had only his word that they'd been stolen. And he was lying about everything else. That, she supposed, was the cloud's silver lining.
Not a lot to cheer about.
Not when you're riding through downtown Santa Monica with a kidnapper---or worse.
Joyce felt herself start to panic. 'Calm down,' she thought. 'If you fall to pieces, he'll know you're onto him. So far, you've got him fooled.'
'I might become a policewoman,' she said, breaking the silence. 'I've been taking some police science courses in college. They're research for my writing, you know, but I should probably have some kind of job in case I can't make a living as an author.' She was pleased that her voice sounded steady.
'Good idea,' Stevens said. He turned right.
'Could I have a look at your side arm?' she asked.
He looked at Joyce as if he thought she had lost her mind.
'I'll be careful,' she said.
'It's against regulations,' he said.
'You're good,' Joyce thought. 'But not good enough.'
She hadn't really expected Stevens to hand the gun to her. But it had been worth a try.
After stopping at a traffic light, he picked up speed crossing the intersection. Joyce guessed he was doing 20 miles an hour in the curb lane when she swung up her right hand. The bag in her grip, loaded with the five magazines, whapped him solidly on the nose. Stevens yelped with surprise. Twisting in her seat, Joyce used her other hand to tug the steering wheel. The van lurched to the right and bounded over the curb. She threw herself against the door, jerked its handle, and tumbled out.
She seemed to fall for a long time. Her shoulder hit the sidewalk. She cried out in pain and clutched her head as she tumbled over the concrete. She was still rolling when she heard the loud crash of the van.
She staggered to her feet. The van had smashed right into the wall of a bank.
A security guard came running out of the bank door, a hand on his holstered pistol.
'Draw it!' Joyce yelled to the guard. 'He's got a gun! He kidnapped me!' Scowling, the bank guard drew his revolver and ran toward the van.
Joyce followed, staying some distance behind him.
She watched the guard shove his weapon into the driver's window. Then, stepping back, he pulled open the door. Stevens fell to the sidewalk and didn't move.
'You're quite a young woman,' said Lt. Harold Cameron at police headquarters. 'The FBI has been trying to nail Morgan for months. That's his real name, Jack Morgan. He's wanted for a whole string of kidnappings. He just picked his victims at random. Then he'd hold them prisoner in his van until he got his hands on the ransom money.'
'That doesn't seem to be any way to make a haul,' Joyce said. 'You want to pick wealthy victims, and....'
'He thought he was being very smart. He figured he would bring down too much heat if he tried for a huge take. So instead he settled for a lot of small ones. And the method worked just fine until you came along.'
'I'm glad I could help,' Joyce said. 'I knew he wasn't up to any good. I mean, some guy pretending to be a police officer....'
'You said that you had your doubts about him before you got into his van. Why on earth did you go along with him?'
'I didn't think my chances would be very good if I tried to make a run for it inside the parking lot. Remember, I'd seen his gun. I didn't want to get shot. I figured that I'd have a better chance if I could make him crash somewhere along a busy street. I didn't buckle my seat belt when I got in the van. I thought that would make it easier for me to jump clear if we crashed. Then, when I saw that we were going past a bank....'
'You took a terrible risk,' Lieutenant Cameron said.
Joyce shrugged, as if it were nothing. 'I can take care of myself,' she said.
'Those were probably the famous last words of a thousand victims, Miss Walther.'
Her smile slipped just a bit. 'Well,' she said, 'it turned out all right.'
'This time.'
'Don't worry,' she said. 'After this, I won't trust anyone---not even anyone wearing a uniform and sitting behind a desk at a police headquarters. By the way, do you have some identification?'
Lieutenant Cameron laughed. 'Now you're talking,' he said, reaching for his wallet.
RICHARD LAYMON'S
