Parked on the side of the highway, I watch the blue sedan pass us. I get out of the cab and motion for the driver to roll the window down. “Marry the girl and get a better job. The choice between being a father and a cab driver should be a no-brainer.”
His eyes widen in alarm, but I pat the taxi’s rooftop and walk off before he finds the words to confront me. What can I say? Deep down, I’m a rather nice guy.
Eastbound, I head across the next highway over. I stop and wait along the side of the median. When I spot the sedan taking the exit up ahead, I curse.
I could run, evade the mystery man—but I’m curious. There’s no line of flashing blue and red lights barreling down the highway. If I’d been reported by someone, the cops would have shown up by now.
The mystery man doesn’t keep me waiting long. The sedan heads this way, coming right at me. I step into the brush along the highway to conceal myself, but I make sure he spots me first. The car slows to a crawl as it pulls onto the shoulder.
Cars rush past on the highway, and I use the distraction of a blaring horn to dip farther into the buffer of trees. If this guy has been on my tail since Bangor, he’s not giving up now.
He wants me badly. And he wants me to himself.
I clear the trees and enter the back parking lot of a large super-center. This space is too open, too public. I do a quick scan from the incline and notice a church steeple in the near distance.
I smile. Perfect. Destination decided, I round the lot toward the side of the building. I don’t move too quickly, so as not to lose him. This guy isn’t stealthy, despite what he probably thinks. I can hear his heavy footfalls on the gravel as I ease alongside the building.
The town is a one-shot stop. Its main purpose to serve travelers passing through. Which means the road is practically vacant once I cut across Main Street. One street lamp sits in front of the otherwise darkened church.
Behind the small brick structure is a graveyard. It’s a little cliché, giving chase in a cemetery, but open gravesites make great conversational pieces.
His footsteps near, and I locate a decent-sized headstone to dip behind. From here, I can make out his wide profile. He’s winded and bends over to catch his breath. Then, as he rights himself, he cups his hand over his mouth and sparks a lighter. A hazy orange flare blooms against the night. Smoke wafts up, a thin tendril slithering toward the streetlight.
He starts in the opposite direction, so I toe up a rockand kick it. The stone smacks a headstone. The man jerks to a stop, then pulls a gun from his holster as he heads into the cemetery. The adrenaline of the hunt surges through my veins like molten lava. It’s intoxicating. Nearly my favorite drug.
I stand behind a tree, camouflaged by the dark, as he flicks the cherry off the cigarette and pockets the butt. Very considerate of him.
When I fear he’s about to give up the chase, I make myself known. I walk right up behind him and, as he’s invested in lighting another cigarette, wrap my sculpting wire around his neck.
His folds of fat prevent me from getting a good hold. I choke up on the wire, muscles straining. A couple shocked seconds, then he lashes out, fighting as he tries to pry the wire loose. He backs into me, struggling, before I’m able to lower him to the ground.
During the scuffle, he dropped his gun. When he’s close to blacking out, I relax the wire and allow him to pull in a wheezing breath. I pick up the gun and slip it into my waistband.
“You must be the bravest cop, or the stupidest,” I say, moving into a blade of moonlight so he can see my face.
Detective Foster coughs, his eyes bulging against the pressure. It’s a few more seconds before he’s able to talk. “Sullivan…” He sputters, inhales a rattling breath.
“Smoking is a killer.” I kneel beside him and flick my switchblade out.
Hand to his throat, Foster eyes the blade. “Fuck you.”
Foster is a surprise. One of those rare gifts. I wasn’t expecting this kind of boldness from the cumbersome detective. The pressure of his job must be getting to him to make such a rash move.
“I knew you couldn’t keep away from her,” he says, finally catching his breath. “And I knew she was in on it. Just had to keep watching and waiting. I knew you’d show.”
He gets points for persistence. I’ve been focused on Nelson as more of a threat over Foster. But there’s something to be said for his shear obstinacy. I rotate the knife, catching the light. “There’s a flaw in your plan, detective. Where’s your backup?”
His jaw sets, gaze narrowed. Stubborn.
I nod once. Then I flip open his trench coat. “I noticed that you’re missing your badge. Did you lose it? Aren’t cops reprimanded for that?”
“Are you going to kill me?” he says, evading my question.
I look him over. “Answer me, and I’ll make it quick and painless.”
The hard dip of his Adam’s apple dispels some of his bravado. “I lost it,” he says. “Mandatory suspension disguised as vacation without pay.”
That’s how Foster’s been able to follow me around the country. There was no mention of his suspension in the news, but then, the headlines have been fixated on the worthy stories. London and the dead girls. The manhunt for a serial killer. FBI investigations. No one particularly cares for an aging, overweight detective from New Castle.
