the patrol cars racing across

the overpass, their warning lights revolving.

The authorities, Zack knew, were now aware that an escaped convict was on the loose. The hunt had begun.

* * *

with all this snow, but she had a fat check in her purse and enough excitement about that to make the miles fly past. She glanced at her watch, picked up the thermos she'd brought in from the car to be filled with coffee, smiled at the children eating with their mother in the adjoining booth, and walked up to the cash register to pay her bill.

As she emerged from the building, she stopped in surprise as a squad car suddenly made a frantic U-turn in front of her, turned on its siren, then shot out of the parking lot onto the highway, its rear end fishtailing in the thin blanket of snow. Distracted by that, she didn't notice the dark-haired man squatting beside the rear wheel of her car on the driver's side until she almost stumbled over him. He stood up abruptly, towering over her from a height of about 6'2", and she took a startled, cautious step backward, her voice shaky with alarm and suspicion. "What are you doing there?" she demanded, frowning at her own image as it was reflected back at her from the silvery lenses of his aviator sunglasses.

Zack actually managed a semblance of a smile because his mind had finally started working, and he now

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knew exactly how he was going to get her to offer him a ride. Imagination and the ability to improvise had

been two of his biggest assets as a director. Nodding toward her rear tire, which was very obviously flat, he said, "I'm planning to change your tire for you if you have a jack."

Julie's breath came out in a rush of chagrin. "I'm sorry for being so rude, but you startled me. I was watching that squad car tearing out of here."

"That was Joe Loomis, a local constable," Zack improvised smoothly, deliberately making it sound as if

the cop was a friend of his. "Joe got another call and had to leave, or he'd have given me a hand with your tire."

Julie's fears were completely allayed, and she smiled at him. "This is very kind of you," she said, opening the tailgate of the Blazer and looking for a jack.

"This is my brother's car. The jack is somewhere in here,

but I'm not sure where."

"There," Zack said, quickly locating the jack and taking it out. "This will only take a few minutes," he added. He was in a hurry, but no longer fighting down panic. The woman already thought he was friendly

with the local sheriff, so she'd naturally think he was trustworthy, and after he changed her tire, she'd
owe
him a ride. Once they were on the road, the police wouldn't give them a second glance because they'd be

looking for a man who was traveling alone. For now, if anyone noticed him, he would appear to be an ordinary husband changing a tire while his wife looked on. "Where are you headed?" he asked her, using

the jack.

"East toward Dallas for a long way and then south,"

Julie said, admiring his easy skill with the heavy vehicle. He had an unusually nice voice,

uncommonly deep and smooth, and a strong, square jawline. His

hair was dark brown and very thick, but poorly cut, and she wondered idly what he looked like without the concealing barrier of those reflective sunglasses.

Very handsome, she decided, but it wasn't his good looks that kept drawing her eyes back to his profile, it was something else, something illusive that she couldn't pinpoint. Julie shrugged the feeling off, and cradling the thermos in her arm, she embarked on polite conversation. "Do you work around here?"

"Not any more. I was supposed to start a new job tomorrow, but I have to be there by seven in the morning or they'll give it to someone else." He finished jacking the car up and began loosening the lug

bolts on the tire, then he nodded toward the nylon duffel bags that Julie hadn't seen before because they had somehow gotten shoved under her car. "A friend of mine was supposed to pick me up here two hours ago and give me a ride part of the way," he added, "but I guess something happened and he isn't going to make it."