True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(13)

“Based on what we know about Ludlow and French,” Cross said, “can we anticipate where they are headed?”

“Pioneer Square,” Seth said.

“What’s there that’s significant to them?”

“The Crime of Your Life bookstore,” Seth said. “They’re late for Ludlow’s signing.”





CHAPTER TWELVE

Ian and Margo ran out of an alley onto Cherry Street, stopping to catch their breath on the sidewalk directly across from the Crime of Your Life bookstore, which was on the ground floor of an old office building. A poster-size blowup of Ian’s book cover filled the window and a banner over the entrance read: IAN LUDLOW SIGNING TODAY!

“You can’t be serious,” Ian said. “This is the first place that they’ll look for me.”

“Follow my lead.” She looked both ways for traffic, crossed the steep street, and waited for him at the door to the bookstore.

Ian hesitated but decided he had no choice. He dashed across the street and she held the door open for him.

The tiny bookstore was jammed with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Even the checkout counter, where the store manager was stationed, was essentially a waist-high set of bookshelves. The store could barely hold the two dozen people, mostly middle-aged women, who stood in the three narrow aisles, clutching hardcover copies of The Dead Never Forget. He forced a smile and went inside.

The manager’s name was Dottie, presumably for her galaxy of freckles and her affection for polka-dotted dresses, and the instant she saw Ian coming in she loudly declared, “Ian Ludlow is in the building.”

And then Dottie led the customers in applause. Even Margo joined in.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ian said. “I’ve been on the run all morning.”

It was a line worthy of Clint Straker and Ian knew it. He couldn’t stop being a writer, always thinking of the next line in one of his thrillers. But he was living a thriller now and it was no thrill at all.



Pictures of Ian Ludlow, taken by customers in the store and being posted to Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest, began showing up on the media wall almost immediately after his arrival. It was the only view Cross had of what was going on inside the bookstore, though he had multiple camera angles on the exterior.

“Why did he go there?” Cross wondered aloud.

“Maybe he thinks there’s safety in a crowd,” Seth said.

“Or maybe he can’t pass up a chance to autograph his books,” Victoria said.

Neither explanation satisfied Cross. He frowned and folded his arms under his chest. What was Ian Ludlow thinking?

Ludlow was certainly carrying a heavy emotional and psychological burden. He believed the CIA was responsible for the crash of TransAmerican 976, killing hundreds and wounding even more, and he knew that it began as his idea. That had to scare him. There was also the terror of knowing he was being watched and relentlessly pursued by killers. In fact, only moments ago he’d barely escaped being run down by a remote-controlled car.

So how did Ludlow react? He ran to a bookstore to autograph some books. Not just any random bookstore, but the one he was scheduled to be at right now, where killers could already be waiting or could show up any minute. Cross didn’t have any killers in Seattle yet, but Ludlow didn’t know that.

What Ludlow did was insane. Had he cracked?

Or was he seeking solace for his anguish, or distraction from his fear, in the adulation of his fans while he figured out what to do next? That was the sort of superficial, ego-driven thing an insecure writer might do.

Or perhaps he’d simply realized the futility of running, that he couldn’t escape his fate. So Ludlow decided that he might as well enjoy the last moment of happiness he was likely to have in the short time he had left alive.

That explanation made some sense to Cross. It was a logical and rational reaction. And maybe if Ludlow had been alone in his flight, Cross could have accepted that as a working theory.

But there was still Margo French, the Rogue Element, to consider.

She’d saved Ludlow’s life and then run to the bookstore with him. He didn’t believe that she did it because she was worried about them being late to his signing.

No, there had to be something more there, too.

What was she thinking? More important, what had Ludlow told her?

Nothing about this felt right. Cross was certain that he was missing a crucial piece of information.

“Bring up every camera you can access on the entire block,” Cross said to his operatives. “Public or private, interior and exterior. Run it all through real-time facial recognition. If Ludlow and French show their faces, I want to see them.”



“Ian’s not feeling well,” Margo confided to Dottie while Ian posed for selfies with some of the attendees. “May he use the bathroom?”

“Of course. You know where it is.”

Margo moved away from the counter and took Ian gently by his good arm as she addressed the crowd. “Mr. Ludlow will be right back.”

She led him through the crowd to a door in the back of the store. The door led into a cramped storeroom full of books and cleaning supplies.

“What are we doing here?” Ludlow asked.

“Disappearing.”

“Everybody in the store knows we’re here.”