The Wife Who Knew Too Much(91)

I got to my feet, listening intently. The sounds were those native to the woods—trees creaking, leaves rustling in the wind, the warble of birds. Kovacs and Juliet must have discovered by now that I was gone. I had to assume that they’d set out after me and were gaining on me. I took a deep breath, gathering my strength. The air smelled of pine and wet leaves. And then I saw it—straight ahead, a slash of blue paint on the bark of a tree. A blaze. I’d found the trail at last.

For the next hour, I managed the steep descent down the side of Baldwin Mountain. Recent rain had left the exposed trail slippery and muddy, with patches of snow glittering in the hollows. I skidded and fell more than once, then struggled to my feet and went on. Drained and panting, I thought the ordeal would never end. But then I spotted the trailhead, and my spirits lifted. I came to the edge of the woods. The parking lot was ahead just through these last trees, the road on the other side of it. The sun broke through and glinted off something. Something metallic. Shit. A car, waiting there. I stopped short and pulled behind the trunk of a tree. A black car.

The Suburban.

Kovacs stood beside it, a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes. As I watched, he swept the woods, then stopped.

He’d seen me.

I backtracked, breaking into a run, bushwhacking parallel to the road in the hope that I could find another route out. The thick brush slowed me down. I could hear him behind me. To my left, a car sped by. The road was right there. I turned downhill, running, and began to skid, falling, making the last few yards on my butt. The pavement was straight ahead. I jumped up and stumbled out into the road, gasping for breath.

It was a quiet, two-lane road. I knew it well. And no surprise in the late morning, it was empty of traffic.

I broke into a run. I knew exactly where I was. About a mile from here was the ski resort. Early November—it wouldn’t be open yet. Still, there might be someone there, someone who could help. There might be a phone. I hoped to God there was, because the police station was at least five miles in the opposite direction.

I panted, running full out, my feet in their plastic wrap exploding with pain. I looked over my shoulder. Nobody there. Where had he gone? Was Juliet with him? A minute later, I checked again, and had my answer. The Suburban was barreling toward me. At the same moment, a truck rounded the bend, coming from the other direction. I ran into the road, waving my arms frantically. The driver slammed on the brakes.

A youngish guy with a baseball cap rolled down the window.

“Are you crazy? I could’ve killed you.”

“Help! I’m a waitress at the Baldwin Grill. That guy in the Suburban kidnapped me, and I escaped. He’s after me.”

He looked through the windshield. The Suburban slowed down as it approached. Kovacs was watching us. The driver took a second to weigh what to do. A crazy woman wearing a plastic bag—you don’t just let her in your truck.

“Please. I’m begging you.”

The terror in my voice was unmistakable.

“Get in,” he said.

I ran around and jumped up into the truck, and he floored it.

“I’ll take you to the police station.”

“Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Shit,” he said, eyes on the rearview mirror. “He’s turning around. He’s gonna follow us. Here. Call nine-one-one.”

He tossed me his phone. I dialed the cops, telling them where we were, what was happening, describing the truck and the Suburban. The dispatcher said she’d send a patrol car right away.

The truck sped along the windy road, fishtailing around curves, the Suburban close behind. With several miles still to go to the police station, we heard a loud metallic clang.

“That asswipe dinged my truck,” the driver said. “You want to shoot back, I got a gun in the rack. Can’t do it while I’m driving.”

Just then, we heard the sirens. Suddenly the road was full of police vehicles. The driver skidded off the road, onto the narrow shoulder.

“Get down,” he said.

I threw myself to the floor, hunkering into the footwell. Outside the truck, shots rang out. I covered my ears with my hands, cowering.

The shots died down, and the driver raised his head. He was pulling himself up onto the seat when a second round of shots broke the silence. The windshield exploded, raining chunks of blue-green glass over us. I ducked, arms over my head. The next time I looked up, the driver’s face was covered in blood.

“Oh, my God. Are you hit?”

“I didn’t feel anything.”

He put his hand to his head. It came away bloody. “Shit. It must be a graze.”

“I am so sorry to put you through this.”

“I been shot at before. Deployed a couple times. Don’t expect it around here, though.”

After that, we stayed on the floor for what felt like forever. Silence reigned. We waited.

“Are they all dead?” I whispered.

In the distance, more sirens shrieked, moving closer by the second. We heard cars pulling up, doors slamming, voices shouting. We stayed down. They were going car to car. From the radios, we could tell it was cops.

“Stay down till they tell us, or they might shoot,” the driver said.

I nodded.

“I’m Tabitha, by the way.”

“Alex.”

“Thank you for saving me, Alex. I owe you big-time.”