she’d thought the dots were to disguise a phone number, but since it wasn’t a phone number, then maybe the dots needed to be there. What items used strings of numbers separated by dots?
Too many dots to be a library call number. She stopped in mid-swivel and typed the numbers directly into the address bar on the browser. She’d thought of one of her dog-walking clients, a freelance web designer, who had a personalized welcome mat at his house with his web address—not the name of his websites, but the digital name—a line of numbers separated by dots.
She hit return and a page about Covent Garden loaded. A photo of the popular shopping area filled the top of the screen along with a description of the area, which had once been a fruit and vegetable market. Zoe was familiar with Covent Garden from her guidebook copy-editing and knew it was a popular tourist venue with shops, restaurants, and performers. She quickly skimmed the rest of the website. What was Jack trying to tell her? Was there something in one of these pictures, or in the text she should recognize? Was he at Covent Garden? Or, had he been there when he sent the package?
It was a massive website, providing details on the history, the architecture, upcoming events, and hotels and services in the surrounding areas. Maybe she was completely wrong and the webpage was a coincidence. But there was the London postmark, too...
After studying page after page of shops and restaurants, she pushed away from the computer. She hadn’t seen anything that she could even remotely link to Jack. She needed a break. She changed into her running clothes, laced up her Asics, and pulled her hair up into a ponytail.
She set off at a brisk walk to warm-up, enjoying the fact that she didn’t have to wait until almost twilight to run, which is what she did during most of the summer. The humidity never really went away in the summer, but it did lessen a little in the late evening. She checked her street and didn’t see either a strange silver car driven by an unknown driver or the equally disconcerting brown car driven by the FBI guys. She set off on her usual jog—a three-mile loop through the neighborhood, which was quiet in the early afternoon. It was the lull before the carpool moms hit the road for afternoon pick-up and commuters were still trapped at their desks.
About a mile in, she realized a car was closing in on her from behind.
Chapter Six
––––––––
Z OE heard the engine and moved farther toward the side of the street. She didn’t like to run on the sidewalk because of the driveways. All that up and down messed with her pace, so she ran at the edge of the street, practically in the gutter.
She flicked a glance over her shoulder and saw it was a van. Not a suburban mom with a minivan, but a boxy utilitarian van contractors favored. The van came even with her, hugging the gutter. There was plenty of space for it to get around her. There wasn’t another car on the road, and there was no need for it to squeeze so tightly next to her.
She skipped up on the sidewalk and continued running at her regular speed. The van paced her for a moment, which wasn’t that usual. The neighborhood was notorious for its frequent police patrols that encouraged drivers to keep their speed down, but when Zoe glanced to the side and made eye contact with the driver, she involuntarily slowed down. He had a shaved head and a low dark unibrow. He stared at her, sparing only a quick look at the road ahead to make sure no one was coming. Zoe felt a shiver of cold anxiety, despite the layer of sweat on her body.
The van sped up, then veered into the driveway of the house in front of her with a screech of brakes, cutting her off.
She halted. Her thoughts leapt to those news stories about women who had been attacked, abducted...horrible things. But that couldn’t be happening, not now. Not to her. She wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction, but that would
Too many dots to be a library call number. She stopped in mid-swivel and typed the numbers directly into the address bar on the browser. She’d thought of one of her dog-walking clients, a freelance web designer, who had a personalized welcome mat at his house with his web address—not the name of his websites, but the digital name—a line of numbers separated by dots.
She hit return and a page about Covent Garden loaded. A photo of the popular shopping area filled the top of the screen along with a description of the area, which had once been a fruit and vegetable market. Zoe was familiar with Covent Garden from her guidebook copy-editing and knew it was a popular tourist venue with shops, restaurants, and performers. She quickly skimmed the rest of the website. What was Jack trying to tell her? Was there something in one of these pictures, or in the text she should recognize? Was he at Covent Garden? Or, had he been there when he sent the package?
It was a massive website, providing details on the history, the architecture, upcoming events, and hotels and services in the surrounding areas. Maybe she was completely wrong and the webpage was a coincidence. But there was the London postmark, too...
After studying page after page of shops and restaurants, she pushed away from the computer. She hadn’t seen anything that she could even remotely link to Jack. She needed a break. She changed into her running clothes, laced up her Asics, and pulled her hair up into a ponytail.
She set off at a brisk walk to warm-up, enjoying the fact that she didn’t have to wait until almost twilight to run, which is what she did during most of the summer. The humidity never really went away in the summer, but it did lessen a little in the late evening. She checked her street and didn’t see either a strange silver car driven by an unknown driver or the equally disconcerting brown car driven by the FBI guys. She set off on her usual jog—a three-mile loop through the neighborhood, which was quiet in the early afternoon. It was the lull before the carpool moms hit the road for afternoon pick-up and commuters were still trapped at their desks.
About a mile in, she realized a car was closing in on her from behind.
Chapter Six
––––––––
Z OE heard the engine and moved farther toward the side of the street. She didn’t like to run on the sidewalk because of the driveways. All that up and down messed with her pace, so she ran at the edge of the street, practically in the gutter.
She flicked a glance over her shoulder and saw it was a van. Not a suburban mom with a minivan, but a boxy utilitarian van contractors favored. The van came even with her, hugging the gutter. There was plenty of space for it to get around her. There wasn’t another car on the road, and there was no need for it to squeeze so tightly next to her.
She skipped up on the sidewalk and continued running at her regular speed. The van paced her for a moment, which wasn’t that usual. The neighborhood was notorious for its frequent police patrols that encouraged drivers to keep their speed down, but when Zoe glanced to the side and made eye contact with the driver, she involuntarily slowed down. He had a shaved head and a low dark unibrow. He stared at her, sparing only a quick look at the road ahead to make sure no one was coming. Zoe felt a shiver of cold anxiety, despite the layer of sweat on her body.
The van sped up, then veered into the driveway of the house in front of her with a screech of brakes, cutting her off.
She halted. Her thoughts leapt to those news stories about women who had been attacked, abducted...horrible things. But that couldn’t be happening, not now. Not to her. She wanted to turn around and run in the opposite direction, but that would
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