by David Kazzie
After a deep breath, she pulled out from behind the Ford Expedition and zoomed down Crestwood after the red station wagon. She saw the wagon turn northwest onto the main road, which wound through a quiet neighborhood of big houses and spoiled children. Outside, the snow continued to fall.
* * *
Pasquale took his second kidnapping of the night and third of his life in stride. On the one hand, he was terrified beyond what he thought was humanly possible, and he would gladly have given up his left arm to be a thousand miles away from this psychopath. On the other hand, there wasn't much he could do about his situation right now. Once again, he concentrated on gathering information. So far, he knew the man called himself Charles Flagg. Pasquale hadn't had to talk much, considering that this guy literally would not shut up. At the moment, he was wrapping up a soliloquy on climate change.
"Earth's got a tipping point, you understand. We get to a certain level of greenhouse gases or drop below a certain amount of Arctic ice, and that will be it. Every human being on Earth could stop burning fossil fuels the very next day, and it won't matter. Sort of like a smoker with lung cancer who doesn't need to bother with quitting. We've already lost the bees. The bees!"
"Colony collapse disorder," Pasquale said. "I read about it."
"Good man," Flagg said. "Good man. Not every day I find someone worthy of some rousing discourse."
Discourse away, buddy, discourse away.
"So tell me," he said, clearing his throat. "What were you doing in the trunk? That fellow in the apartment get the drop on you?"
"The last thing I remember was standing in the kitchen, eating cereal."
"I have to say I'm disappointed in you," Flagg said. "That guy was a total loser. I can't believe he cold-cocked you like that."
"Yeah." It was the least objectionable thing he could think of to say.
"Go south. Across the river," Flagg said. He seemed to be done with the subject of disappointment.
Pasquale continued away from the city, passing a sliver of a shopping district that was home to a trendy Asian restaurant and an overpriced women's clothing boutique.
"Just another suburban nightmare," Flagg said, shaking his head. "Humans are such sheep. Earth should do herself a favor and just slough us off. The weak ones, at least."
Pasquale nodded as he curled south toward the bridge. Putting aside for the moment the disturbing realization that he actually agreed with the guy about climate change, silent acquiescence seemed to be the best approach to dealing with this maniac. Pasquale didn't have to wonder what Flagg meant by "the weak ones." This was an ominous development, given that Flagg obviously didn't view him as one of the "strong ones." Not good.
"So, do you know this Samantha?" Flagg asked.
Upon hearing the question, Pasquale's shoulders tightened ever so slightly.
"Don't bother lying," Flagg said. "Obviously, you know her. What, she your girlfriend or something?"
"No."
"But she was, right? Right? A long time ago, is that the deal?"
"Yeah," Pasquale said. "She was."
"So where is she now?"
"I honestly don't know." Pasquale had never been so happy to truthfully answer a question in his life.
"She ran off with the ticket?"
"She took off, yes."
"Can't say I blame her," he said. "That little ticket is worth a lot of money. In this world, to the victors go the spoils."
This statement bothered Pasquale on a number of levels. It was as if this man viewed Samantha as some worthy opponent and was planning a duel with her. He had to keep him away from her.
"Where are we going?" Pasquale asked, taking a chance.
"Aren't we Mr. Curious!"
"Sorry."
"That's the difference between me and you," said Flagg. "You have to ask where we're going. You say 'sorry' like a teenage girl. Pathetic. Professor Darwin would not be happy with you. Fulfilling his mission is why I was put here."
That was about the time Pasquale realized that Flagg was going to kill him, no matter what he did or said. Clearly, Flagg viewed him as a substandard entry in the human race, although he seemed to be impressed by Samantha. Pasquale had come across a few whackos, but this guy really took the cake. There would be no point in trying to talk his way out of his own extermination. He needed to escape, and he needed to do it soon.
* * *
A moment later, the Huguenot Bridge, which connected the city of Richmond to Chesterfield County to the south, came into view. It was an old two-lane bridge, long since targeted for replacement. Pasquale executed his plan the moment they were on the bridge. He was afraid that if he waited even an extra second, he would lose his nerve. As the roar of the tires underneath them morphed to a high-pitched hum once they left terra firma, Pasquale turned the wheel sharply to the left and back to the right. The old wagon, which would have made her manufacturers proud, gripped the road hard and shimmied across the empty lane of the bridge. As Flagg lost his balance, Pasquale reached across and slapped the gun out of Flagg's left hand. It hit the center console with a clap and clattered to Flagg's feet.
"Shit!" Flagg barked.
Pasquale repeated the move, this time bringing the large wagon right up against the left bridge railing. Metal screamed against concrete, sending an arc of sparks shooting against the snowflakes still blanketing the city. He pulled the wheel hard to the right again, which, bless the engineers of the Ford Motor Company, was more than the car could handle.
The driver's side window shattered on this second impact with the bridge railing, and cold air rushed in like Spartans overrunning Troy. The wagon's grill hit the railing hard, causing the rear bumper to flip up and over the threshold of the railing. The car somersaulted once and dropped much like one would expect a 3,000-pound hunk of metal to drop. Pasquale's stomach flipped as the car went airborne. In the two-second drop to the icy depths of the James, Pasquale sketched together an escape plan. As much as one could sketch out a plan together in two seconds.
He clenched his teeth and waited for impact.
This was going to suck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sunday, December 23
7:03 p.m.
At first, Samantha thought Pasquale had lost control of the car in the snow and was just fishtailing a bit. She didn't react at first, thinking that certainly, he would regain control of the car, and they would continue their trip to nowhere. That was the way it was when you first saw things going to shit. You don't actually think that the really crappy thing is going to happen. That was the wall Samantha's mind had built up for her. A moment later, the car veered wildly a second time, and she came to the horrific realization that it was deliberate. She slammed on the brakes, which sent her Audi fishtailing before she was able to bring it to a stop. As she did so, she saw the wagon break free of the laws of gravity, if only for a moment.
* * *
The wagon hit the water nosefirst like a cluster bomb. It pierced the surface of the water, black and rippling like mink fur, and zoomed toward the bottom before the water's buoyancy caught the vehicle in a soft, icy embrace. Thousands of gallons of water rushed into each nook and cranny of the vehicle, desperate to fill every available space. The car's momentary seaworthiness abandoned it within seconds, and it began sinking front end first.
As he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, Pasquale slammed against the roof of the car upon impact, breaking two of his ribs, and collapsed in a heap against his passenger. His whole body lit up with pain, and for a moment, he felt his window on the world narrow to a dark tunnel. He grunted hard, forcing himself to stay conscious. For the moment, Flagg was not moving. For this, Pasquale was eternally grateful. At this point, the water had risen halfway up the passenger compartment, and the car was leaning hard to the left. With one hand, he grabbed the gearshift and used it to brace himself against the onrushing water. Once he had steadied himself, he pushed off the seats hard through the window. As he did so, he smacked his head agai
nst the doorframe on the way out, slicing a long but superficial gash against his temple and filling his already blurred field of vision with white light.
Once he was in the water, he kicked as hard as he could to get away from the suction created by the sinking wagon's descent to the riverbed. Instinctively, he knew he was upside down in the inky blackness of the water. He righted himself and started kicking for the surface. Holy shit, it was cold. Temperature in the low forties. He knew he had less than five minutes to get out of the water before disabling hypothermia set in. If that happened, he would have been better off with Flagg putting his gun to his head and pulling the trigger.
He knifed through the water toward the surface, careful not to gasp from the cold, lest he breathe in a liter of river water, which would likely mean the end of Pasquale. Fortunately, breathing was really not an attractive option because of the pain in his ribs, cutting into him like tiny knives. His head broke the surface a moment later, and despite the cracked ribs, he sucked in giant gobs of fresh, icy air. Never in his life had anything tasted so sweet, and he doubted anything would again. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he treaded water until he picked up lights along the riverbank.
Fortunately, the James River was only about an eighth of a mile wide at this point, and they had gone into the water near the north bank. Behind him, a giant bubble rippled to the surface as the car sank out of sight. He kicked hard for the shore.
* * *
Ohshit-ohshit-ohshit! Samantha thought as she watched the wagon vanish into the darkness. An instant later, she heard the boom of the car hitting the water, even though her windows were rolled up. The spray leapt high enough for her to see over the edge of the railing. She jumped out of the car, narrowly avoiding a minivan zipping along the bridge. She was still wearing her running shoes, which she took full advantage of now.
On the south side of the bridge, Samantha jumped over the railing and onto a rocky embankment that dropped down to the river's edge. With a coating of ice forming on them, the rocks were like smooth glass. Two-thirds of the way down, she lost her balance and pinballed the rest of the way to level ground. As she reached bottom, her left ankle started to roll over, sending a searing pain through her foot, but she regained her balance before all her weight crashed down on the ankle.
"Dammit," she muttered through gritted teeth. She walked gingerly in small circles, testing the ankle. It was sore, but it was stable.
"Pasquale!" she shrieked. "Pasquale!"
Nothing.
Her eyes desperately scanned the water, looking for any movement, seeing none.
"Pasquale! You son of a bitch!"
She took one step toward the water, tears filling her eyes. There was no way she could swim out there and survive. No way. She fell to her knees, pushing her frozen hair out of her eyes, willing herself to dive in after him.
That was when she saw it. The outline of a head bobbed to the surface off to her left, coughing and grunting like a seal. All she could hope was that it was Pasquale and not the other dude. A minute later, Pasquale Paoli staggered to the shore twenty yards west of Samantha. She limped down the bank and found him shivering, his teeth chattering like machine-gun fire. He collapsed to the ground, oblivious to Samantha's presence.
"Pasquale! It's me!" She slapped him gently on the cheeks, earning a soft moan for her efforts. "Come on, we need to get you out of here."
She wrenched off his sweatshirt, which was like trying to peel a frozen banana, and wrapped her own coat around his shoulders. It was too small for him, but it would have to do for now.
"My car is up on the bridge," she said. "Can you make it?"
He nodded, then shivered violently.
"I think so," he said. "Jesus, it's cold out here. I can't believe anyone's ever been this cold. It's like I swallowed one of the polar ice caps."
"Shhh," she said. "Let's just concentrate on getting out of here."
* * *
The pair stumbled down the bank and up the embankment like a pair of drunken revelers. For Pasquale, two steps forward meant one step back. His legs were stiff from the cold and deadened from the swim. Still, he didn't stop. He hadn't survived that goddamn crash (and how many nights would he spend dreaming about that little plunge?) just so he could freeze to death underneath the Huguenot Bridge. On his hands and knees, he crawled up the embankment like a slow turtle. Samantha stayed by his side, keeping her hand on his back for encouragement. There wasn't much more she could do; he outweighed her by seventy pounds. After fifteen agonizing minutes, they made it back to the roadway.
Her car was still idling on the bridge. With the snow still piling up, the roads were virtually deserted, and the few people out and about paid little attention to anyone but themselves. A snowplow roared by them, shoving salt and ice and snow to the edges of the roadway, but it did little good. This was the biggest storm to hit central Virginia in a quarter century, and the localities did not have the trucks, salt or chemicals to keep up with a storm of this magnitude.
Pasquale poured himself into the front passenger seat, where he began stripping off his clothes, heavy with icy water. Every move hurt like hell, and his numb fingers weren't helping much. After climbing into the driver's seat, Samantha cranked up the heat, helped him out of the wet clothes and covered him with her coat. She'd found an old sweatshirt and pair of running shorts in the trunk, which he was just able to squeeze into. They weren't much, but at least they were dry.
"You OK?" she asked.
"I'll live," he said, shivering. "I need more clothes. And coffee."
She shifted the car into gear and eased back onto the highway.
"What were you thinking?" she said. "You should be dead right now."
"That nutjob was going to kill us both," he said. "I had to do something."
"You don't know that," she said. "I was going to give him the ticket. He would've left us alone."
Pasquale laughed.
"He was going to kill us both and possibly have a cup of hot chocolate before bed tonight."
"We need to get you to a doctor," she said, turning onto Huguenot Road and heading south into Chesterfield County.
"No," he said. "They'll start asking a bunch of questions, and they'll get suspicious."
She was silent.
"What do we do now?" asked Pasquale.
"We find Jamal."
"What about your parents?"
"What about them?"
"They're not safe."
"They won't be safe while I have this ticket."
"Maybe you can tell them to bunk in a hotel for a couple nights."
"Yeah, because that really sounds like something my dad would do."
"He might listen to me!"
"Are you out of your effing mind?" said Samantha. "What do you think my father's going to say when his daughter tells him he needs to abandon his home and hide?"
Pasquale shivered violently.
"I guess you're right," he said.
"You really think he was dead?" she asked hopefully.
"Honestly, I don't know," he said. "I doubt we were that lucky. That guy probably practices getting out of submerged cars."
At Huguenot Road's intersection with Route 60, Samantha turned west toward a heavily developed commercial area along the county's main business corridor. The land was dotted with fast-food joints and car dealerships.
"Up there," Pasquale said, pointing to the right. "Hit that Wal-Mart. I can get some clothes."
She pulled into the parking lot and eased up to the gaudily lit entrance area. As he started to get out of the car, she grabbed him by the elbow.
"You want me to go in?" she asked.
"No. Why?"
"You look a little weird in my shorts," she said.
"You have been in one of these places before, right? I don't think anyone's going to notice."
"Right. Here's my debit card," she said, handing it to him. "The PIN number is your birthday."
"Thanks."
>
"I'm glad you're OK," she said.
He nodded and then disappeared into the bright store. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If there was one thing you could count on in this world, it was that Wal-Mart was open. It actually calmed her down a bit. No matter who was out there trying to kill you, there would always be a place to pick up your mouthwash, a pair of sweatpants and a can of fish food. Or a camping tent, a box of cereal, and a trash can. The exercise calmed her down, and she began thinking of groups of three items that she could find at Wal-Mart. A pacifier, charcoal and a monster truck DVD. This was fun!
Fifteen minutes later, Pasquale was back in the car, munching on a hot dog. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a Washington Redskins sweatshirt and a Chicago Blackhawks winter cap.
"Nice hat," she said.
"Most of your body heat is lost through your head," he said.
"That so?"
"Yes," he said, polishing off the rest of the hot dog.
"That's not all that's lost through your head."
"You're hilarious. I'm still hungry. Wanna buy me some dinner?"
"I guess it's the least I can do."
"I could go for a steak."
"Maybe we better stick to a drive-through for now."
"You owe me a steak."
"I promise to get you a steak the size of your head," Samantha said. "If we live through this."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Monday, December 24
4:55 a.m.
Dr. Roger Bouzein was pissed off, sighing loudly as he pulled on his scrubs in the doctors' locker room of Henrico Doctors' Hospital. No one was there to hear him sigh, all exasperated-like, but it made him feel better just the same. Before stuffing his belongings into his locker, he sighed once more for good measure. Typically, it made him feel very doctor-like to be starting a shift at five in the morning. It always gave him a chance to tell people what he did for a living.