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He slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder.
“I’ve half-expected it ever since I nicked that light in town. I’m surprised it took them this long to catch up with me. Anyway, it saves us a—”
Two men in uniform approached the Toyota from both sides, drawing their side arms as they came. When they were even with the rear passenger windows, they went into a shooting stance, feet spread wide, pistols in both hands aimed at the pair in the front seat.
“Police! Freeze!”
The response seemed excessive for a mild traffic infraction.
CHAPTER 17
DENNIS COOKE HAD seen the action a thousand times, onCops, Law and Order, CSI—every time, it seemed, he landed on a TV channel—but nothing could compare with being the one taken into custody.
Hands mangled his shoulders, threw him across the hood of the car hard enough to empty his lungs. Feet kicked apart, wrists yanked behind his back, cold steel clamped on wrists, ratcheted tight with a buzz. Hands tore his shirttail from his pants, smacked and groped ribs, hips, groin, thighs, ankles. Through a mist he saw Anne’s distended face on the other side of the hood, caught in the same position.
“Wait!” he gasped. “There’s some—”
“Shut up!” And in the next second the captives were being read their Miranda rights by both officers in a kind of roundelay. Cooke was conscious of cars slowing as they passed the scene, of curious eyes boring holes in his back.
Next they were manhandled into the rear of the patrol car and left waiting while a voice with no inflection in it spoke over the microphone in the front seat. Cooke could make nothing of the information being passed along. The wait was endless, brutal. He was afraid to look at Anne; if she was as terrified as he was, the sight of it on her face might send him over the edge.
The driver hung the microphone back on its hook and the car began moving, its mammoth engine throbbing. They swung with a sickening lurch into a hole in the congealing traffic, changed lanes suddenly, and slewed into an emergency crossover onto the eastbound, spitting bits of gravel from the median in what seemed unnecessary and dangerous haste. Why should they be in such a hurry after making their captives wait so long?
Some attempt had to be made. Cooke spoke up. “Officers, I want to report a kidnapping. This lady—”
“You can report whatever you like at the post,” said the officer on the front passenger’s side, without turning his head. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of grand theft auto.”
The state police post—at least when they were conducted inside—was a place entirely without drama. The wood-laminate floors and taupe-painted walls were clean and ceiling-mounted LEDs shed even light on every surface. Men and women in uniform manipulated computer keyboards with a whispering noise and no sign of interest in the newcomers.
Cooke and Anne were neither fingerprinted nor locked behind bars. They were steered through a maze of L-shaped passages, as in a medical office, where their cuffs were removed. This trooper, not one of the pair who had arrested them, told them to sit in plastic scoop chairs in a small clean room with a square cafeteria-style table bolted to the floor and left them alone.
“What’s going on?” Anne said. They were the first words either had spoken since Cooke’s exchange with the officer in the car. “Did you—?”
He shook his head. “I told you the truth about the Toyota. The registration’s in my name, in the glove compartment. I suppose they’ll tow it to an impound or whatever. They’re sure to search it, find out the truth, and let us go. It’s some mistake.”
He spoke low; he had nothing to hide, but on the assumption they were being listened to, he was cautious as anyone whose conversation may not be private.
“Pretty coincidental, I’d say.”
“Someone will come in to apologize, and then we can report the kidnapping.”
Her smile was tight lipped. For the first time, tiny fissures marred the polished alabaster of her face. “It must be nice to have your confidence.”
He had no response for that. To admit otherwise would be to make his fears too real.
An hour—maybe two—passed, and then they were real.
The door opened, startling them. They’d heard no footsteps approaching. Another officer, older than the others with chevrons on his sleeves, stood aside for his companion to enter. To them he said, “This man is a federal agent. He wants to ask you some questions.”
The newcomer thanked him, nodded him out, and took a seat between them at a right angle. When he reached inside his brown leather windbreaker, an empty holster showed on his belt. He flipped open a folder, showing a gold shield and an ID card with his picture on it. It was two years old, but Philip Mapes hadn’t aged noticeably since it was taken.
CHAPTER 18
ANNE PLEVIN SHRANK from the man, her fingers gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn the knuckles yellow. Her eyes were open wide and her face had tightened, eradicating the tiny creases. Cooke diverted his gaze. Her terror was too contagious.
“We’re not being eavesdropped on. I made sure of that. I checked my piece outside. That’s routine during interrogations.”
Mapes’s tone was quiet, almost humorous. It didn’t go with his crew cut or his thick-built military appearance.
