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  “Kitchen opens at five o’clock,” he called after me.

  I rushed out through the dining room, knowing that the cop who had shot at me was probably only a minute away, probably followed by several others. Surely the two who had been in the spill pipe behind me had to be up here by now as well.

  I figured my one reasonable chance was to somehow get out of town, then call Carrie and hope she could pick me up somewhere. Or, at this point, hand myself over to her brother, which all of a sudden seemed like a far better option than ending up in a local jail.

  But even that seemed a million-to-one now.

  I ran into the main lobby and looked out the sliding front doors, and saw the cop who had shot at me running up the driveway, his gun drawn.

  Oh no, no . . .

  I looked down the hallway and heard the two cops who’d been behind me in the drain coming up the outside stairs.

  It’s over, Henry.

  I was cornered. I thought about putting my hands in the air and ending it all right here. I was so damn beat from all this running . . . I felt like a prisoner who’d been forced to hold his arms up, over his head, for hours, and if he let them drop he’d be killed, and all he wanted to do was let them down, just for a second, to feel what life was like, regardless of the cost or the outcome, whatever fate was in store.

  I looked at the guy behind the desk, tears welling in my eyes, and was about to simply say, It’s me! It’s me they’re here for! And raise my arms.

  Then I realized that I couldn’t do that. No matter how much my arms hurt. No matter how long this had to go on.

  Because the outcome wasn’t about me, but about Hallie.

  The cost of dropping them was my daughter’s life.

  I turned to the guy behind the counter. I said, “Something’s going on! There are police all over here. I heard shots. I think the guy they’re after is that doctor from Jacksonville. I think I just saw him run upstairs.”

  The guy looked alarmed and then craned his head to look out the front door, at the policeman coming up the driveway. I went over to the staircase, pretending to head after the culprit, and while the desk clerk’s attention was focused on the cop, I ducked down a hallway around the back and found a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Which, thankfully, was open! I slipped through it and found myself in a janitorial staging area, with buckets and mops, shelves stocked with cleaners, and another door that seemed to lead outside to a delivery staging area.

  A driverless white van marked CAROLINA PIE COMPANY was pulled up there, clearly delivering that night’s desserts. As I passed by I looked in for the keys.

  And then I saw it.

  A black delivery guy in a gray work uniform was saying to a hotel employee in the delivery bay, “So this is all, then? Guess I’ll see you Monday, sugar.” He had a large laundry bin with him, stuffed to the brim with white sheets and linens.

  And just outside there was a delivery truck, R&K INDUSTRIAL LAUNDRY, CHARLOTTE, with its cargo door open and a metal ramp leading into the bay. While the driver had the female hotel staffer signing for his pickup, I slipped outside and looked into the truck, its cargo bay filled with identical large laundry bins.

  Jesus, Henry, you’ve got to do this now.

  I heard a commotion back inside the hotel—people shouting—and I realized that at any second the town’s entire police force was going to converge right where I was standing.

  I hoisted myself up, crept to the back of the truck, pulled up some dirty sheets from one of the bins, and jumped in, covering myself up.

  Now, if the driver could just get on with it and get the hell out of here!

  It took a few agonizing seconds, seconds that seemed to stretch into minutes as I lay curled up in the bin, until I heard the grating metal sound of the loading ramp being yanked up and the heavy cargo door slamming shut.

  The bay went dark and silent, and all I could do was pray for the driver to get moving!

  It seemed like an eternity, and then I finally heard the cab door close and the truck’s engine start up. Yes! The cargo bin rattled.

  Let’s go! Get the hell out of here, I begged from inside the bin.

  Then the truck lurched forward.

  I was sure that at any second I would hear someone order him to stop and the truck brake to a halt.

  But I didn’t. We just went on. The truck stopped for a second at what I took to be the main street and slowly made a left turn.

  My God, Henry, you’re going to get away!

  I allowed myself a yelp of joy inside the bin as it chugged into third gear and steadily picked up speed, my mind flying back to the motel, which must now be flooded with cops, closing it off from all directions, the three who were first on the scene calling to their partners from the second floor. “Up here! Up here!”

  I’d made it!

  Chapter Sixty

  I bounced along for what seemed like an eternity, alternately exhilarated at my escape and petrified that at any second I’d be surrounded by police cars with blaring sirens and the truck would come to a stop.

  Joyfully, after about twenty minutes of advancing along slowly and around turns, we went into fourth gear and it felt as if we had now gotten onto a highway.

  Probably I-77. Heading back to Charlotte.

  I did my best to come up with some plan for what to do. First, I had to get out of the area; then I had to wait for Hofer to get in touch with me. This meant getting myself on a bus headed south, or if I was lucky, doing what I’d done before—finding a car.

  Or getting back in touch with Carrie. She would surely bring the evidence we’d uncovered to the FBI and the police.

  But first, I had to call Liz. She was Hallie’s mother. She had to know what was going on.

  I took my own cell phone—I needed to make sure she would take the call. I was pretty sure the driver wouldn’t hear me over the engine noise. It rang a couple of times. It was 4 P.M. and I never knew Liz to leave the office much before six. I knew she’d recognize the number.

  Hopefully, it wasn’t being monitored by the police!

  At last she picked up. “Henry . . . ?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Liz. Liz, listen, I know who’s got her!”

  I told her what I’d discovered. About Hofer. And why he was doing these things to me.

  His daughter.

  The Oxy.

  “I spoke with her, Liz. Or at least I saw her.” I didn’t tell her about the details of the photo. About the ticking clock that was over her head. “She’s alive. Probably scared out of her mind, of course. But she’s alive.”

  There was an immediate lift in Liz’s voice. “Now we can go to the police!”

  “No. We can’t. Everything’s still the same. I had another run-in with the police. In North Carolina. I was on the line with him and then the cops showed up. It was a million-to-one shot that I got away. You’re probably going to hear about it on the news . . .”

  “What’s that rumble I hear? It sounds like you’re in a train station.”

  “No, I’m not on a train. I’m . . .” I decided not to explain that either. “We still don’t know where he is, but I do know he’s going to find a way to bring me to him. If we get the police involved now, even in the strictest of confidence, because of how crazy everything is with me, it might blow everything. They may release his name . . . They may still even use it as a wedge to get to me. Anyway, listen, we’ve already made contact with the FBI—”

  “We. Who’s we, Henry?”

  “This woman from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Who’s looked into my case.”

  “A detective?”

  “No. Not exactly a detective, Liz . . .” How could I tell her? That Carrie was from the Community Outreach department. It would make me look like a fool! “Liz, you have to trust me. We’re getting close. I don’t want to blow everything now. I just don’t know how much time we have . . .”

  “Henry, I’ve done nothing for three days! I’m going out of my mind! Now you kno
w who it is. How much longer can you expect me to sit back . . . ?”

  “Liz, I’m dying too. I could clear my name in an hour now if I could turn myself in. But I can’t . . . I know you have no reason to trust me right now, or to believe me, other than you know that I want Hallie back as much as you. Maybe more! This all happened because of me, Liz. We have to find out where he’s got her. Give me one more day.”

  “Oh God, Henry, you can’t be serious, to keep doing nothing. It’s our daughter . . .”

  “I am serious. I’m deadly serious. But until I know where Hofer wants me to go, where he’s taken her, we have to keep doing this.”

  She didn’t say anything. I just heard her weeping. My tough-as-nails wife, whom I never saw as much as shed a tear.

  “Just bear with me another day, Liz. A day to figure out where he is and what he wants from me. Can you do that, baby? I know what I’m asking you. Is that okay?”

  Just then the truck veered to the right and slowed its speed. We were exiting the highway. We were probably nearing its base. In Charlotte.

  “Liz, I have to go now. I don’t know when I’ll be able to call you. But I will. As soon as I can. Soon as I know something.”

  “Henry, you can’t just run out on me like this—”

  “Liz, I have to go . . .” We came to a stop. The truck made a right. And then proceeded, as if along an access road. I knew I didn’t have much time. And now the driver might easily hear me. I lowered my voice. “Liz, I’m sorry, but I have to run. I’m gonna find her, Liz. I give you my word. Can you trust me on this?”

  She sniffled and drew in a breath. The truck went down a short straightaway, never getting out of second gear. I knew we were close. It might be reaching its destination at any second.

  Liz said, “Yes. Yes, Henry I trust you. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, but . . . Get her back for me, Henry. You get this bastard!”

  “I will, Liz. I will. You take care.”

  I pressed off the line. I felt the truck slow and make another right turn. The driver bounced over a speed bump and seemed to pull into a driveway.

  Then the truck came to a stop.

  My heart was beating with dread. I knew I was in Charlotte.

  And there were two possibilities:

  Either I’d have to find a way to get back south, where I assumed my daughter was being held captive . . .

  Or ten cops would be waiting for me with guns drawn as the cargo bay opened.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The truck’s door rattled open. I peeked out from under the sheet in the back of the cargo bay. Bright light flashed into my eyes.

  All I heard was the grating sound of the loading ramp being pulled down to the ground. And the driver calling out to someone, obviously a ways away, “Hey, John. Givens still around? Dude owes me thirty bucks . . .”

  “Yeah, man, he’s still here. In the spin room. You need help unloading?”

  “Thanks. Give me a minute. Need to take a leak.”

  My blood sped into overdrive. I had to get off the truck before the driver came back. I had no idea where I was.

  I climbed out of the bin and crawled up to the front of the cargo bay and looked around. I didn’t see anyone. I steadied a hand on the ramp and jumped down. There were a bunch of similar trucks in the lot and an open slot to a loading bay. I headed off at a steady pace toward the open gate and didn’t look back. I didn’t hear anyone call. I just walked right through. Like a man leaving prison behind. All the while my heart was thumping.

  I took a look around. I was in an industrial neighborhood. Warehouses and light manufacturing businesses. Queen City Restaurant Supplies. J. Crawford and Sons Glass. One thing I did know. We weren’t more than a half mile from the highway.

  I picked up my pace, hoping no one called me from behind. Hey, you! You there. What are you doing?

  I let out a loud sigh of relief when I was sure I was free.

  I had about sixty bucks left. And no jacket. I had flung that into the river. It was March, and it still got chilly at night. And no more iPad. That was back in Carrie’s car. No good to me now.

  I could make my way to a bus station and try to hop a bus. But the police might be watching and that would mean putting myself on the street for a while.

  I spotted an Exxon station a couple of blocks away. And a sign for I-77, heading south. I saw an overpass and figured that was the highway straight ahead.

  I hurried over to the station, figuring I’d use the restroom and find something to eat. That maybe I’d just put my thumb out on the entrance ramp and try my luck.

  When I got to the gas station, three cars were filling up. I went into the men’s room and splashed cold water over my face, still reeling from the harrowing escape I’d made, and still surprised to see my newly cropped hair and glasses.

  In the mart, I grabbed a hot dog and a coffee. I got on the cashier’s line.

  There were two TV screens above the counter. One was a black-and-white security camera that showed who was coming in and out. I turned my face away. The other had on one of those courtroom reality shows. Judge Roy Brown. As I got to the front and dug in my pocket to pay, a breaking news flash interrupted the programming. A local announcer came on: “This just in . . . Dr. Henry Steadman, wanted in the shooting deaths of a Jacksonville Florida police officer and a local lawyer, was said to be spotted today right here in North Carolina, in the tiny town of Mount Holly, thirty miles east of Charlotte. News Four has received word that a chase did ensue with the police, and that shots were fired. There is no word of whether Steadman is in police custody. And there is said to be a female accomplice apprehended there as well. That’s all we have for you right now. More on this as it comes in . . .”

  I saw my picture flash on the screen. The way I looked a week ago—longish hair, dark glasses, a broad smile. Carrie, apprehended? My heart sank. Though I knew they would only want her as a way to get to me.

  I threw out a couple of bills for my food and nodded agreeably when the heavyset guy behind the counter shook his head. “Unbelievable, huh?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Better hope he doesn’t come in here, if he knows what’s good for him . . .”

  I had to get out of there, and fast. Not just out of the city, out of the state. It was only a matter of time before the police put everything together. How I’d gotten away. For all I knew, they were searching the whole area already.

  I headed back outside and ate my frank around the pumps, watching the cars pull in and sipping my coffee.

  Of course, standard procedure on 99 percent of people pulling into a filling station was to take their car keys if they left the car to go inside. But now and then someone left them in the ignition. I’d surely done this from time to time myself.

  And that’s what I looked for. I mean, I was smack in the heart of the Deep South, right? Everyone was trusting here . . .

  The next two or three drivers just filled up their tanks and didn’t stray far from their vehicles. A middle-aged woman in a Honda drove in, parked, and went inside the mart, but took her keys with her.

  This could be futile.

  But then a heavyset black guy in long denim shorts and an oversize Hornets jersey drove up in a gray Buick. I watched him start to fill up his tank, the keys still in the ignition, then, almost as if it was an afterthought, take a run into the station. Maybe to pay. Maybe to buy a Ring Ding or something. Or use the john.

  I tossed my coffee in the garbage and meandered over to his car. I saw the keys still in the ignition. I felt like a creep, loitering around, but I had no choice. Hallie’s fate necessitated it. I glanced inside but couldn’t see the guy. Maybe he’d gone to the john.

  I didn’t care.

  I disconnected the pump and hopped inside his car. No one seemed to notice.

  Heart racing, I hit the ignition and pulled out of the station. If anyone had seen me, no one ran after me. No one shouted.

  I hit the li
ght as it was just turning yellow and made a sharp right, following the sign to I-77.

  I shot on the ramp for the highway, heading south, whooping with relief and exultation.

  In twenty minutes I’d be in South Carolina.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Carrie was held in the chief’s office at the local police station in Mount Holly, looking at pictures of Chief McDaniels fishing and with his grandkids, until they squared her story with the Jacksonville police.

  Hours.

  Around six, she heard some discussion going on outside. The door opened, and her brother, Jack, stepped in.

  He was the last person she wanted to see. “Before you even go there, Jack . . .” Carrie stood up.

  He had one of those reproving-older-brother looks on him, like when she’d drunk a few too many beers back in high school (he was always the straight one) or when she left their bathroom looking like a shit storm had passed through it. Except this time it had kind of melded with one of those serious, more official looks Jack had learned at the FBI.

  He sank into the chair across from her. “What the hell were you doing, Carrie?”

  “He didn’t do it, Jack. No one back in Jacksonville wanted to hear me. You can check with this guy Bud at the gun store in town; where Steadman supposedly bought that gun. He never did. Vance Hofer bought it. Here . . .” She handed him a piece of paper she’d taken from her bag, Henry’s daily schedule for March 2, which he had e-mailed her. “If anyone had done their homework, they’d have known that Steadman was in Jacksonville operating that day . . .”

  Jack looked it over, scratching his bushy hair and squinting his intelligent brown eyes.

  “It’s all pretty clear, Jack. In fact, Hofer just called him earlier today. I have photos of his car in the vicinity of both murder sites. We traced the plate on the car to one of his work buddies. He knew Martinez from that incident you described, and he also knew when Steadman would be in town, and had Martinez stop Steadman and come up with this song and dance about him talking back, maybe just to razz him at first, and then he killed him. He also killed Steadman’s friend. He admitted as much to Steadman. And apparently there are others as well . . .”