eyes again. He blinked them away. The time of weeping was over. He had committed the most stupid, insane act of his life; he had gone south in a way he would never have thought possible. His gaze kept ticking to the rearview mirror, and he expected to see flashing lights coming after him. They weren’t there yet, but they were hunting for him by now. The first place they’d go would be the apartment. They would’ve gotten all the information about him from the bank’s computer records. How long would it take for the state troopers to get his license number and be on the lookout for a metallic-mist Chevrolet pickup truck with a killer at the wheel?
A desperate thought hit him: maybe Blanchard hadn’t died.
Maybe an ambulance had gotten there in time. Maybe the paramedics had somehow been able to stop the bleeding and get Blanchard to the hospital. Then the charge wouldn’t be murder, would it? In a couple of weeks Blanchard could leave the hospital and go home to his wife and children. Dan could plead temporary insanity, because that’s surely what it had been. He would spend some time in jail, yes, but there’d be a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe. May—
A horn blew, jarring him back to reality. He’d been drifting into the next lane, and a cream-colored Buick swept past him with a furious whoosh.
He passed the intersection of the Industrial Loop Expressway, and was moving through the outskirts of Shreveport. Subdivisions of blocky tract houses, strip malls, and apartment complexes stood near warehouses and factories with vast parking lots. The land was flat, its summer green bleached to a grayish hue by the merciless sun. Ahead of him, the long, straight highway shimmered and crows circled over small animals that had been mangled by heavy wheels.
It came to Dan that he didn’t know where he was going.
He knew the direction, yes, but not the destination. Does it matter? he asked himself. All he knew is, he had to get as far from Shreveport as he could. A glance at the gas gauge showed him the tank was a little over a quarter full. The Chevy got good gas mileage for a pickup truck; that was one of the reasons he’d bought it. But how far could he get with thirty-eight dollars and some change in his pocket?
His heart jumped. A state trooper’s car was approaching, heading north on the other side of the median. He watched it come nearer, all the spit drying up in his mouth. Then the car was passing him, doing a steady fifty-five. Had the trooper behind the wheel looked at him? Dan kept watching the rearview mirror, but the trooper car’s brake lights didn’t flare. But what if the trooper had recognized the pickup truck and radioed to another highway patrol car waiting farther south? On this interstate the troopers could be massing in a roadblock just through the next heat shimmer. He was going to have to get off I -49 and take a lesser-traveled parish road. Another four miles rolled under the tires before he saw the exit of Highway 175, heading south toward the town of Mansfield. Dan slowed his speed and eased onto the ramp, which turned into a two-lane road bordered by thick stands of pines and palmettos. As he’d figured, this route was all but deserted, just a couple of cars visible far ahead and none at his back. Still, he drove the speed limit and watched warily for the highway patrol.
Now he was going to have to decide where to go. The Texas line was about twenty miles to the west. He could be in Mexico in fifteen hours or so. If he continued on this road, he would reach the bayous and swampland on the edge of the Gulf in a little over three hours. He could get to the Gulf and head either west to Port Arthur or east to New Orleans. And what then? Go into hiding? Find a job? Make up a new identity, shave off his beard, bleach out the tattoo?
He could go to Alexandria, he thought. That city was less than a hundred miles away, just below the heart of Louisiana.
He’d lived there for nine
A desperate thought hit him: maybe Blanchard hadn’t died.
Maybe an ambulance had gotten there in time. Maybe the paramedics had somehow been able to stop the bleeding and get Blanchard to the hospital. Then the charge wouldn’t be murder, would it? In a couple of weeks Blanchard could leave the hospital and go home to his wife and children. Dan could plead temporary insanity, because that’s surely what it had been. He would spend some time in jail, yes, but there’d be a light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe. May—
A horn blew, jarring him back to reality. He’d been drifting into the next lane, and a cream-colored Buick swept past him with a furious whoosh.
He passed the intersection of the Industrial Loop Expressway, and was moving through the outskirts of Shreveport. Subdivisions of blocky tract houses, strip malls, and apartment complexes stood near warehouses and factories with vast parking lots. The land was flat, its summer green bleached to a grayish hue by the merciless sun. Ahead of him, the long, straight highway shimmered and crows circled over small animals that had been mangled by heavy wheels.
It came to Dan that he didn’t know where he was going.
He knew the direction, yes, but not the destination. Does it matter? he asked himself. All he knew is, he had to get as far from Shreveport as he could. A glance at the gas gauge showed him the tank was a little over a quarter full. The Chevy got good gas mileage for a pickup truck; that was one of the reasons he’d bought it. But how far could he get with thirty-eight dollars and some change in his pocket?
His heart jumped. A state trooper’s car was approaching, heading north on the other side of the median. He watched it come nearer, all the spit drying up in his mouth. Then the car was passing him, doing a steady fifty-five. Had the trooper behind the wheel looked at him? Dan kept watching the rearview mirror, but the trooper car’s brake lights didn’t flare. But what if the trooper had recognized the pickup truck and radioed to another highway patrol car waiting farther south? On this interstate the troopers could be massing in a roadblock just through the next heat shimmer. He was going to have to get off I -49 and take a lesser-traveled parish road. Another four miles rolled under the tires before he saw the exit of Highway 175, heading south toward the town of Mansfield. Dan slowed his speed and eased onto the ramp, which turned into a two-lane road bordered by thick stands of pines and palmettos. As he’d figured, this route was all but deserted, just a couple of cars visible far ahead and none at his back. Still, he drove the speed limit and watched warily for the highway patrol.
Now he was going to have to decide where to go. The Texas line was about twenty miles to the west. He could be in Mexico in fifteen hours or so. If he continued on this road, he would reach the bayous and swampland on the edge of the Gulf in a little over three hours. He could get to the Gulf and head either west to Port Arthur or east to New Orleans. And what then? Go into hiding? Find a job? Make up a new identity, shave off his beard, bleach out the tattoo?
He could go to Alexandria, he thought. That city was less than a hundred miles away, just below the heart of Louisiana.
He’d lived there for nine
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