He rummaged through it, taking inventory of its contents.
Wallet, thick with credit cards and currency.
Compact. Lipstick. Eyeliner.
Appointment book.
Spiral-bound memo pad and pen.
Bottle of pills, nearly empty—birth-control, he assumed without reading the label.
Miscellaneous other items, none of significance.
He pocketed the cash, then shrugged the purse’s strap over his shoulder.
Leaving her apartment, he turned off the lights. It was something she would do.
He avoided the elevator, afraid of encountering one of the tenants, took the stairs instead. The suitcase felt heavier at each landing, heavier still as he lugged it outside.
The parking lot remained empty of people. He put the suitcase in the Ford’s backseat, then opened the trunk.
Erin was beginning to stir as the effects of the stun gun wore off. It was preferable to keep her unconscious as long as possible.
He took out the Ultron, pressed the switch. Lightning flickered between the two electrodes in a blue crackling arc, the noise too faint to be heard from the building.
He shoved the gun into her chest, held it there for a full five seconds.
She was twitching again as he withdrew the gun. Briefly he worried that with her mouth taped, she might choke on saliva.
Oh, nonsense. She would be fine.
He climbed behind the wheel, adjusted the driver’s seat to fit his longer frame, then started the car.
Out of the parking lot. Two blocks east on Broadway. Then onto a residential side street, an older subdivision of tract homes, ranch-style brick houses landscaped in cactus and yuccas.
The moon had set. Stars burned pinholes in the sky. A false dawn, the russet glow of the city’s ambient light, faintly brightened the horizon.
He slowed the Taurus and parked at the curb behind a gray Chevy van.
His van.
It was a 1988 Chevrolet Astro, a cargo model with bucket seats up front and no seating accommodations in back. He’d bought the vehicle used; the previous owner had logged nearly 100,000 miles on the odometer while putting dents in the fenders and side. The price had been reasonable.
The Astro had come equipped with an optional heavy-duty towing package that permitted it to haul up to six thousand pounds. That feature, which had made it possible for him to hitch a U-Haul trailer to the van not long ago, would now come in handy again.
Quickly he hooked the van’s towing bar to the Ford’s front end, stringing safety chains on either side. He keyed the Ford’s ignition to the “accessory” position, shifted the transmission into neutral, checked to confirm that the parking brake was released.
Somebody’s dog began to bark. The racket might draw attention to the street. Better hurry.
The Astro had both a sliding side panel and dual rear doors. He opened the latter and looked in on the windowless, uncarpeted cargo compartment, empty except for a small huddle of items draped by a tarpaulin. Under the tarp were two red canisters, a coil of rope, a mallet, and a pair of metal stakes.
The stakes were meant for putting up a badminton net, but he had found another use for them.
He opened the Ford’s trunk and transferred Erin to the rear of the van. Checked again to confirm that the rope and blindfold were knotted tight.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he muttered as he swung the doors shut, “Dr. Reilly.”
He slipped into the driver’s seat of the Astro, started the engine. A V-6, 150 horsepower. Noisy as hell.
The van rumbled like an unmuffled Harley as he steered it away into the night.
He drove for two and a half miles, heading east on Broadway, past the lighted islands of shopping plazas and the dark, rustling stretches of undeveloped land.
At Houghton Road he turned south. He was near the outer edges of town now. Rare horse ranches and isolated patches of tract housing were all he saw around him.
By the time he passed Escalante Road, more than two miles south of Broadway, even these proofs of habitation had largely vanished.
Wallet, thick with credit cards and currency.
Compact. Lipstick. Eyeliner.
Appointment book.
Spiral-bound memo pad and pen.
Bottle of pills, nearly empty—birth-control, he assumed without reading the label.
Miscellaneous other items, none of significance.
He pocketed the cash, then shrugged the purse’s strap over his shoulder.
Leaving her apartment, he turned off the lights. It was something she would do.
He avoided the elevator, afraid of encountering one of the tenants, took the stairs instead. The suitcase felt heavier at each landing, heavier still as he lugged it outside.
The parking lot remained empty of people. He put the suitcase in the Ford’s backseat, then opened the trunk.
Erin was beginning to stir as the effects of the stun gun wore off. It was preferable to keep her unconscious as long as possible.
He took out the Ultron, pressed the switch. Lightning flickered between the two electrodes in a blue crackling arc, the noise too faint to be heard from the building.
He shoved the gun into her chest, held it there for a full five seconds.
She was twitching again as he withdrew the gun. Briefly he worried that with her mouth taped, she might choke on saliva.
Oh, nonsense. She would be fine.
He climbed behind the wheel, adjusted the driver’s seat to fit his longer frame, then started the car.
Out of the parking lot. Two blocks east on Broadway. Then onto a residential side street, an older subdivision of tract homes, ranch-style brick houses landscaped in cactus and yuccas.
The moon had set. Stars burned pinholes in the sky. A false dawn, the russet glow of the city’s ambient light, faintly brightened the horizon.
He slowed the Taurus and parked at the curb behind a gray Chevy van.
His van.
It was a 1988 Chevrolet Astro, a cargo model with bucket seats up front and no seating accommodations in back. He’d bought the vehicle used; the previous owner had logged nearly 100,000 miles on the odometer while putting dents in the fenders and side. The price had been reasonable.
The Astro had come equipped with an optional heavy-duty towing package that permitted it to haul up to six thousand pounds. That feature, which had made it possible for him to hitch a U-Haul trailer to the van not long ago, would now come in handy again.
Quickly he hooked the van’s towing bar to the Ford’s front end, stringing safety chains on either side. He keyed the Ford’s ignition to the “accessory” position, shifted the transmission into neutral, checked to confirm that the parking brake was released.
Somebody’s dog began to bark. The racket might draw attention to the street. Better hurry.
The Astro had both a sliding side panel and dual rear doors. He opened the latter and looked in on the windowless, uncarpeted cargo compartment, empty except for a small huddle of items draped by a tarpaulin. Under the tarp were two red canisters, a coil of rope, a mallet, and a pair of metal stakes.
The stakes were meant for putting up a badminton net, but he had found another use for them.
He opened the Ford’s trunk and transferred Erin to the rear of the van. Checked again to confirm that the rope and blindfold were knotted tight.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he muttered as he swung the doors shut, “Dr. Reilly.”
He slipped into the driver’s seat of the Astro, started the engine. A V-6, 150 horsepower. Noisy as hell.
The van rumbled like an unmuffled Harley as he steered it away into the night.
He drove for two and a half miles, heading east on Broadway, past the lighted islands of shopping plazas and the dark, rustling stretches of undeveloped land.
At Houghton Road he turned south. He was near the outer edges of town now. Rare horse ranches and isolated patches of tract housing were all he saw around him.
By the time he passed Escalante Road, more than two miles south of Broadway, even these proofs of habitation had largely vanished.
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