The Wicked Flee (A Marty Singer Mystery Book 5)

by Matthew Iden

  Her eyes were drawn to a bright bank of floodlights at the far end of the strip. The On Ramp, the largest business in Breezewood by far, dwarfed even the dozen-pump gas stations with car wash and convenience store. It was the one that stood out, the one that didn’t share parity with its neighbors to the east and west. She raised the glasses again and panned them over the lot.

  She’d been through Breezewood a dozen times and had known about the On Ramp—you couldn’t drive through the town and not see it—but she’d never paid much attention to the fact that it was at least as large in the back as the front. Obviously catering to truckers, there were long parking bays and diesel pumps for convenience, and no doubt a back door to the main building just for the long-haulers. There were trucks there now, in fact, their owners probably asleep in the cabs before hitting the road.

  Visibility wasn’t great—the back of the On Ramp was not near the main road and the trailers were so high that, even from her vantage point on the hill, they hid whatever was right beside them. Although most of the other rigs were dark, the headlights of one were on, the driver having turned the cold engine over earlier, getting ready to start the day. After a moment, the truck eased forward like a dinosaur waking from sleep, lumbering toward the road. The rig rounded the front of the On Ramp and passed the parked cars of the tourists and commuters. With little traffic on the road, it turned onto the main drag without pausing and headed toward the turnpike at speed.

  A chill went through her. It had taken the truck thirty seconds from the time it had started moving to the point where it had passed out of sight. If she knew Breezewood, and wanted to pull off an exchange like Eddie was attempting, you could hardly ask for a better location.

  It was the On Ramp. It had to be.

  She fumbled for her phone with gloved hands that couldn’t dial a number. Shaking her glove off, she raised a finger to start dialing when, from behind her, a car horn honked, a long, brassy wail that made her jump.

  She started to turn . . . then froze before she was halfway around. Cold, hard steel pressed against the back of her head, just above her last vertebra. It was the size and radius of a nickel, she thought distantly.

  “Please don’t do that, Officer,” a voice said from behind her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Eddie stiffened, then leaned forward to peer out the windshield. Lucy glanced at him, then straightened in her seat to look, too—whatever was bad for Eddie was probably good for her.

  Her heart jumped into her throat. Below them, a police cruiser crawled along the main road, pausing for a moment in front of each storefront. It turned into a few of the lots, but never completely stopped, describing a slow, serpentine path as it moved along, dipped in, then back out again. As they watched, it became apparent that the cruiser was taking more time in lots with cars in them and passing on those that were empty.

  It was looking for something.

  Eddie swore and turned the heat to its lowest setting, then dialed down the brightness of the dashboard lights. He slowly wrapped his hand around the gearshift, watching and waiting. On the road below, the cruiser stopped short of the spur road that led to the Calloway, as though the car itself was considering its options. Then, moving slowly, the cruiser made the right-hand turn that would bring it straight to the motel, its headlights illuminating broad curtains of falling snow.

  With a dull chunking sound, Eddie eased the Mustang into reverse, then threw his arm over Lucy’s seat and backed the car up slowly, keeping the normal roar of the engine to a low growl. The car caught and jerked as it slipped on the snow, but Eddie didn’t ease off on the gas until he was behind the Calloway. Snow fell so fast their tracks were obliterated even as she watched. With easy skill, Eddie maneuvered the Mustang behind the bulk of the construction Dumpster, and shut off the car.

  For a night that had been filled with virtually constant noise, the silence was sudden and oppressive. Only the smallest of sounds came to her. The engine ticked as it cooled. The snow made a slight patter as it hit the windshield and the roof. The distant thrum of the turnpike, previously inaudible over the noise of the engine, was like the hum of a dryer running in the basement or the buzz of her grandparents’ old television set.

  A sharp click-clack interrupted the silence as Eddie checked the action on his gun, then rested it in his lap. His face was expectant and tense. Their visibility from behind the Dumpster was limited to the wooded hillside behind the motel, but after a moment—as the police cruiser’s headlights swept across the plateau—Lucy realized Eddie didn’t need a perfect view. He only needed to see whether the car stopped or not.

  The headlights lit the side of the motel as the cruiser pulled into the parking lot, then inched their way along as the cruiser made the wide turn to pull around the back of the building. Wild shadows danced against the hillside as the bright white light played over their hiding place. The cruiser was so close, she could hear the crunch of its tires on snow. Eddie’s seat squeaked as he shifted in his seat. He swallowed audibly.

  Her eyes dropped to look down at the gun in Eddie’s hand, her body tingling. She could unlock the door, jump out, and start running. Scream loud enough and the cop would hear her, stop, and the nightmare would be over. A rescue was less than fifty feet away, less than thirty seconds away. If she dared.

  But the gun was just sitting in his lap and he was obviously ready to use it. A muscle in the back of his hand was fluttering, like there was a bird trapped underneath the skin. If she tried to run, how fast could he raise his arm, aim, and pull the trigger? In no time at all. She would barely have her hand on the door handle before he shot her. But when would she get another chance?

  Her hand began to creep toward the button of the door lock. The cruiser’s headlights were directly on the Dumpster now and she could feel Eddie tense beside her . . . then the headlights moved on as the car made the wide turn. Their angle from behind the Dumpster gave them a slice of visibility, however, and she could tell by the headlights that the cruiser had slowed, then stopped altogether as it approached the edge of the parking lot where Eddie had been watching the strip below a few minutes before.

  Eddie slipped the gun into his jacket, went to turn on the ignition . . . then hesitated, thinking. Her hand was almost to the door handle when he leaned across her without warning and popped open the glove compartment. Inside was a roll of duct tape.

  “Turn towards the door,” he said, shoving her in the back to turn her around in the seat.

  “What?” she said, but he’d already grabbed both of her arms, then pinned her hands together with just one of his. Using his teeth and remaining hand, he got the roll of tape going and wound it around her wrists ten or twelve times. He leaned over awkwardly and did the same for her legs just below the knees, then he pushed her back in the seat so that she was sitting against her hands. He ripped off a short piece of tape, which he slapped over her mouth.

  He pulled his gun out and said, “Don’t move.”

  She nodded. He opened his door to a cold blast of air, then shut it carefully. She watched as he went to the corner of the Dumpster, peered around it, then disappeared. Lucy sat for a minute, deciding what to do. She could kick off her tennis shoes to try and manipulate the lock and the door with her feet, but then she’d be hopping shoeless in two feet of snow. Maybe it was worth it, or maybe she would get ten feet away before Eddie caught her.

  Wriggling her body, she pushed herself over the center console, despite the emergency brake jabbing her painfully in the ribs, then sideways onto the driver’s side of the car. The extra angle was just enough to allow her to see past the corner of the Dumpster.

  The police officer was standing on the edge of the parking lot overlooking Breezewood. Both of his—her?—hands were raised. Holding binoculars, maybe. Closer to Lucy, though, Eddie had used the cover of the motel to get closer to the cruiser and was now hunkered down near the back bumper of th
e car. As Lucy watched, Eddie came out from around the back of the cruiser, cradling the gun with both hands. He was five feet away when Lucy leaned forward and jammed her shoulder onto the car horn, shattering the soft silence of the night.

  The police officer jumped at the sound, then started to turn. But Eddie had moved with surprising speed and had the barrel of his gun pressed to the back of the cop’s head before she—Lucy could see it was a woman now—could fully turn around. In a matter of seconds, he had her handcuffs out as well as her gun and keys. As Lucy watched, Eddie cuffed the officer with her hands behind her back and then marched her backward to the rear of the cruiser. He opened the trunk using the cop’s own keys, shoved her inside, then closed the lid. Eddie went back to the front and leaned into the driver’s side. A moment later, the headlights disappeared and then the car was also turned off, giving off one last forlorn cloud of exhaust before it stopped.

  Lucy, trembling, pressed herself into the passenger’s seat as Eddie trotted back to the car. He opened the door and hopped in, giving her a look that turned her blood cold.

  “Nice try,” he said. “A little late, but nice try. Not too smart, though. If the cop had seen me, then I’d have to kill you both. But now we’re all safe and that was the last chance you had for someone to find you. Might as well sit back and relax now.”

  Lucy sank back into the seat, a tear falling down her cheek as Eddie started the Mustang and pulled out of the motel parking lot.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Breezewood was as plebeian as Torbett remembered it, an accidental town created for no other reason than to satisfy the hunger of the traffic from two large roads that happened to intersect. Granted, that’s how some of the world’s greatest cities got their start, but no one was going to mistake Breezewood, Pennsylvania, for Paris, London, or Rome. As the town’s own name implied, it was a place for people to sweep through, not stop and look. It was a delay on the way to somewhere else.

  And that’s all it means to me, he thought. A quick meeting, a mistake-free handoff, and then back on the road. His own “somewhere else,” of course, was right back where he’d started, but richer by the company of one beautiful, virginal Korean girl.

  He reviewed the precautions he’d already taken and the step-by-step moves he would have to make soon to mitigate any identification of himself, his car, or what he was about to do. Using major highways to get here had been nerve-racking and dangerous but necessary, given the short time frame for the exchange. His other precautions—no stops there or back to trace receipts, tinted windows to foil any odd identification by fellow travelers while on the road, and meticulous attention to every driving regulation to avoid being pulled over by the police—would have to do. As maddening as it was, he’d driven with the utmost circumspection, obeying every speed limit and using his turn signal like he was on his way to take his driver’s test. And, while he was sure his Lexus had been photographed somewhere along the line since there was almost no way to avoid it these days, he’d paid cash at all tolls instead of the more convenient, but easily traceable, E-ZPass.

  Eddie would also be getting cash, naturally, in nonsequential bills he’d gathered on various trips from around the country. Even the money bag was a nondescript, national brand of garbage bag that could be found in every grocery, department, and home goods store in North America. He’d worn gloves since the moment he’d started the car and they’d stayed on throughout. They would be destroyed along with #5 as soon as he returned home. As long as Eddie was right about the back of the On Ramp being camera-free and close to the highway, he’d be safely in and out of the sorry little town of Breezewood in less than fifteen minutes.

  And back home, with his newest toy, by brunch.

  “Nothing. There’s nothing here,” Chuck said, his voice rising.

  We’d made our way down Breezewood’s main drag, checked every parking lot, back alley, and spur road . . . and come up empty. Even counting our bust of the Unfaithful Husband and his paramour, the entire search had taken just twenty-three minutes. The town simply wasn’t that big and, with Sarah’s help, we’d only had to cover half of it.

  The alternatives weren’t encouraging. They might’ve already been here earlier, so we might’ve missed the handoff. They might be in Sarah’s territory, but she hadn’t found them yet or she’d also missed them. Or, worst of all, the entire guess was wrong and they weren’t even in Breezewood, maybe not even in the state. We were going on a tip from a hooker who had only a passing interest in seeing us bust her pimp . . . and that was it. We had nothing else.

  “Let’s start back and check the lots again,” I said. “I’ll touch base with Sarah, see if she’s found anything.”

  “She would’ve called,” Chuck said. I agreed with him, but we both knew that doing something constructive was better than sitting there.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. It rang three, four, five times, then went to voice mail. I frowned and punched redial. Nobody would ignore a call in this situation, especially, I got the feeling, someone as responsible and motivated as Trooper First Class Haynesworth. Five rings and voice mail again.

  “No answer,” I said, my mind going over the possibilities.

  Chuck glanced over. “Straight to voice mail or did it ring?”

  “It rang five times. She’s not answering.”

  He shook his head slightly. “What’s she doing?”

  I got a sick, twisty feeling. She was the rookie, I was the thirty-year pro, and Chuck was more than competent enough to handle his end of things. I should’ve gone with her. “Forget this end of town, head towards her half.”

  Chuck punched the gas, shifted the Integra to third, and we tore up the road.

  Despite all her training, despite hours in the classroom warning her about the potential for being in something much like this situation, Sarah’s first reaction was panic.

  When she’d felt the cold steel of the gun barrel against the back of her head, she was sure he was going to kill her. Even when he’d locked her in the trunk instead of shooting her on the spot, it didn’t erase the fear—he might set the car on fire or put it in neutral and push it over the lip of the hill. She’d had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming.

  But in the distance she heard the deep gurgle of a powerful engine start—the Mustang, surely—and for some reason that popped the balloon of fear. It didn’t follow that Eddie was going to torch the cruiser if he was leaving so quickly. Or, why would he go back and start the Mustang if he was going to send the cruiser careening over the hill? Which is when her brain finally kicked in and cleared the air.

  He was here to make a sale, not kill people.

  Eddie had only one goal: to meet the person who was buying Lucy. To do that, he needed to be on time and he especially needed to keep from attracting attention. Turning a state police cruiser into a bonfire on top of a hill was not the way to stay inconspicuous. Pushing it over a hill to crash into the back of a diner was going to attract attention. He didn’t want to kill her; he just wanted her out of the way long enough to get his money.

  Armed with that thought, she put her mind and priorities in order. Get your head on straight, girl. Think about what you need to do. First, she needed to get her hands free. Second, she needed to warn Rhee and Singer. Third, she needed to get out of the car. Number four was more of a want than a need: she wanted to kick Eddie’s ass so far up around his ears he’d have to take his pants down to hear right.

  Freeing her hands wasn’t easy, but not impossible. Eddie was an amateur and had been in a hurry, that much was clear. With more experience or another minute to think about it, he would’ve twisted the bracelets on the cuffs to clamp them close to her wrists—and he hadn’t. She’d had the presence of mind to not demonstrate just how much slack she had when he’d frog-marched her back to the cruiser’s trunk.

  Nor had he searched her pockets for anything bu
t the car keys and her gun. He hadn’t taken her phone or, maybe more importantly, her spare set of handcuff keys. Unfortunately, those were in a front pocket. Moving with care so that she didn’t tighten the cuffs herself, she eased onto her side and began stretching her arms out and around her body, using her belt loops as tiny handholds for her fingers to inch along her waist.

  Midway through the effort, her phone rang in her pocket—Singer or Rhee, it had to be. They would have to wait until she got a hand free. Moving with exquisite care, she pushed and pulled, gasping as the ligaments in her shoulders and elbows were tested to the breaking point. She took one last, deep breath, let it out, then lurched forward. Her fingers caught on the edge of the front pocket and she strained her fingers as far as she could, using all of the slack he’d given her to dive into the pocket. One agonizing moment later, her fingers tickled the round piece of steel that was the key ring and gently pulled it out of her pocket.

  Despite the cold, she was sweating. She paused for a moment, collecting herself, then took a deep breath and began manipulating the little keys until the cuffs came free with a familiar snap. She breathed out a huge breath and massaged her wrists long enough to get the feeling back, then dug out her phone and hit the call-back button to tell Singer that, if they didn’t move now, it was going to be too late.

  The rest stop was right where Eddie had said it would be, looking just like he’d said it would look, brightly lit and modern, with enough cars to give them the kind of bustling cover they needed to pull off the exchange. It was a relief, actually. The motel where they’d met last time was practically deserted—it was a wonder that the local cops didn’t simply sit in its parking lot and arrest the drug dealers and junkies as they arrived, a kind of criminal drive-thru.