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Then he saw that someone else was just as determined to reach the car.
A thick-built man with sandy crew-cut hair bounded off the sidewalk in front of the service station, paused, bouncing on the balls of his feet to let a car slide past him, then resumed running, following the same serpentine route that Anne had. His face was red with exertion or rage or both. His brown leather windbreaker was unzipped, the sides flapping like wings.
The cars ahead were crossing the intersection at a glacial pace—piecemeal, like a train coupled with rubber bands. Cooke touched the accelerator, then the brake when the car directly in front of him stopped. The traffic light changed from green to yellow.
The sandy-haired man cleared the last hurdle and leapt for the Toyota, reaching for the door handle. Cooke hadn’t relocked it. He stabbed at the switch and it clicked just as the man got hold. A wide palm with stubby fingers smacked at the window. Just then the car in front of Cooke crossed the intersection. He stamped on the pedal and followed just as the light turned red. In the rearview mirror, Crew Cut stood straddling the white line between lanes, staring at the Toyota. Then he turned back toward the service station, careful of the traffic now and zipping up his jacket as he went.
But Cooke had seen it spread open when he was running, and the butt of the handgun clipped to his belt.
A series of signs directed Cooke to the next entrance to I-70 West. Anne Plevin was breathing hard, staring straight ahead through the windshield. He thought he could hear her heart thudding; or was it his?
He’d passed two of the signs before he found his voice.
“Who—just who was that?” Although he was sure he knew the answer.
“I don’t know. We weren’t properly introduced.” She took in air between words in great whistling gusts.
“He… kidnapped me… in the parking lot of the Kansas City Hilton. I rode… eighty miles in the trunk of… his car.”
He braved a sidelong look. She was dressed as usual in yellow, a plain lemon-colored blouse with three-quarter sleeves, gray tailored slacks, and yellow platform heels. Her clothes were wrinkled and soiled, the shoes scuffed. One half of her shirttail was out. Her makeup was smeared and there were crumbs of grit in her hair.
“Was it an Impala?”
“Right, like I’m a car buff. He pulled up next to me and when I got out of the Lexus he grabbed me and threw me into the trunk. The lid was already open. It was a big trunk, almost kind of roomy. I guess I should be grateful for that.”
“If he’s driving an Impala his name is Philip Mapes. Todd thinks you were running off with him.”
“What do you think?”
“Up until a few minutes ago I thought the same thing. I figured you told me that Reno story to throw me off and that Todd was right when he suspected you of cheating on him.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. I just ran a red light to get away from a man with a gun. It put a crimp in my thinking process. Did he say why he kidnapped you?”
“I only heard him speak once, when I was fighting to break his hold. ‘Stop squirming. Your hubby’s too smart a businessman to pay for a dead pig in a poke.’”
“That sounds like a kidnapping all right.”
“He pulled around behind a gas station, took me out of the trunk, and led me to the ladies’ room; I guess he didn’t want me peeing in his car. There was a window in the room, just big enough for me to squeeze through. I was making my way around to the front to get help when I saw you stopped at that light. That’s when I made a break for it. I’m guessing you got hung up in that same traffic snarl that we did.”
“This car’s the closest thing to a plain brown wrapper on wheels. What made you so sure it was mine?”
“Any old Japanese car in a storm.” There was a bitter smile in her voice. It was gone when she spoke again. “How do you know his name and what he’s driving?”
“I got his plate number from the clerk at the Hilton,” he said. “Plevin had a friend in the police run it. It’s registered to Philip Mapes. He says Mapes was his business partner.” He gave her the rest: the embezzlement, the enforced surrender of his piece of Aspectus.
“So Todd thinks I’m shacking up with an old enemy out of spite.”
“Maybe not. He says it was before your time and he never told you. So the spite seems to be Mapes’s: you steal my half of the business, I steal your wife.”
She was silent. He looked at her again. She nodded. “He’d think that, Todd would. That’s what Todd would do if the situation were reversed.” She drew another deep breath, let it out. But her breathing had returned to normal. “So what now, call the police?”
“No need.”
He was looking in the mirror now. He saw the flashing lights first, then heard the siren.
She heard it, too, and turned to look out the back window. “But—”
