The man went in but Peter tracked his progress through the door. He successfully dodged rose bushes, tomato stakes, and porch swing, but was nearly blind-sided by a six foot plum tree with a salesman buried amid the foliage. He shook off plum leaves and apologies.
An elderly man opened the glass door for his wife; Peter cut in ahead of her, tossing another set of apologies behind him. His quarry was directly ahead, still almost twenty yards in the lead, but the path was blocked by a cash register stand in the middle of an aisle. He went to the right around it, with Peter following. The man looked back occasionally to see how close the pursuit was.
On the other side of the register booth, a rack of catalogs stood four feet high, filled nearly to the top. The man skirted the rack, but grabbed it in passing and yanked it over. The rack went sprawling across the aisle, spilling catalogs in spreading waves of paper.
Peter swore aloud. He had to make a quick decision whether to go around the stainless steel and paper barrier or over it. He topped the rack and pile of catalogs in one graceful leap that cost him part of a seam in his pants. His touchdown would have been just as pretty except the landing site had a prior occupant. He had a vision of white hair, carefully arranged in neat curls, horn-rimmed glasses on a chain, and a large red mouth, wide open, as he went airborne on a course which would compel closer acquaintance. A neat twist at the end of the leap avoided a face to face confrontation with the woman for possession of that small bit of retail real estate, but it pulled him off balance.
The imprecision of his landing nearly brought another abrupt meeting, with a display of aluminum and glass storm doors that sat on the left side of the aisle. Peter recovered in time to avoid the display and another customer, but the delay cost him another ten yards of distance between himself and the man he chased. The latter saw and grabbed his advantage, ducking off the main aisle into the sporting goods department.
Peter didn't follow him into the area, but remained on the main concourse and tracked the man's progress with his eyes. The display racks weren't very high and both Peter and his quarry were tall. The sporting goods department occupied a corner formed by two main aisles; the other one led out of the store into the mall. The man was angling across the area toward that exit. Peter stayed on the wider corridors but turned toward that door himself. His quarry had a fifteen yard lead when he emerged from sporting goods back into the main passage.
Directly ahead, Peter could see out into the mall. Friday night crowds thronged the shopping night. Complicating things further, a display of race cars usurped most of the central part of the wide corridor that ran the length of the mall. Cars of all sizes, shapes, and colors filled the open areas between the fountains and benches that punctuated its length.
As he left the store, the other man looked back, noted that he hadn't lost his tail, and headed into the nearest car display. Peter stayed close behind, occasionally nudging or pushing an idling shopper out of the way. Some of the race cars were cordoned off, and the man headed for one of those areas. He ducked under the velvet rope, ran around the car, and under the cord on the far side. A fountain topped by a metal sculpture ran sluggishly on the other side of the vehicle; the man ran alongside it.
Instead of playing follow-the-leader with him through the cord and around car and fountain, Peter stayed in the walkway on the other side, trying to keep him in sight until they were beyond the fountain. There he cut across, through a carpeted depression lined with benches.
His quarry turned again, saw Peter still with him, and tried to duck back across, through another race car display. He misjudged the cord around the vehicle and became momentarily tangled in it. Peter was able to cut the gap almost in half by the time he disengaged himself.
Seeing his advantage dissipate, the man searched for another escape route. He ran again, past another fountain and into the middle of a popcorn stand. While passing through, he picked up a large plastic bag of strawberry-flavored corn and upended it, spilling slippery round kernels behind him. They rolled in all directions, causing considerable commotion. Two teenage employees of the stand yelled and grabbed at him but missed. One of them fell over the side of the stand in the process and compounded the mess by knocking over a stack of tins. Several bystanders screamed as they slipped on the bits of corn or rolling containers.
Peter threaded his way through the uproar, but the effort involved in keeping his balance on the kernels, evading prone shoppers already undone by the organic ball bearings, and avoiding adding to the chaos by knocking over more containers on his way through the stand cost Peter all the advantage he'd recently gained and then some.
His quarry now had twenty-five yards on him and headed toward the middle of the mall where a depression created a small amphitheatre. It was crowded with people watching a fashion show. He raced down the slope and across the only open area available, the platform stage, which was occupied by a couple of models. On his way across the platform, he collided with one of the performers, a pretty girl, about eighteen, wearing a tight, blue, floor-length evening gown and drastically high heeled shoes. She was knocked off her feet, but the fleeing man took no notice.
Peter sprinted after him, down the slope and across the stage also. The girl was struggling to regain her feet and her dignity. As he passed, Peter reached down a hand and hauled her upright. The girl watched him, open-mouthed, too surprised to say anything, but Peter didn't wait for her to recover. His prey was on his way up the other side of the amphitheatre.
The racing car displays continued along the other end of the mall, but the man avoided them now, moving rapidly along the walkway to the side, pushing his way through the crowds when they didn't move quickly enough. Peter found it difficult to follow in the press of people, but managed to keep him in sight. At the far end, shortly before the entrance to the other anchoring department store, a short corridor cut across the main one, leading out to the parking lot on either side of the mall. On the nearest corner, a video arcade beckoned, bright and noisy. The man ducked in.
Peter was puzzled. The man had managed to avoid being cornered in any of the stores so far; why go in there? Dim lighting and large, noisy game machines might provide some decent hiding places, but Peter could wait him out.
He entered warily, walking amid the flashing lights, beeps and voice, both human and electronic. The arcade was crowded with teenagers and young men who pushed and squeezed around the various machines. Some of the games were the kind you sat in; Peter glanced into all of those but didn't see the person he sought.
He turned to look back at the exit and realization clicked in. The arcade was on the corner of two corridors and had exits onto both; the man had known his ground better and had used the arcade to cut the corner. Peter ran out the other exit and looked down the hall. Glass doors leading to the parking lot formed the far wall. Between the doors and his current position, a sort of indoor cafe spilled from the side into part of the corridor. Fast food stands lined one wall and people sat at the tables eating. Most were occupied.
Peter finally caught sight of his opponent, threading his way through the tables to the door. He was nearly there. Peter sprinted after him, but the other's lead was substantial by now. His quarry pulled open a door and tore though just as he started to go around the cafe area. Peter ran, but his heart wasn't in it anymore.
By the time he reached the doors, the other man was nowhere in sight. The parking lot stretched in front of him, nearly full. All around, people got into and out of vehicles. The slam of a car door punctuated the night frequently. For several minutes, he watched the movement in the area. No sign of his prey. At a guess, he was probably crouched in the back seat of some unlocked car. Peter considered starting a search but quickly dropped the idea. Thousands of cars sat there, and others were coming and going constantly. It was full dark now and hopeless; he finally admitted defeat.
Irritated and discouraged, he retraced his steps slowly through the mall to the back parking lot where he'd come across the stre
et. He picked up speed when he remembered that he'd left Cathy alone, holding two dangerous men at bay. Though she had the gun and apparently knew how to use it, she was still one woman by herself in the darkness with two ruthless and desperate men.
He'd worked himself up into a good sweat of fear and guilt by the time he got back to the bridge across the creek. It was very dark on the grass near the crossing; the only illumination came from a street light a hundred feet or so up the road. It was also very quiet. Too quiet. Peter’s heart—or was it his stomach?—sank, and his palms were suddenly hot and sticky. He searched the area for movement as he crossed the bridge, but detected none.
As he stepped off, a voice called his name softly. He heaved a deep sigh of relief and answered. Following her voice, he found Cathy sitting under a tree, the gun in her hand, poised for use. She lowered it slowly. "Peter," she said, exhaling his name on a long sigh. "They got away; I'm sorry. I just couldn't shoot them in the back when they ran. I tried to get the license number off the truck, but there was dirt smudged all over the plate."
She sounded tired and depressed. He sank down next to her and pulled her close against him. In the darkness, he couldn't see her expression but her presence was solid and soft and warm. He could feel the pulse beating in her throat, and the smoothness of the hair he stroked had a sensuous appeal of its own. All the more so because, five minutes ago, he hadn't known if he'd find her here at all or still alive.
"My man got away, too," he tried to console her. "Don't worry about it. It's not that important. We're both still alive and in one piece. I think." He rubbed a hand along a sore place on his jaw and winced as the nerves sent protesting messages back to his brain. Worse yet, he didn't need to probe an even larger spot on his shoulder to know it would be turning several shades of black and blue by now. The adrenalin surge which had carried him through the fight and chase was wearing off, leaving him exhausted and aware of the various bruises clamoring for his attention.
He got to his feet and pulled Cathy up with him. "I don't think it's a good idea to hang around," he explained as he led her to the car. He kept an arm around her waist; she didn't need the support, but the contact was pleasant and reassuring.
"We didn't get much in the way of helpful information, I'm afraid," she said as he pulled the car away from the curb.
"No."
"What do you suppose that was all about?" she asked.
He thought about it. "From where I stood, it looked like they were planning to put me out of commission and take you with them," he ventured. She didn't say anything and he had an idea she'd already drawn the same conclusion.
"They lured us here—and now that I think about it, Mrs. Townsend did mention both of us meeting Joe here—and planned to get me out of the way and grab you. It came damned close to working, too. If you hadn't heard them and turned when you did, I would have been out cold, if not worse. The guy meant business with that club." Peter rubbed his sore shoulder experimentally. The pain radiating from it told him just how seriously. If that blow had landed squarely on the back of his head...
"That's what I thought, too," she said. "They wanted you out of the way, and me alive and unharmed. He hadn't forgetten to take the safety off the gun; he didn't want it going off, even accidentally. But why, Peter? Why do they want me?"
"I tried to warn you yesterday that you were next in line for trouble."
"If they just wanted to scare me off the case, why take care to be sure I wouldn't be harmed? It doesn't add up; you don't kidnap somebody just to give them a warning."
"I know," Peter admitted unhappily. "They wanted something more from you. Information, I suppose."
"But what...." she started to ask, then stopped. He wondered if the same thought had occurred to her.
"The information everybody's wanted right from the beginning," she guessed. "Where Bobby hid whatever he had."
"That's the obvious answer," Peter agreed.
"But I thought they were convinced I didn't know. Unless..."
"Unless Danny has been running his mouth again," Peter finished her sentence harshly. "I'll lay odds that's your answer. The kid is a positive genius for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time."
-22-
Friday - Saturday
It wasn't until Peter pulled the car into his own driveway that Cathy realized she hadn't thought to ask where they were going. She didn't object, but got out of the car and accompanied him into the house.
He switched on the lights, then turned to look at her. His sharp intake of breath made her wonder just how bad her face was. She moved across the room to the mirror. Her right cheek showed a large, abraded area surrounded by a darkening bruise. It had stopped bleeding, but there was dirt smudged around it.
"Did one of them hit you?" he asked, his voice hard and cold.
She shook her head. "When I pretended to stumble and fall, I guess I was a little over-enthusiastic about it. I hit a rock on the ground."
He sat her down and retrieved a clean damp cloth from the kitchen. He washed the dirt off her face with a surprisingly gentle hand, and regarded the wound dubiously when he'd finished. "Do you think you need a Band-aid on that?"
"No," she assured him. "It's not deep. It'll heal better left alone."
"Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"No. That was it. Your turn." She stood and pushed him down, damp cloth and all, onto the chair she'd been occupying. "That was a nasty crack you took." She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling for the lump she knew had to be there. She saw him wince when her fingers brushed it, but was surprised to discover it wasn't as bad as she'd feared.
"It glanced off my head," he explained. "My shoulder took most of the force."
He had a swelling bruise on his jaw, just above his chin, but he wasn't bleeding anywhere. He held his left arm stiffly and she wondered about the shoulder. At her request, he unbuttoned and took off his shirt. She helped him ease it along his sore arm.
Peter had good shoulders, broad and solidly muscled, but the left one was marred by a wide, angry red swelling running across the top and a few inches down his back. She ran her fingers along his collarbone, but only the swelling of the bruise felt abnormal. She got him to move the arm around. It was painful, but there didn't seem to be any serious impairment.
"You'd better put an ice pack on that. It's going to hurt like hell by morning, I'm afraid."
He grinned wryly. "It hurts like hell already. No, don't get upset; it's not unbearable. Aspirin will help. I'll bet you could use one yourself."
"Yes, I could. Peter, what time is it?"
He consulted his watch. "Five to ten. Why?"
"I've got to get back to work. I'm late." She saw the smile on his face tighten into a look of worry and doubt as he stood. He came to her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close against his body. The pale hair on his chest tickled her chin. She clung to him, trying to avoid his sore shoulder.
"I don't want to let you go," he said. "I'm afraid for you. I want to keep you right here next to me."
She drew back a few inches to say something but never got the chance. He leaned in and kissed her before she could frame the words. The kiss was slow and thorough and started a warm swell of excitement running through every part of her. She reveled in it, clinging to him urgently. He didn't seem in any hurry to break the embrace. She held on, moving her lips with his and running her hands over the smoothness of his back, enjoying the rippling play of muscle under his skin.
She could feel his shock when she pulled away. She moved back a couple of feet and pushed disarranged hair off her face. "Peter," she started, pausing to gather her wits and collect her breath. "If this is your way of trying to keep me here, it's... it's very effective. But I do have a job, you know, and commitments. I need to call my editor."
Peter appeared to be experiencing some respiratory difficulty himself. But he understood her request and pointed to the instrument. "Right there."
After a few minutes
on hold, she got through to Ray's extension. She heard Peter in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator, then pouring himself a drink. When Ray finally answered, she explained she'd had a minor accident. She didn't offer any details.
He wasn't fooled, of course. "How minor and how related to the Stark kid's murder?" he asked.
"Very and probably," she answered. "I'm more shaken than hurt, but my face is kind of a mess. It was mostly my own fault though, Ray. I fell and hit my cheek on a rock."
"Who was chasing you?"
"A guy named Joe Townsend. Would you see if we have anything on him? And yes, it has to do with the murder. I can't go into it right now; I'll explain later."
"Cathy—" He paused to think. "Are you all right? You sound rattled. Do you want to take the rest of the evening off? Things are under control here; we can hold your feature for the weekend if you need the rest."
"I'm with Peter Lowell right now," she said. "It's safe enough, but... I don't know, Ray. Let me see."
He accepted that. Peter came back into the room as she hung up. "Let me put on a clean shirt and I'll take you back to work, or home if you prefer," he offered, without sounding enthusiastic about the prospect.
"Ray says it isn't necessary for me to come back if I feel too shook. They'll hold my story for the Sunday edition; everything else can be covered by someone else."
"Do you want to go back to work?" he asked.
"No."
"Should I take you home? I've been thinking. I doubt they'll try anything else tonight. They're probably as shaken as we are right now."
A Question of Fire Page 16