follow?
Hell, they had the only clue they needed, he thought as he turned into the station, a maroon Pontiac with a registered license plate. If he was really going to go on—where, he had no idea—he’d have to dump the car and travel some other way.
He braked by the front pump on the full-service island and got out. Not waiting for the attendant, he unhooked the nozzle on the unleaded pump and pushed down the handle. As the pump started humming, he carried the nozzle to the back of the car.
There he stopped dead, staring blankly at the place where he’d expected to see the gas-tank cover. Then he grunted in disgust at himself. This isn’t the Mustang, idiot. Sighing, he returned to the pump and rehung the nozzle as the heavyset attendant came trudging up. “Yessir,” he said.
“I thought I had my other car,” Chris said. “I’ll have to move.”
“Yessir,” said the attendant.
Chris got back into the car and turned on the motor.
Use your skills
, he remembered his mother’s words.
Yes, Mater, right away
, he answered silently, smiling without humor.
He moved the car to the other side of the service island and turned the motor off again. “Is your bathroom unlocked?” he asked as the attendant approached, carrying the nozzle.
“Sure is,” the attendant said. “Check under your hood?”
“Under Scotty’s hood,” he mumbled to himself. “No, that’s all right,” he told the attendant.
He was halfway to the bathroom when it occurred to him that maybe Scotty Tensdale wasn’t all
that
attentive to his Pontiac; it might need oil, transmission fluid, battery water, who knew what else. “Yeah,
would
you check everything under the hood?” he called back. “And check the tires?”
“Yessir,” the attendant said.
You and F. Crain should get together for one bang-up conversation
, Chris thought as he turned back toward the bathroom.
He went inside the bathroom and locked the door, flicking the light switch. The room remained shadowy, its only illumination coming from the window over the door. Swell, Chris thought. He moved to the urinal and relieved himself, then washed his hands at the sink, wincing slightly at the tenderness in his right palm and fingers. Had his mother gotten all the splinters out? He hoped so, washing off his face. The cold water felt good on his skin.
He dried his face and hands with two paper towels. His cheeks were getting bristly. Going to look like a proper fugitive soon, he thought. This did not amuse him.
“All right, what now?” he asked the man regarding him from the mirror. “
Quo
fucking
vadis?
”
“
Where can you afford to
vadis
?
” the man responded.
Chris took out his wallet and checked. Two twenties, a ten, a five, his MasterCard and American Express charge cards. He made a pained face. And the Texaco card sitting in the glove compartment of his Mustang.
“Jesus,” he muttered. He’d have to use cash for the gas and there was little enough of it.
He stood gazing at his reflection. It had occurred to him that he could drive back to his house. If the presence of the man and woman had been necessary only to throw him off in the beginning, they might be gone now, the door chain and the kitchen telephone with them. Was it worth a try to find out? It had a definite appeal because it wasn’t simply flight, it was a movetoward finding out what was happening. And it might be the one place they wouldn’t think he’d go.
“Yes, good,” he said. That’s what he’d do.
***
When he unlocked the door and pulled it open, the two men were standing outside, waiting for him.
As insane as the idea was, Chris had an urge to hurl himself at them and break free.
But they frightened him the way they stood, faces impassive, looking at him. For all he knew, they were prepared to draw out guns and open fire on him at any instant.
He swallowed dryly, stepping out into the sunlight. Suddenly, he felt very tired, very drained. “All right,” he said. In a
Hell, they had the only clue they needed, he thought as he turned into the station, a maroon Pontiac with a registered license plate. If he was really going to go on—where, he had no idea—he’d have to dump the car and travel some other way.
He braked by the front pump on the full-service island and got out. Not waiting for the attendant, he unhooked the nozzle on the unleaded pump and pushed down the handle. As the pump started humming, he carried the nozzle to the back of the car.
There he stopped dead, staring blankly at the place where he’d expected to see the gas-tank cover. Then he grunted in disgust at himself. This isn’t the Mustang, idiot. Sighing, he returned to the pump and rehung the nozzle as the heavyset attendant came trudging up. “Yessir,” he said.
“I thought I had my other car,” Chris said. “I’ll have to move.”
“Yessir,” said the attendant.
Chris got back into the car and turned on the motor.
Use your skills
, he remembered his mother’s words.
Yes, Mater, right away
, he answered silently, smiling without humor.
He moved the car to the other side of the service island and turned the motor off again. “Is your bathroom unlocked?” he asked as the attendant approached, carrying the nozzle.
“Sure is,” the attendant said. “Check under your hood?”
“Under Scotty’s hood,” he mumbled to himself. “No, that’s all right,” he told the attendant.
He was halfway to the bathroom when it occurred to him that maybe Scotty Tensdale wasn’t all
that
attentive to his Pontiac; it might need oil, transmission fluid, battery water, who knew what else. “Yeah,
would
you check everything under the hood?” he called back. “And check the tires?”
“Yessir,” the attendant said.
You and F. Crain should get together for one bang-up conversation
, Chris thought as he turned back toward the bathroom.
He went inside the bathroom and locked the door, flicking the light switch. The room remained shadowy, its only illumination coming from the window over the door. Swell, Chris thought. He moved to the urinal and relieved himself, then washed his hands at the sink, wincing slightly at the tenderness in his right palm and fingers. Had his mother gotten all the splinters out? He hoped so, washing off his face. The cold water felt good on his skin.
He dried his face and hands with two paper towels. His cheeks were getting bristly. Going to look like a proper fugitive soon, he thought. This did not amuse him.
“All right, what now?” he asked the man regarding him from the mirror. “
Quo
fucking
vadis?
”
“
Where can you afford to
vadis
?
” the man responded.
Chris took out his wallet and checked. Two twenties, a ten, a five, his MasterCard and American Express charge cards. He made a pained face. And the Texaco card sitting in the glove compartment of his Mustang.
“Jesus,” he muttered. He’d have to use cash for the gas and there was little enough of it.
He stood gazing at his reflection. It had occurred to him that he could drive back to his house. If the presence of the man and woman had been necessary only to throw him off in the beginning, they might be gone now, the door chain and the kitchen telephone with them. Was it worth a try to find out? It had a definite appeal because it wasn’t simply flight, it was a movetoward finding out what was happening. And it might be the one place they wouldn’t think he’d go.
“Yes, good,” he said. That’s what he’d do.
***
When he unlocked the door and pulled it open, the two men were standing outside, waiting for him.
As insane as the idea was, Chris had an urge to hurl himself at them and break free.
But they frightened him the way they stood, faces impassive, looking at him. For all he knew, they were prepared to draw out guns and open fire on him at any instant.
He swallowed dryly, stepping out into the sunlight. Suddenly, he felt very tired, very drained. “All right,” he said. In a
Similar Books
