For the Love of Pete

by Julia Harper

  Dante looked up. Zoey still had Mrs. Pratima Gupta’s cell phone?

  “You never use it anyway,” Mrs. Savita Gupta said. “I do not think you know how to use it properly, Pratima.”

  “I do, too,” the other lady shot back indignantly.

  “You insisted that the phone be able to take photos,” Mrs. Savita Gupta tutted. “And do you ever take any photos with your fancy cell phone, Pratima? No, you do not. I do not believe you know how to take photos with a cell phone. I think—”

  “I need to borrow your phone for just a little while longer.” Dante drained the last of the tea—he was beginning to actually like the stuff—and stood.

  “Please. Use it as long as you need it,” Mrs. Savita Gupta said.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Mrs. Pratima Gupta looked uncertain—she was probably wondering if she’d ever get her own cell back at this point—but Dante didn’t have time to explain. He thanked both ladies, waved to Mrs. Agrawal, and dashed out of the motel.

  The cell phone was in the BMW, stuck in the console where he’d left it. Dante checked the battery—nearly full—then scrolled down the list of phone numbers until he came to Pratima Gupta and pressed the Call button. The other end started ringing.

  He watched out the window as he listened. It’d begun to snow again—great puffballs that would pile up rapidly. Maybe she’d ditched the phone. Or she simply wouldn’t answer again. Or she couldn’t answer. The possibilities were making his muscles tense with anxiety. He rubbed his sore leg and—

  “Hello?” Her voice was breathless.

  For a moment all he could do was close his eyes in relief.

  “Hello?” She sounded sharp.

  Well, he wasn’t in a good mood, either. “Zoey, where the hell are you?”

  “Dante?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Someone’s following me.”

  He straightened, his mind suddenly narrowed to a sharp, pinpoint focus on her. “Where are you? Are you on a major road?”

  “I’m on I-24, headed south. I passed Vienna a while back, but I-I don’t know what exit I’m near.”

  He fumbled with the glove compartment one-handed and took out a highway map, searching for I-24. “What does the car following you look like?”

  “It’s a big black Mercedes-Benz SUV. Dante, it was at a gas station with me earlier.”

  “Okay.” Dante started the BMW and headed for the highway, one hand holding the cell to his ear. “Don’t stop, don’t get off the highway. Just maintain your speed.”

  “Dante . . .” He could hear fear in her voice, and it twisted his gut.

  “What is it?”

  “Something’s wrong with the van,” she said, her voice thin. “It’s pulling hard to the right. I think I’m going to have to stop.”

  Dante felt panic threaten to close his throat. He swung the BMW onto I-57, headed north. On the map, 57 and 24 met farther north, but there wasn’t a direct route to her from here. “Are you near an exit? Maybe a town with a gas station?”

  “No.”

  “Or a fast-food place?” He floored the accelerator, the needle on the speedometer climbing past ninety mph. “Somewhere with people?”

  “I just passed a rest-stop sign. It’s in twenty miles.”

  “Okay, I want you to get off at the rest stop. Park as close to the front of the building as possible, but don’t get out of the car. Do you understand?”

  There was silence from the other end of the phone.

  “Zoey?”

  More silence.

  “Zoey!”

  The line was dead. Dante pressed End, then immediately redialed the number. Two clicks and then a recorded message with a mechanical voice informing him the number was not available at this time.

  “Shit! Fuck! Son of a bitch!” Dante threw the phone on the passenger-side seat.

  He didn’t know if her cell had died, if she’d hung up on him, or she was just out of range. To compound that worry, he was at least thirty minutes away from Zoey’s rest stop.

  And he had no idea if she’d heard his last instructions.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Saturday, 11:23 a.m.

  Zoey glanced in her rearview mirror. The black clouds overhead made the winter light dim, the color bleeding from the landscape, leaving everything a dreary gray. Shapes became hard to see in the half light. Most cars had their headlights on now. But the black Mercedes-Benz SUV following her hadn’t turned his on. The big truck blended into the coming shadows, moving like a silent, ominous wraith behind her.

  Zoey swallowed and concentrated on driving. The steering wheel was shuddering hard beneath her hands, numbing her fingers. She didn’t know exactly what was wrong with the tire, but the shudder was increasing and the minivan was pulling hard to the right. If she’d been in a safe area, a suburban neighborhood or a lighted, busy mall, she’d have stopped the van long before this. If the tire had a leak or a weak point, it could blow at any minute, and she wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to control the van. And if the minivan broke down here on the highway . . .

  She peered in the rearview mirror again. The boxy black SUV still followed, dark and shadowy behind her. It never allowed the space between the cars to increase or decrease. She’d tried speeding up, and he had sped up, too. When she tapped her brake, he slowed, as well. He kept a constant two car-lengths behind. A moderate distance, a polite distance, precisely what a high school driving instructor would approve of.

  Zoey stifled a hysterical giggle.

  She was in the middle of nowhere. On either side of the road, gray-white fields rolled away to the horizon, dotted here and there by farmhouses in the distance. The traffic was sparse. Zoey looked at her odometer. She had about five miles to go before she hit the rest stop. Okay, so all she had to do was keep calm, drive to the rest stop. And what then? Dante hadn’t said he was nearby. Maybe he was calling the highway patrol for her. Maybe—

  The black SUV sped up, coming up close on her left. Zoey pressed the accelerator down, but the wheel was shaking so badly now that she was having trouble keeping control of the van. She glanced wildly to her left. The SUV’s windows were black, either from the dim light or because they were tinted. Either way, it gave the truck an eerily humanless appearance, as if the vehicle was driving itself.

  As she watched, it swerved at her. The SUV hit her minivan with a thud and a long screech as the vehicles scraped against each other. Zoey felt her gut dive. The wheel spun in her hands, twisting violently beyond her control as the van went into the gravel on the side of the road. The van tipped horribly and she was sure—absolutely sure—that they were going to roll.

  She wrenched at the wheel, pulling with all her strength, and the van crashed back onto the highway, speeding for the ditch that divided the lanes. Zoey twisted the wheel, gradually, oh so gradually, correcting the course of the van, until it straightened. Then they were speeding down the highway in the left lane. The blue rest-stop sign shot by on the right, flashing in her headlights.

  She craned her neck, searching behind her. The SUV was in the right lane, almost kissing her right bumper. It was only a matter of time before he tried running her off the road again. As she watched, he veered toward her.

  Zoey stomped on the brakes. The purple minivan swerved wildly, and for a heart-attack-inducing moment she thought she’d blown the tire. Then the van steadied. The black SUV was ahead of her now, slowing, as well.

  Zoey accelerated fast, driving onto the shoulder and passing him. She hit the rest-stop off-ramp, still on the shoulder.

  BANG! The tire blew and the van skewed across the road. Zoey wrestled the wheel, praying and cursing at the same time. From the back seat, Pete let out a scream. Somehow she’d slept through the wild ride, but the tire exploding had woken her up. The van was still going, humping up and down as they rolled on the rim of the torn tire.

  Zoey’s face was wet, from tears or sweat she couldn’t tell. Maybe it was a combination of b
oth. They were almost there, almost at the rest-stop building, and she didn’t know what to do. Dante had told her to stay there, had told her to wait, but she couldn’t see anyone else. The Mercedes-Benz SUV was on her tail again, following patiently like a wolf trailing a wounded deer. When she stopped, all he had to do was shoot out the window, kill her, and take Pete. She’d failed.

  She’d failed . . .

  Chapter Forty-three

  Saturday, 11:51 a.m.

  By the time Dante slammed onto the rest stop exit ramp his shirt was sticking to his back with sweat. He’d not heard from Zoey in almost half an hour. He wasn’t even sure she’d be here, but he had nowhere else to look. The purple minivan hadn’t been on the highway.

  The rest stop looked deserted. A white sedan and a green pickup were pulled up to the walkway in front of the building. No other cars were in sight. Dante slowed, peering at the building. It was well lit, but no one moved inside. If she hadn’t made the rest stop, maybe she’d been forced off the road. He hadn’t seen a car in the ditch along the highway, but he’d been speeding. Dante pushed down on the accelerator, driving for the rest-stop exit.

  BLAM!

  His first thought was that he was being shot at. But then more gunfire blasted the air and he realized the sound came from the other side of the rest stop. Where the trucks parked.

  Dante spun the steering wheel hard, the BMW’s tires squealing as he wrenched the car back into the truck exit. He stomped on the accelerator and sped up the exit, going the wrong way. Not that it mattered—no trucks were on the exit road. He could see a couple of semis parked ahead, motors running. The drivers had probably stopped in the early hours of the morning and were settled in their warm cabs, still snoozing. Beside the semis, there were only two other vehicles in the parking lot: a black SUV lurking in the scanty cover of leafless trees, and the purple minivan with the big lopsided daisy.

  Relief swept his chest. At least he’d found her.

  The purple minivan was parked right in front of the building, under one of the large streetlights. The day was so dark that the streetlight had halfheartedly lit, glowing pale orange. The van’s headlights were off, and it was canted at an odd angle. Dante didn’t have time to try and figure out what was wrong with the minivan, though, because a shot ricocheted off the front right panel of his BMW. Sparks flew into the swirling snow.

  “Fuck!” Dante skewed the BMW in close to the purple minivan, between it and the big SUV. The BMW jolted as it hit the curb. Dante climbed over the console and out the passenger-side door. Behind him, the driver’s-side window shattered, chunks of glass hitting him in the back.

  Dante crouched behind the car and drew his Glock. He straight-armed over the trunk and fired three shots in rapid succession.

  CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

  Behind him, the driver’s-side door of the van opened. The sound of a hysterically crying baby flooded the cold air.

  “Stay inside!” Dante bellowed. “Get down!”

  The van door slammed shut just as the shooter opened fire again. A shot pinged off the BMW trunk. Dante flattened himself to the freezing asphalt. BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG! He lost count of the shots fired. They were high-powered and deafeningly loud, and Dante felt like his ass was sticking in the air, bare and exposed. The BMW shook. He glanced at the minivan behind him and his blood ran cold. The side panel was riddled with holes. Jesus. If Zoey and the baby weren’t hit, it’d be a miracle.

  That thought lit a fire in his blood. He belly-crawled to the front of the BMW, the shots still pinging against his car and the asphalt, then raised his fist over the hood. He couldn’t aim without looking, and he wasn’t about to raise his head and have it blown off, but he could give the guy a taste of his own medicine. He squeezed off five shots, his hand jerking up with each round, his wrist aching.

  His ears were ringing from the gunshots, both his and the other guy’s, so it took a moment for him to hear the siren. It was growing louder, obviously nearing their spot. The shooter stopped, and a second later the black SUV fired up. It roared past the van and BMW. Dante scrambled around the car to get cover as it left.

  The black SUV disappeared down the exit ramp.

  Dante stood and wrenched at the purple minivan door. The front seat was empty. His heart sank right into his gut. He hauled open the side door and met Zoey’s blue eyes. She was crouched on the floor, holding the screaming baby.

  “Are you all right?” he yelled at her.

  Adrenaline was pounding in his arteries, and he wasn’t sure he could keep his voice down even if he wanted to.

  Zoey started to nod. He grabbed her and pulled her from the van, scaring the baby into renewed wails of terror.

  “You’re sure? You’re sure you’re all right?”

  He didn’t give her time to answer. He knocked the stupid reindeer hat from her head, thrust his fingers into her hair, feeling for blood, feeling for her life.

  “Dante, I’m okay,” she said, her voice small. “Pete’s okay.”

  He moved his hands to her neck, running his fingers around under her hair. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “I—”

  “Shut up. Let me see. I have to make sure.”

  He pulled her jacket open and thrust up her shirt, glaring at the bare, unbroken skin on her belly, then whirled her around, patting for blood or other injuries. Finally he knelt and ran his hands down over hips and thighs, calves, and ankles. She stood still, clutching the baby. He pulled his hands away and looked at them. They were shaking like an old man’s.

  Damn her. Damn her to hell.

  He stood and seized her shoulders, pulling her into a kiss that smashed her lips against her teeth and put the baby’s wails right in his ear. He didn’t care. It was as much punishment as relief, and he didn’t have the time for finesse or gentleness. He tasted sweetness, tasted her, and then heard the sirens coming fast.

  Fuck. He looked up as flashing lights swung in from the opposite side of the rest-stop building. The cruiser had driven into the car side of the rest stop. It was only a matter of minutes before they realized where the shots had come from and drove to this side.

  He looked at the baby, red-faced and with snot running over her wide-open lips. “You checked her?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “Get in my car.”

  “But the baby seat—”

  “I’ve got it.” He didn’t wait for her to move but reached past her into the van. He found the buckle that held the seat in place, popped it open, and wrenched the awkward contraption out. He turned to find that Zoey had already got in the BMW with the baby. Smart girl.

  “Hey!” One of the truckers had ventured from his cab. The man was walking across the parking lot toward them. “Hey, you all okay?”

  Dante didn’t bother answering. He flung the baby seat into the back of the BMW, then grabbed a big bag of diapers from the van and Zoey’s purse. He threw them both in the BMW, slammed the door shut, ran around to the driver’s side, and slid in.

  “What are—?” Zoey started.

  “Just shut up,” he growled.

  He reversed the BMW, then sped down the exit. The first cruiser was still in the car side of the rest stop, but a second one entered the truck side. Dante watched in the rearview mirror as the cruiser skidded to a stop, the trucker spotlighted in the headlights.

  Then they were on the highway, and he pressed the accelerator down. He had Zoey and he had the baby, and they were both safe.

  That was more than enough for now.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Saturday, 12:45 p.m.

  Is not this child a wonder?” Savita-di gushed as she watched the boy baby bang a wooden spoon against a cooking pot. “Already he has a musical talent!”

  Pratima winced as the boy struck the pot particularly hard. “He is a wonder indeed, Savita-di.”

  “Perhaps we should tune the television to an educational program,” Savita-di said. “I am not sure this program is appropriate for
a small, impressionable child.”

  She frowned at the television in the motel room their nephew had given them. The room was rather small, and several of the walls came together at odd angles, making the room seem even more cramped. There were two beds, but one was right against the wall, and the quilts on top of the beds did not match. Pratima had begun to suspect that their room was usually used as a storage space, and up until a few minutes ago Savita-di had been bewailing the cheapness of nephews who stuffed their aunts into closets.

  A squawk came from the television. On the screen, a pretty blond girl was earnestly singing into a microphone. Or at least she thought she was singing.

  Pratima frowned at her sister-in-law. “American Idol is most educational, Savita-di.”

  “It is a rerun.”

  “Yes, but is it not very helpful for the boy’s musical talent?” Pratima inquired. Really, that girl’s hair could not be naturally blond—she had a dark stripe down the middle of her head like a skunk in reverse. Also, her singing was simply atrocious.

  Savita-di closed her mouth.

  Pratima smiled and looked back at the TV. Mr. Simon Cowell would have something sharp to say to the skunk girl.

  “That man reminds me of my late husband somehow, Pratima,” Savita-di muttered.

  Pratima shot her sister-in-law a sharp glance. Actually, now that she thought about it, Mr. Cowell was a bit like her deceased brother-in-law. Sharp. Sarcastic. Impatient with the weaknesses of others. And, of course, quite, quite handsome. Pratima hesitated. Perhaps this would be the moment to discuss that long-ago time when they were young. She had thought the years would heal whatever wounds had been incurred, but instead, though the hurts were scarred over, they seemed to be festering beneath the surface. In such a case, she knew, often the only choice was to lance the infection. Unfortunately, lancing was very painful and might only make things worse.

  Beside her, Savita-di sighed. “I do not know how we will return to Chicago.”

  “Does it matter?” Pratima asked soothingly. “The snow is falling very rapidly outside and it is very cold. Here in this room we are warm and cozy.”