was shaded by a stand of eucalyptus trees. He headed that way.
From behind him came the blare of another siren. That would be the ambulance.
Nice response time, he thought.
He checked his wristwatch. 3:20 P.M. He and Chuck had spotted the smoke at 3:08. They’d reached the accident site two minutes later and called in. So the ambulance had taken ten minutes.
Good thing nobody’s life was depending on it.
Jake waded into Weber Creek, peering up and down the narrow band of water. On the other side, he stopped long enough to check the area for signs. The weeds were nearly knee-high. He couldn’t find any traces of blood or trampled foliage. Maybe the guy had changed course. Looking back, though, Jake could only make out the faintest sign of his own passage.
I’m hardly the world’s greatest tracker, he thought.
And if the guy had made any effort to be careful, he could’ve skirted the places with high weeds and stuck to areas where the ground cover was sparse. Or maybe followed the creek.
Maybe I already passed him. If he stretched out flat…
Sneaking up on me…
Jake whirled around.
Nobody there.
His gaze swept over the field, then back toward the road. The van was still smoking, but he couldn’t see any flames. Chuck was standing close to Celia. An ambulance attendant was heading their way.
Jake continued toward the rise, but he’d begun to feel that he’d lost the suspect. He didn’t like that. In spite of the blood, it was apparent that the man hadn’t been severely injured. Hurt, sure, but not incapacitated.
A potential killer.
Jake didn’t want to lose him.
What kind of man pulls a stunt like that—tries to run down a total stranger in broad daylight? He wasn’t driving, of course, but he was an accomplice, Jake was sure of that.
Maybe they never intended to kill her, just run her off the road, rack her up enough to take the fight out of her, and snatch her. That Jake could understand. A good-looking woman, get her into the van, have their fun with her, dump her later on, maybe dead.
If Celia’s account was accurate, though, they actually tried to smash her with the van. It would’ve killed her for sure. And messed her up pretty good. Hardly your typical MO for a pair of traveling rapists.
They wanted her dead first?
Sick.
Outlandish, too. There just aren’t that many necrophiles running around; the odds against two of them linking up must be staggering.
It could happen.
More likely, though, they just would have left her.
Thrill killers.
Combing the roads in a van, looking for suitable victims.
If I lose this guy…
Jake turned slowly, scanning the entire expanse of the field. He trudged to the top of the rise and made a quick circuit around the trees. Nobody there. On the other side, the ground sloped down to a narrow road. Beyond the road, the field continued. The foliage and trees were heavier on that side. Plenty of places for a man to conceal himself.
Jake spent a long time watching the area. Turning around, he gazed at the field he had crossed.
You lost him, all right.
Get up a search party, go over the area inch by inch. The logical step, but not very practical. How do you get together enough men on short notice to do the job properly?
He leaned against a tree. He kicked a small rock and sent it flying down the slope. It landed in a clump of bushes, and he imagined his suspect crying out, “Ouch!” and making a run for it.
Dream on, Corey.
Shit.
He looked up the side road. It led only to the Oakwood Inn. The old restaurant had been closed for years, but a couple from Los Angeles was planning to reopen it. He saw a station wagon parked in front. The folks must be there, fixing the place up.
I’d better warn them.
The damned restaurant only looked like it was a quarter of a mile away. Weary and discouraged—and gnawed by guilt for letting the creep slip away—Jake shoved himself away from the tree and made his way down the slope. He waded through the weeds. Once he reached the road, the walking was easier.
He kept a lookout, though he no longer expected to find the suspect.
Suspect, my ass, he thought.
This guy’s into wasting random victims.
And I lost him.
Maybe the accident, losing his partner, took some of the starch out of him.
Right.
Goddamn it.
I lost him and it’ll be my fault if he…
The distant sound of a car engine broke into Jake’s thoughts.
Chuck coming to fetch him?
He turned and realized that the sound came from the direction of the Oakwood Inn. He remembered the station wagon.
Snapped his head forward.
He was standing in a dip.
He saw only the road.
From the noise, the car was speeding.
And he knew.
He’d been slow—he should’ve guessed it the instant he saw the car sitting there, vulnerable, in front of the restaurant.
Your van is totaled, you’re on foot and hurt, you spot an unattended vehicle…
Heart racing, mouth gone dry, Jake Corey snatched out his .38, planted his feet on each side of the faded yellow centerline of the road, lowered himself into a shooting crouch, and waited.
He aimed at the road’s crest fifty yards away.
“Come on, you mother.”
Jake wished he had a .357 like the one Chuck carried. With that, he’d be able to kill a car.
Jake would have to go for the driver.
He had never shot anyone.
But he knew this was it. He couldn’t let the bastard get away.
Six slugs through the windshield.
That should do it.
The car burst into view, bounced on loose shocks as it hit the down slope, sped toward him.
Wait till he’s almost on you, blow him away, dive for safety.
Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Brakes shrieked. The car skidded, fishtailed, and stopped thirty feet in front of him.
Jake couldn’t believe it.
“Let me see your hands!” he yelled.
The driver, a thin and frightened-looking man of about thirty, stared at Jake through the windshield.
“I want to see your hands
The hands appeared. They gripped the top of the wheel.
“Keep ‘em there!”
