He floored the gas pedal. She stared through the windshield at the heavy traffic, horrified, as he switched lanes and cut off the car behind them. Brakes squealed as he swung across an oncoming lane to reach the north 405 exit ramp.
“You’re going to kill somebody!”
“I’ve got to make the exit.”
A blue Lincoln swerved into the guardrail to miss them. Mallory had a death grip on the dash. “We’re going to crash!”
“They’re on our tail.”
They? She couldn’t tear her eyes from the brown Bronco that bore down on them. Its steel bumper and winch seemed as formidable as a tank. More brakes squealed. The Bronco skidded sideways and brought the exiting lane of traffic behind it to a quick halt, causing a chain reaction of fender benders. The Volvo careened onto the access road that merged with 405.
Once on the freeway, Mac Phearson darted the car in and out of lanes, driving far faster than was safe, to put several miles between them and Bellevue. “I’ve only gained us a couple of minutes’ head start. They probably doubled back to the exit to follow us. We’ve got to switch over to southbound.”
“Across the divider?”
He flashed his blinker and forced his way over to the middle lane. “It’s not a divider once we get down past the bridge, just a sloping ditch. Cops cut across there all the time.”
Mallory, unable to believe any of this was happening, saw the overhead bridge coming up fast. She didn’t see how Mac Phearson could get over through all this traffic. They zoomed under the bridge and had to travel several more miles before he could manage to squeeze over.
She threw an arm up to shield her face when he finally gained the inside lane. The next second, she felt their tires lose traction on the gravel shoulder. The car bottomed out, bounced and was airborne. They landed with an ear-shattering clunk that jolted her so hard she bit her tongue. Pain exploded through the roof of her mouth. She clung desperately to the dash as the underbody of the Volvo grated its way up the incline to the southbound lanes.
When she felt smooth highway caressing the tires again, she noticed that the glove box had popped open. She reached to close it and froze. A manila envelope in the glove box had come open and spilled an array of glossy plastic squares. Washington drivers’ licenses and ID cards, several of them, all with Mac Phearson’s snapshot and other names. Aliases? She shut the glove box. She was in big trouble. This man didn’t work for Christiani and Finn. He was either an undercover man or a crook, and right now, the latter seemed most likely. As yet, she hadn’t seen anyone following them. And if no one was following them, everything he had told her was a lie.
Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I don’t see them coming yet,” he said, “but even so, it’d be a good idea to get off this freeway. We’ll be sitting ducks out here.”
Visualizing a lonely dirt road and a gun pressed to her temple, all she could think of was getting out of the car while there were still people around. Sudden inspiration hit her. “Pull over. I’m going to be sick. Oh, hurry. Pull over now.”
She clamped a hand to her mouth, gagged and bugged her eyes at him. He swerved into the parking lane and brought the car skidding to a stop. Throwing open the door, Mallory snatched up her purse and made her escape.
“Here they come!” he yelled just as she gained her feet.
Grabbing her arm, he spun her around and jerked her back into the car. She sprawled facedown on the seat as the car lurched forward again. She crooked an arm around his thigh to hold on, too shocked to scream. The door swung inward scraping her calves. When the car swerved back into traffic, all that kept her from spilling out was his hold on her.
“Get in!”
She didn’t need to be told twice. With nothing but open air between her and the blur of road, sixty seemed much faster than usual. Scrambling for purchase, she clawed her way in.
“Shut the door.” He held her wrist in a steely grip. “I’ll hold you.”
As she leaned out to reach for the door handle, she could only pray Mac Phearson didn’t let go of her. Wind blasted her face and whipped her hair flat against her head. Her fingertips curled on the chrome. Just one more inch. She angled her body farther forward.
With the wind pushing against it, the door slammed shut so easily when she pulled that she was propelled backward against him. She felt his muscles tense under his jacket sleeve as he fought for control of the car.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay.”
“Get that seat belt back on.”
She sat up and rammed the buckle together. “Where are they? You crazy idiot, you nearly got me killed.”
“They’re coming up on our left.”
There wasn’t any highway on their left, only a dividing strip. She looked back, not expecting to see anyone. Her heart skipped a beat. Sure enough, there came a cream-colored car, bouncing and swerving inside the ditch, gaining on them at an alarming rate. A man poked his head out the rear window. He held something black in his hands. She couldn’t be seeing what she thought she was seeing. “They’ve got a gun!”
In grim silence, Mac Phearson inched up behind an old woman in an equally ancient Ford car.
“Step on it! Didn’t you hear me? They’ve got a gun!”
“I can’t step on it! We’re bumper-to-bumper!”
“Then hit the ditch! You did it before. They’re gaining.”
“It’s too dangerous. I took it at an angle last time. Now I’d have to sidehill. We’d roll.”
The cream-colored car was within five car lengths. A rapid splat of bullets riddled the back of their car.
Mac Phearson checked his side mirror. “Hold on.”
Swerving to the left, he entered the emergency parking lane and floored the gas pedal. Twisting within the confines of her safety belt, she peered out the rear window. “They’re shooting at us! They’re actually shooting at us.”
His only response was a scowl. Mallory saw the pursuing car hit a chuckhole, do a nosedive and send up a spray of dirt. Their car gained several car lengths. Mac Phearson jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and smacked a green Honda vehicle broadside. The terrified driver slammed on his brakes, his tires grabbing pavement and spitting blue-black smoke. Mac Phearson took advantage of the open space and managed to move over two lanes. He swiped at his forehead with his sleeve and blinked trickles of sweat from his eyes. He looked as terrified as Mallory felt. “They’re trying to follow us over.”
Hardly able to believe her own ears, Mallory heard herself say, “I—I could switch places and drive so you could shoot back.”
“That’s an Uzi, lady, not a popgun.”
“Wh-what’s an Uzi?”
“It puts out about a thousand rounds a minute, that’s what.”
A thousand rounds a minute? Turning, she saw a flash of cream-colored paint in the whizzing traffic. “Who are they? Why are they doing this?”
“Lucetti’s thugs is my guess. They haven’t gotten close enough for me to get a make on any of them and I’d like to keep it that way.” He punctuated that statement with a screech of tires. “Scoot down.”
Mallory inched down just far enough to hide, but not so far she couldn’t see as he took the exit. The Volvo rocked on two wheels around a corner. She saw a red light coming up fast and braced herself. She knew without asking that they were going to run it. As they hit the intersection, she opted for oblivion and closed her eyes. When nothing happened, she lifted her lashes.
He darted a glance her way. “What happened to your cheek?”
She touched her cheekbone and winced, remembering how she’d hit the edge of the seat. “Just a little bump. I’m fine.” Sliding up in the seat, she glanced through the back window. The cream-colored car was blocked in traffic. “Can we lose them?”
“We’ve got the advantage.”
“We do?”
His mouth quirked slightly at one corner. “It’s called motivation.”
“I see yo
ur point.”
He turned left into a residential area and drove aimlessly for several minutes. Mallory couldn’t take her eyes off the rear window even though she soon became convinced there was no longer a car following them. He reduced his speed to twenty-five.
“I think we’ve lost them,” he told her.
She sighed and swept her tangled mass of whiskey-colored hair back from her face. At the end of a cul-de-sac, he parked behind a center island of tall shrubs that would hide them from passersby on the intersecting street. To Mallory’s right was a brown house with a lazy cocker spaniel sunning on the lawn. She wished they could go inside, lock all the doors and hide. “Why are we stopping? Is that wise? If my daughter’s in danger, I want to go get her.”
“We have to stay out of sight for a while. Besides, I need to get my stomach back down where it belongs.” He leaned his head back against the rest and closed his eyes. His hands remained clenched on the steering wheel. “As for wise? If I were wise, lady, I wouldn’t be here.”
Now that she knew he was telling the truth about Keith’s message, Mallory was plagued with more questions. “Why, exactly, are you here then?”
“Keith’s a good friend. He asked, I’m here.”
Bitterness laced the words. After several uncomfortably quiet minutes had dragged by, he released the catch on his seat belt and rose to his knees beside her. She turned to watch him sift through piles of assorted junk in the back of the car. She’d never seen such a collection. Boxes, baseball bats, rumpled clothes, a battered suitcase and various fast-food cartons. After a search that led him clear to the bottom of the pile, he lifted a white plastic case and a spray container.
“What’s that?”
“First aid. For your scrapes.” He gestured to her legs.
She hadn’t even noticed. “I’m fine. Please, can’t we go get my daughter now?”
“I told you, we have to give them time to get off the scent. Might as well take advantage of it.” He crooked his right leg under himself and sat down, motioning her to turn sideways as he gave the can a shake. “Hand me a foot.”
Catching hold of her skirt to cinch it tight, she lifted her legs and swiveled on her bottom to put her feet on the seat. Her eyes widened when she saw she was minus a shoe. It must have fallen off when she was dangling from the car.
“No great loss. High heels spell nothing but trouble anyway. I’ll get you something practical. No fashion shows where we’re going.” He ripped a larger hole in her nylon and doused the back of her leg with cold spray. “Your ankle is pretty bruised.”
He made it sound as if he thought fashion was the be-all of her existence. Mallory shot him a glare, then leaned forward to assess the damage to her legs. “And just where are we going?”
“Eastern Washington. A cabin in the mountains. You and Emily will be safe there until I get to the bottom of this.”
Capping the spray can, he tossed it in a careless arc into the backseat junk pile. Her spine went ramrod straight when he pursed his lips and blew softly on her skin until the disinfectant dried. The play of muscle in his shoulders stretched the cloth of his jacket taut. His hands were gentle as he smoothed stick-on bandages over the worst of her scrapes. He’d obviously done this before. Perhaps he had children? He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t always mean anything.
She watched his bent head, feeling suddenly ashamed of herself. Most men would have dumped her from the car and said good riddance when she’d faked being sick. “Mr. Mac Phearson, I—I didn’t mean to call you names back there. I was just so scared, they popped out.”
“Names? Crazy idiot, you mean?” He raised his eyes to hers, his mouth twisting into a humorless grin. “I’ve been called worse, believe me.” He snapped the first-aid case shut and threw it over the seat. “You weren’t really sick, were you?”
“When I saw those fake IDs, I thought—” Mallory broke off and licked her lips. “Well, I—”
His gaze flew to the glove box. A slight frown pleated his forehead. “I can’t always go by my real name in my line of work.”
“Yes—well—investigators for Christiani and Finn don’t usually go undercover. And if not undercover investigators, most people who use aliases are—”
“Crooks?” He grabbed his street pants from the pile of stuff on the back seat, fished for his wallet and tossed it in her lap. “Christiani and Finn isn’t my only client, you know. In my line of work, I’ve even worn a chicken costume to catch a thieving employee at a fast-food joint. Believe it or not, if people know who I am, I don’t always get the answers I need. I’m Bud Mac Phearson, just as I said. You almost got us both killed pulling that stunt back there.” When she didn’t open the wallet, he snapped, “Go ahead and check me out. Blood type, political affiliations, licenses, permits. It’s all in there.”
“I don’t really need proof, you know. After all that’s happened, how could I not believe you?” But even as she said it, to satisfy him and herself, Mallory opened the wallet and glanced at his identification. She couldn’t afford mistakes.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He flopped back down behind the wheel. “If we’re stuck with each other, a little trust can’t hurt.”
A heavy silence settled over them. “I said I was sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
From his tone, she couldn’t be sure if he was sorry for something he’d done or if he just regretted his entanglement with her.
“I should have had my ID with me. I was stupid to forget it in the car. When I lecture on crime prevention, I warn women never to—” He swiped at a hank of hair that waved across his forehead, getting in his eyes. “Let’s just forget it, okay?”
Mallory offered his wallet to him. He took it and shoved it into his jacket pocket. She studied him for a moment, then said, “I feel as if I’m having a bad dream and can’t wake up. Why are those men doing this? I can’t understand it.”
“For now, I’m not going to worry about why. A gun in my back has a way of dampening my curiosity. As for dreaming, I wish.”
She rolled down her window and inhaled a bracing draught of spruce-scented air. The sound of children’s laughter came to them from up the street. The sound reminded her of Emily and unbidden tears welled in her eyes. “Shouldn’t we be going? I’d like to get my daughter.”
He stuffed a rumpled handkerchief into her hand. “In a few more minutes. They’ll comb the streets for a while. Let’s make sure we’re safe.”
Mallory searched for a clean spot on the handkerchief.
“Sorry. Toby’s hot dog and orange slush is all over it.”
“Who’s Toby?”
“My pitcher.” He grabbed a dog-eared notepad off the dash, unclipped the Lindy pen attached to the bent spirals and jotted something down. “Was that a Buick they were driving? An ’88?”
“There was a gun hanging out the window. That’s all I noticed.”
He didn’t even look up. “It was at least an ’88. I think the first three letters on the plate were LUD.”
“Are we going to the police?”
“Keith said no.”
“Then why write the tag number down?” She stared at his taut face. “Every cop in King County can’t be working for Lucetti.”
“Do you want to take a chance on trusting the wrong one?”
“Do you know what you’re saying? That there are policemen who know about this and aren’t doing anything to stop it.”
He tossed the tablet back onto the dash and braced his arms on the steering wheel. “That’s right.”
“This is Seattle, not Miami Vice.”
His eyes locked with hers. She had the feeling that he thoroughly disliked her.
“You say Seattle like it’s smack dab in the middle of Disneyland. Most cops are on the level, probably ninety-nine-point-nine percent, but it only takes one. Bellevue, with its manicured streets and fancy houses and fifty-thousand-dollar cars, isn’t the real world. I know that’s hard for you to digest, but ta
ke a stab at it.”
“Just what are we going to do, then?”
“We’re going to go pick up your kid and then get out of town.” He gave her a challenging glance. “Unless you can come up with a better suggestion?”
For the life of her, Mallory couldn’t think of a single one.
Chapter Three
The ride to Beth Hamstead’s house, where Emily was staying, took thirty minutes, during which Mallory felt the tension in her neck and shoulders beginning to ease. She couldn’t think of any way anyone could know where Emily was. That thought and the peaceful country scenery along the Woodinville-Duvall Road soothed her as nothing else could. Leaning her head back against the rest, she watched the green hillsides whiz by, relishing the cool caress of the early-evening breeze as it rushed in through her open window. In a few more minutes, she would have her daughter safely in her arms, and Mac Phearson would spirit them away to a safe place where they could wait together until he could find out what was going on.
Turning her head, she watched him as he maneuvered the car, one shoulder propped against his door, one hand loosely curled around the steering wheel. At a glance, he appeared relaxed. Only his eyes gave him away. They darted continually from the road to his rearview mirror. His watchfulness reminded her that the nightmare from which they’d just escaped was far from over.
“See anyone?”
“Not yet. Mrs. Christiani—”
“Mallory, please. Mrs. seems so formal.”
“Mallory,” he corrected. “I want you to think back over the last few weeks. Has Keith said or done anything odd?”
She shook her head. “He’s been horribly tense, that’s all.”
“Any strangers been calling the house? People who’ve never called before? It’s extremely important.”
Again she shook her head.
“Has Keith been gone at odd hours? Has he, um, had a sudden increase in income?”
Mallory stiffened. “Just what are you implying?”