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That’s your problem, Dennis,he thought.All you can do is retreads. You’ll never be an original if you don’t learn how to think in the abstract.
The woman on the canvas was a knockout on the scale of an erotic dream, a trim raven-haired wicked goddess with scarlet lips, wearing only a black silk slip through which the sunlight shone. He’d manufactured her out of his imagination. Even if he could afford to hire a model, he would never find one to match his fantasy.
Yesterday had changed all that.
He took out his wallet and looked at the photo Todd Plevin had given him of his wife, Anne, a full-length color shot of her in a yellow sundress, standing in front of a tree in Lincoln Park: trim figure, glistening black hair, red lips. He felt his ears burn; all his life a telltale sign that his libido was in overdrive. She and his imaginary model might have been twins. Was that an omen, and was it good or bad?
CHAPTER 4
THE HOUSE ON Lake Shore Drive was a Frank Lloyd Wright design—an original, Cooke supposed—that looked like a wooden building block set on top of another, cedar-sided and with a huge picture window. Morning sunlight turned the glass into polished steel, painful to look at.
Anne Plevin’s plan was to be on the road by 9 a.m. Cooke had been parked on the street across from the house since eight. Twice a Chicago P.D. blue-and-white had cruised past. Both times he’d slid down in the seat out of sight in case they thought he was casing the neighborhood.
In a way, that’s just what he was doing, and it made him feel as guilty as if he were plotting to break in and steal her jewelry. With his stash of snacks for the trip, bottled water, and cash, he was all set for making a getaway.
He started his motor and activated the tracking device as he’d been instructed. The small square screen came to life. A bright-green dot appeared, flashing on and off, just off the left front fender of the tiny car, which represented his own ride. The angle perfectly replicated the position of the garage standing apart from the house in relation to the Toyota. He switched off the monitor and killed the ignition; it was a fairly frosty morning in early spring and he didn’t want any telltale exhaust coming from the tailpipe.
At 8:52, a side door opened and the woman from the photo came out, carrying an overnight bag and a train case, a clutch purse under one arm, followed closely by Todd Plevin, lugging a large tan leather suitcase that matched the rest of her baggage. Anne wore a smart, comfortable-looking travel suit with a knee-length skirt and low heels. The suit was a subdued shade of yellow. In person she was even more striking than in her picture, and bore a close enough resemblance to the woman in Cooke’s unfinished painting to pass as her sister. She walked with a grace of movement that suited a beautiful woman entering a ballroom in evening dress.
The couple entered the garage through another side door. A minute later, Plevin came out and stood facing the street, characteristically with his hands in his pockets. He made no indication that he saw the Toyota.
Cool customer.
One of the four lift doors slid up and a new Lexus rolled out of the garage, Anne at the wheel. The car had been described to him. Yellow seemed to be her favorite color. Plevin gave Anne an affectionate-looking wave. She didn’t wave back. That didn’t have to mean anything; she might not have noticed, or been the demonstrative type.
She turned left at the end of the concrete driveway. Cooke started up and activated the tracking device, which was moving ahead of the cartoon car like a blip on a radar screen. He waited until she was several car-lengths ahead, then pulled out into the street. His heart pounded in his ears; he felt a flutter in his stomach. Somehow, until that moment, he didn’t believe the thing would happen.
He didn’t see if Plevin went back into the house or into the garage to use his own car. He was too busy hoping not to lose sight of his quarry right at the start; the electronic gizmo, as Plevin called it, was experimental after all. It might not perform as promised.
The weather warmed as they headed for the western suburbs. He turned down the heater (he couldn’t bring himself to call it “adjusting the climate”), thought of testing the sound system, but reconsidered, at least until they were both on the freeway and he didn’t have to concentrate on turns.
As he drove, hearing the light steady reassuring beep of the tracker, his pulse slowed and his stomach settled. Driving had always soothed him, so long as the wheel belonged to a reliable machine. When it did, he often took a break from his easel and his drawing board to tool deep into the countryside. He went where the mood took him, following two-lane blacktops and gravel roads, admiring Wyeth barns, Monet ponds, Grandma Moses fences, and American colonial houses that had inspired artists for two centuries. They cried out for bold acrylics, soft pastels, watercolors, charcoal, brushstrokes either bold and slashing or delicate and patient.
Well, this wasn’t rural, but the rowhouses and Victorian fretwork of the residential streets, and Walmarts and mom-and-pop stores in the business sections, had their points. Every now and then a bright mural would come into view, stretching the length of a cinderblock wall, to remind him both that he wasn’t the only man left who worked from scratch using traditional tools and that the competition was fierce.
Suddenly he remembered to look at the dashboard. The green dot had stopped moving. How long had that been the case, while he let himself think he was on just another quest for inspiration? He looked up through the windshield, scanned the windows. There was the yellow Lexus, parked at a gas pump belonging to a convenience store. He’d almost passed it. He braked with a chirp. Another set of tires shrieked, a horn blasted. The car behind him filled the rearview mirror, with an angry red face behind the wheel.
Cooke lifted a hand in a sign of apology and swung into the station. Anne wasn’t in her car or pumping gas. He pulled into a slot next to the building, got out, and strolled inside. Or tried to stroll. He was sure he looked like a man hobbling on an artificial leg, one not his size.
He opened the door. A chime rang. The building was a sprawl with rows of snacks, refrigerated goods behind glass, car maintenance products, knickknacks, and a line waiting in front of the cash register. She wasn’t in it. Cooke wandered the room. There was no sign of her. Panic seized his stomach. Had he missed her outside? She might be in her car and back on the road. A fancy gadget couldn’t compensate for stupidity. If he’d managed to lose her three miles from home…
But, no. He looked out the front plate-glass window and saw it was there at the pump, still vacant. Just then a door swung open in a short hallway with aRESTROOMSsign pointing to it and she came out of the women’s, a tall slender brunette who turned both male and female heads at the checkout. Quickly he turned away, taking sudden interest in a cat food display, while she passed behind him and outside.
He went out quickly. She was concentrating on filling her tank and didn’t glance his way as he got into his car.
In five minutes they were back on the road, separated by two other vehicles, and headed toward I-55. The adventure picked up speed.
PART 2
Merge
CHAPTER 5
SOMETHING MADE A burring noise. A light was glowing on the console. A warning buzz? Of what? He touched the panel. The light went off and the noise stopped.
“How’s it going, Ace?”
He swerved onto the shoulder. His tires buzzed on the rumble strips. He yanked the wheel left, bumped back up over the edge of the pavement, overcompensated, fought to stay in his lane, succeeded at last. A set of air brakes hissed, so close he felt the wind up his spine. He could have reached out his window and touched the truck as it thundered past.
