The Lonely Mile(32)
For a moment, Martin had the strangest sense of déjà vu. Carli’s father had stood facing him just days before in virtually the same position at virtually the same distance, just before everything had gone to hell. He felt a palpable sense of victory. He wished that no-good busybody Bill Ferguson were here so he could see this moment, but took solace in the knowledge that the testimony of an entire bus full of witnesses would ensure the wannabe hero learned every detail of how his daughter’s disappearance had gone down.
A wide smile creased Martin’s features, and a look of alarm filled Carli’s eyes. This was not what she had been expecting. “I’m not going to hurt you, baby,” he whispered, and reached over with his free hand to pull the lever which would open the bus’s door. He looked down the aisle of the bus for one last time and said, loudly, “Don’t anybody move for at least ten minutes, or I’ll come back in here and kill every last one of you.”
Utter funereal silence greeted this pronouncement, and Martin decided the baby sheep would stay in their seats at least as long as he needed them to, which was only a few seconds anyway. He used the pistol to nudge his angel down the steps and then followed her out the door of the bus into the intense May heat, slipping the gun into his pocket as he did. A couple of people glanced suspiciously at the bus but obviously did not see the gun as they made no move to run or scream or do anything other than take a quick peek and then retreat back into the comfort of their own lives inside their insulated cocoons.
Parked directly in front of the bus, two car-lengths away, was a maroon Toyota, nearly brand new, clean and shiny. Martin had jacked it specifically to impress Carli. It was slightly more conspicuous—newer and more expensive—than the type of car he would normally steal, but it was still fairly unassuming, so it was nearly invisible. Besides, it seemed appropriate to let his angel know how much she meant to him. The car had been sitting in the lot for a couple of hours now, but, with a set of stolen license plates on it, Martin had known it would still be here when he needed it, and here it was.
He fumbled for the key fob in his pocket, finally locating it and flipping the automatic locks. “Get in the driver’s door and then slide over to the passenger side,” he muttered under his breath to Carli, who complied without argument.
“Just don’t hurt anyone,” she said again as if Martin were some sort of monster, an implication that cut him to the quick. He choked down the anger that rose like bile in his throat, resolving to show his little angel how deeply he cared and how hurtful it was that she didn’t trust him or understand his motives.
The instant she had begun sliding over the center console, Martin climbed in behind her, pulling the gun out of his pocket and training it squarely on her back. He didn’t think she would try to burst out the other side of the car and run, but he wasn’t completely convinced. He needn’t have worried. His angel settled into the passenger’s seat and stared resolutely out the side window as if silently imploring someone, anyone, to come along and save her. Fat chance. Martin had gone to a lot of trouble and taken more than a few chances to maneuver Carli Ferguson to his side where she belonged; he wasn’t about to let her slip away now. He used the button on his side to lock all doors.
The Toyota started up on the first try and rolled smoothly forward. In seconds, Martin and his precious cargo had reached the parking lot’s exit. He flicked his left turn signal, waited for an opening in the passing traffic, and then accelerated onto Main Street. In the rearview mirror he checked on the school bus, a big, yellow, beached whale alone in the parking lot, its red hazard lights flashing an automatic warning with the door hanging open.
The bus steadily shrank in size as Martin sped away, until it disappeared from view. The maroon Toyota passed the high school on the right and continued out of town, moving toward the interstate and anonymity. In five minutes, Martin and his reluctant passenger had left Stockton behind.
CHAPTER 29
BILL WANDERED THE AISLES of his Stockton store, ostensibly looking for customers to assist, but in reality pondering the significance of the awful dreams that continued to interfere with his attempts to get a decent night’s sleep. When his cell phone rang and he recognized the number as Agent Canfield’s, he knew immediately something was wrong.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Bill? It’s Angie—Agent Canfield.”
“Angie. What’s going on?”
“It’s about Carli. Something’s happened, and you need to get to her mother’s home as soon as possible, she—”
“What happened? Is she hurt?”
“As far as we know, she’s okay, Bill. Just get to Sandra’s home and we’ll go over everything we know.”
An icy dread settled in Bill Ferguson’s gut as he raced past the registers at the front door, slowing only marginally to let his assistant manager know he was leaving, then leaping down the stairs and sprinting to his van. He flipped on his emergency flashers and broke every rule of safe driving, taking ten minutes to make the twenty-minute drive to Sandra’s home, screeching to a halt behind an impossibly long line of emergency vehicles, all of which seemed to have been abandoned in front of the Mitchell home in a more or less random pattern. One was parked with its entire left side on the front lawn. His heart in his throat, Bill pulled into a space on the lawn, leapt out of his van, and sprinted to the house, entering through the front door without knocking.