by Lisa Gardner
“Do you . . . have you . . . killed a lot of women?” she ventured after a bit.
“Women? No. According to the prosecution, I murdered Kathy because she was sleeping with my brother. They called it a crime of passion.” His lips twisted ironically, his fingers drumming slightly faster on the wheel.
“Was she?”
“What?”
“Sleeping with your . . . your brother.”
There was a small pause. His face was perfectly expressionless, not hard, not scowling, not angry, not anything. “Yes,” he said finally. “She was.”
“Oh.” Her gaze slid from his face to his hands. His fingers had stopped tapping the wheel. Now he clenched the wheel tightly and his knuckles had gone white. So he wasn’t as calm as he sounded. So he wasn’t so cold. She glanced at him again, wanting to understand more though she had a feeling she shouldn’t.
“And that’s why . . . that’s why you think you have to kill your brother,” she finished for him.
He glanced at her, his expression not obsessive or maniacal. In fact, he looked abruptly tired and worn. “I don’t want to kill him,” he said. “I just think it may be the only way.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say to that and a strained silence filled the cab.
“You can’t imagine it, can you?” he asked suddenly. “I must sound so insane to you.”
“I don’t think murder is particularly sane,” she admitted. “It sounds as if your brother and girlfriend made a mistake. Well, okay, so they betrayed you, and well, that must have hurt a great deal. But by seeking revenge, you’re only prolonging your own pain and denying yourself a fresh, new future.”
“Well said, Maggie, well said.”
She risked a brave smile. “So you’ll abandon your quest?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He smiled abruptly; she had the strange sensation that he was toying with her. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand sibling rivalry, would you, Maggie? It sounds as if your brothers are knights in shining armor who are already riding to your rescue as we speak.”
“They’ll help,” she stated with absolute confidence. “We’re actually half siblings, related through our father. He disappeared in a plane crash when we were still children, so our grandmother invited us to her dairy farm in Tillamook for the summer. We’d never even met until then. C.J. lived in L.A., Brandon lived in London and I lived in Lake Oswego, Oregon. Our paths never would’ve crossed—my grandmother is a very wise woman. By the end of the summer, we’d become so close we took a vow to always be there for one another. ‘One for all, all for one,’ that kind of thing. We’ve always held to it.”
“My brother will come after us, too,” Cain said at last, his gaze riveted on the windshield. “But not with quite the same intent.”
Cain backtracked abruptly. “But we were talking about the chief of police.” Maggie thought his voice was rough, but he cleared his throat and when he spoke again, the tones were the cool, determined tones she’d come to expect. She shook her head, slightly bewildered by the change in topic. “The chief of police has limited resources,” Cain continued unperturbed. “He can’t barricade the entire city—it would require too much manpower. So the state police start patrolling I-5 and the city police scour Portland. Where else do they go, Maggie?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Sure you do—it’s common sense. Next they check out logical places for me to go. I have no real supplies or money. It’s not like I had a fancy or sophisticated prison break. I simply insisted on representing myself for the appeals process. While the prison legal department handles filing all the affidavits for prisoners, they can’t represent me at trial—only I can. So for my new hearing, I was allowed to go to the courthouse with just one guard—I was shackled, of course—but for some reason he only did the leg shackles. Then there came this moment . . . this completely unplanned, random moment, when in the corner of the law library where I was doing last-minute research, the guard decided to bend down and pick up someone else’s trash. I suppose he didn’t like litterers. But there he was, bent over, and there I was, hands free above him. And so I . . . I hit him. I knocked him out cold.”
Maggie stared at him, aghast. “That’s awful!”
“Yes. Yes, it is,” he murmured. For a moment, he looked troubled.
“They’ll check in with my old employer,” he continued abruptly, his tone brisk. “That’s Beaverton. We’re not headed toward Beaverton, so we should be fine. Next they might try my old apartment building, but after six years that’s a long shot. Which leaves us with . . .”
“Your family,” she filled in glumly. “And you are going to Idaho.”
“Exactly. You see the problem, Maggie, and why I took a hostage? On the one hand, I’m escaping. On the other hand, I’m doing exactly what they expect me to do. Not good strategy on my part.”
“It’s hopeless then. Give yourself up and let me go.” She smiled at him hopefully.
“I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“No. I have to get to Idaho. And you’re going to help me do it.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You have the map. Think of it, Maggie. From Portland what’s the fastest route to Boise? Head due east on I-84.”
She nodded, and suddenly she realized how much she was helping him.
“But we didn’t do that,” she intoned dully. “We headed south because I said so. But it was purely accidental on my part! I don’t want to help you escape.”
He shrugged, seeming to think that part was inconsequential. It probably was to him; he had a gun. “Sure, but heading south was a good idea, Maggie. I think we’ll do it a bit longer. A lot longer. I think we’ll head all the way to Salem, then cut through the Cascades there. Go through Bend. There will be fewer cops covering a much larger area, increasing our odds of escape.”
“But that will take all day!”
“At least.”
“I have cats!” she wailed.
“They’ll make it a few days.”
“A few days!”
“Maggie, it’s an important trip. Besides”—he smiled at her grimly—“once my brother, Abraham, learns I’ve escaped, he’ll probably come looking for me on his own. Maybe he’ll save us both time and meet us in the middle.”
Her face went ashen. She gripped the door handle, needing something solid. This had gone too far. She had to do something. He was a murderer, and even if he had a good voice, she could not help a murderer! She had to do something.
Just once in your life, Maggie, do something.
She glanced at the handcuff; she glanced at the door handle. Even if she popped open the door, she couldn’t go anyplace handcuffed to his wrist. She had to get rid of the handcuff.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said abruptly.
“What?”
“You heard me. It’s a basic biological function and when I’m scared out of my mind—like now—it’s a fairly demanding one.” She raised her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze.
He shook his head. “Hold it.”
“Hold it? Hold it? Do you know that women who try to do such things have a much higher incidence of incontinence later on in life?”
“First we have to get through the next twenty-four hours. Then we’ll worry about later in life.”
“I can’t hold it all the way to Idaho.”
He frowned at her. Then he scowled. Obviously he hadn’t thought about that. It made her smile smugly. She wasn’t so bad at this after all.
“I hadn’t considered all the logistical details,” he muttered.
Her gaze brightened. “There’s no good way to do it. You’ll just have to let me go. I’m too big of a liability.”
His frown deepened. She had the sense he was struggling with something inside of himself. “I can’t do that,” he said abruptly.
“Yes, you can,” she hastily assured him.
“Maggie, without a hostage h
ow can I get to Idaho?”
“You just won’t be able to kill your brother,” she agreed. “Sorry.”
He shook his head and looked tired. “It’s not that simple and even if I explained it to you, there’s no reason for you to believe me. You’re just going to have to trust me on this, Maggie. We’re going to Idaho. Come hell or high water, we’re getting there. The more you cooperate, the faster the trip.”
“But you’re a murderer! I don’t want to help a murderer!”
Cain didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes had gone to the rearview mirror. A cop had turned in from a side street not too far back. “Maggie,” he said calmly, “Maggie, look at the map again. Find us a safe route to Salem. I want back roads. I want small side routes. Do that, find us safe passage, and no one will get hurt.”
But he was already too late.
The cop turned on his sirens.
And it began.
Chapter 3
“Turn yourself in—it’s your only chance!”
“Like hell!” His foot slammed the pedal to the floor and the truck leaped forward like a jungle cat freed from its cage.
“You can’t outrun them!” she cried. He didn’t answer, his face remote and grim as his hand hit the horn and stayed there. A car slowed for a red light. He whipped around it so fast, Maggie fell against the door like a rag doll and whapped her head against the window.
“Hang on!” he said curtly. “This is going to get rough.”
He floored it through the four-way intersection, red light and all. Cars screamed and squealed. More horns added to the cacophony and a crash of metal sounded the crescendo. Police sirens and shouting pedestrians. Screeching tires and the hoarse cry of her own protest. Maggie had arrived in hell and it was even louder than she’d expected.
“No, no, no!”
“Shut up!”
A road appeared to the right, narrow and snaking straight up into the hillside. Maggie grabbed the dash, already knowing what he would do. His left hand tightened on the wheel. He spared her one glance, and the stark despair in his eyes sliced through her bleakly.
His gaze returned to the road. At the last possible moment, when she was so sure he’d pass it by, he slammed on the brakes, cranked the wheel with one hand and mouthed a silent prayer. The half-ton truck slid, bucking to escape. His arm bulged, fighting for control. The moment suspended and man fought machine with no clear stakes for the winner.
Veins popped up on Cain’s forearm; a muscle jumped in his jaw. With a herculean effort he brutally forced the two-hundred-horsepower engine to his bidding. Wheels caught. The truck fired up the residential hillside of private, luxurious homes.
And behind them Maggie heard the sharp squeal of the police car following suit.
“Get over here,” he bit out tersely. “I need both hands on the wheel.”
Her hands shook so hard she could barely get them around the metal clasp of her seat belt. She’d just pressed down on the release button when the first blind corner of the narrow road appeared. He didn’t slow, he didn’t pause. He hit it hard, and Maggie screamed as she tumbled across the seat onto his lap.
The truck fishtailed on the way back out of the turn, almost on two wheels but still too heavy to give up so much ground. It bobbled, then straightened once more.
Maggie planted her hands on Cain’s rock-hard thighs and pushed herself back as fast as she could. Her hair was tangled across her face and she brushed it away, disoriented and terrified as her eyes found the road.
Another sharp corner loomed.
“Stop, stop! You’re going to kill us both!”
“Hang on.” His right hand landed on the steering wheel and around they went. This time she grabbed the wheel as well, needing support as she was buffeted across the cab. She could feel the tension of the vehicle, the battle of man against torque. And as they came around the corner she saw a black-trimmed white sign announcing, Caution: Children at Play.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Oh, God.”
Cain’s eyes glanced to the rearview mirror. The police car was still behind them, its powerful engine keeping pace. Blind drives and children-at-play signs. He hadn’t meant to pick a residential area. He did not want a residential area. Damn, damn, damn.
Another sharp turn appeared. Beside him, his dainty captive moaned with sheer, unadulterated terror. And all he could do was tighten his grip on the wheel.
The truck squealed. He no longer noticed the sound. His arms hurt with the strain of the past five minutes. He absently noted the pain. Mostly, his mind, his keen logical mind, raced frantically for a new plan, some way out. Tactics, tactics. He needed better tactics, for God’s sake.
“Look out!” Maggie screamed.
He returned his attention to the road in time to see two women appear, dressed in silk jogging suits and pushing baby carriages down the narrow, shoulderless road. Their mouths opened in shock. He could almost hear their screams.
He yanked on the wheel as he’d never yanked before. He would not kill children! He would not kill children!
The truck slid helplessly across the pavement, tires having lost traction, and now headed straight for the ditch.
“Grab the wheel!” he yelled at Maggie.
“The police car!” she screamed, releasing the wheel in horror.
He glanced at the rearview mirror at the last minute, seeing the police car appear like a rocket, spot the two women, who’d come to a frozen halt, and then swerve faster than a drunken hound dog.
“Maggie, help me!”
Belatedly she refastened her hands upon the wheel. He clenched his teeth. The sweat rolled down his cheeks and he fought with everything he had.
“Crank it the other way! Crank it into the fishtail!”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip, and she did her best to comply. He grunted and with a mighty groan finally wrenched the wheel around. The truck swiveled in the other direction immediately, losing momentum from the steep grade of the hillside and helping him regain control. Behind them came a mighty crunch, and they glanced in the rearview mirror simultaneously to see the police car plunge into the shallow ditch, right-side wheels still spinning, lights whirling with a dull whimper.
He got the truck in line and they shot ahead.
Maggie let go of the wheel as if she’d been scorched. When she looked at him at last, her blue eyes were saucer-wide in her face. “You crashed a police car!”
“I’m surely going to hell,” he agreed.
With the immediate threat gone, his foot relented on the gas. But his mind refused to stop. The truck was blown. Everyone knew about the truck. The police car had most certainly called for backup. How long did he have? One minute? Two minutes? Thirty seconds?
Cain, what are you going to do now?
He reached the top of the hill, the ground suddenly opening up to reveal broad, gently undulating fields. He could see long private drives winding to towering houses that boasted three stories of windows with fantastic views of snowcapped Mount Hood. He saw smaller homes clutched together like refugees, not as grand as the mansions but stealing the same impressive view.
Houses, houses, everywhere, but not a single side road.
“Where are we?” He glanced at her fiercely.
“How the hell would I know?” his terrified captive shot back. Then threw in mutinously, “You could’ve killed everyone!”
“But I didn’t.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying!”
He took his gaze off the road long enough to give her his most impressive frown. She glared right back at him, her face flushed furiously, her eyes sparkling like blue daggers. So much for the meek and humble act. This woman looked ready to chew him up and spit him back out as a dollop of Silly Putty.
The color was good for her cheeks, the fire good for her eyes. She was tougher than she looked; he respected that. But he didn’t have time for it given the circumstances.
“Find where we are,” he ordered curtly. “And get us the h
ell out of here before I’m forced to repeat that pleasure ride.”
“You—you—you reprobate!”
“Get the map, Maggie.”
She snatched it up with such force it crackled in the silence, then snapped it open for the finishing touch. He returned his attention to the road, fingers tapping out an impatient, restless beat.
“I don’t know where we are,” she muttered a minute later. “I think we’re lost.”
“Look harder.”
“I did,” she insisted, still in a fine display of temper. “This is a small road and the map doesn’t show minor roads. So there! Next time you decide to run from the cops, at least pick a road that’s on the map!”
“I’ll be sure to remember that.” He arched a single brow.
She glared back pugnaciously. “You are not a nice person!” she announced.
That fired up his second brow. “Surely you can do better than that for a comeback. Come on, try.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Unlike some people,” she said stiffly, “I do not go around regularly insulting others. I don’t believe violence or yelling is the answer to anything. People yell too much. It’s very destructive and doesn’t solve anything.”
“Of course.”
“I’m serious. Exchanging insults is childish and immature. True conflict resolution requires two people communicating as intelligent, rational adults, sensitively in tune with the feelings of the other party—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s try it,” she said abruptly, turning sideways in the cab and pinning him with eyes that were more than slightly desperate. “I’ll tell you how I feel and then you tell me how you feel, and once we understand each other you will feel secure enough to let me go.” She smiled at him brightly, but it strained the corners of her mouth.
“Have you been watching too many TV talk shows?”
That smile grew real strained. “No, I’m trying to tell you that I’m intimidated by you. I’m scared out of my mind but I understand your desperation. I’m sensitive enough to your fear of being caught that if you let me go, I won’t tell anyone.”
