Then he was out of the motel's parking lot and picking up speed on the paved road. The flashing colored lights, the yowling sirens, were still there, flitting this way and that in the darkness, but they were behind him now. There was nothing ahead but black road, and a faint yellow line snaking away into the night, leading toward freedom.
The truck cab got brighter. He glanced in his right outside mirror and was almost blinded by headlights that had slid in close behind him. The mirror exploded as a bullet caught it. He mashed down harder on the accelerator, putting distance between him and the headlights.
Coulter thought he should shoot back. He owed it to himself. And maybe it'd make the State Patrol or whoever the hell they were let up some on the gas. Gripping the wheel tight with his left hand, he picked up the gun with his right.
Shootin' hand. Look out now!
This was going to be awkward. He made sure the truck was aimed straight ahead, held on to the steering wheel with his left hand, and twisted his body so he could get his right arm out the window and shoot behind him.
The gun worked okay. He managed to get off a shot but had no way of knowing if it had hit anything. The car hit a bump just as he was about to squeeze the trigger again, and the sudden jolt made him bump his wrist against the hard window frame, knocking the gun from his grasp. It dropped down and away onto the pavement.
In the shitpot now!
He turned back so he was sitting straight, staring out through the windshield and steering with both hands. Whoever was chasing him had gotten close again. The lights in the rearview mirror were blinding, even though the mirror was set for nighttime vision. He reached up and twisted it so the light was deflected. No need to look behind him. He knew they were there.
Just drive, goddamnit. Forget about the gun. You wasn't gonna hit anything anyway.
Drive!
Coulter saw a county road intersecting with the state road, made up his mind in an instant, and swung left. This road was narrower than the one he'd been on, and bumpier. He knew what he had to find. The kind of turnoff where the big four-wheel-drive truck could go and low-slung police cars made for highway pursuit couldn't follow. That was his only real chance to escape the shitstorm his bad luck had put him in.
If I can just make it into the swamp I can…think of something…
The headlights were still back there. The road began to wind. A bullet sparked off the already damaged outside mirror, startling Coulter. But he didn't lose control of the truck. He kept his head. He was learning all about himself, and he liked it. He had the balls for more than breaking and entering. He was a goddamned Jesse James.
As the truck roared and sped along, the swamp seemed to move in closer on either side. Within half a mile he saw what he needed, a crude wooden sign indicating a turnoff ahead. As he flashed past it, he couldn't even read what it said, but he put light pressure on the brake pedal, getting ready.
Then there it was on his left, an opening in the swamp. It wasn't much more than flattened grass, but enough of a road to provide access for the big truck. Just enough.
Luck from shit to gold!
As Coulter yanked the steering wheel to the left, the truck leaned hard and went up on two wheels. Then it dropped back and tracked perfectly onto the narrow, grassy road. As soon as he straightened it out, it flew up in the air, and Coulter felt the top of his head hit the headliner. As he plopped back down in his seat, he fumbled and found a firm grip on the steering wheel. He clenched his teeth and followed the truck's headlight beams into the swamp.
This was goddamned working. This was what he wanted. There was another, smaller bump, then rooster tails of water rose high and away from the front wheels and the truck rocked to a dead stop.
Coulter's heart stopped with it.
Here was his lousy luck again. He should have expected it. It was his role in life to have the rug yanked out from under him. God had had it in for him from the beginning.
He jammed the selector into a lower gear and played the gas pedal. Mud and rocks slammed against the insides of the fenders, but the truck didn't budge. Wasn't this thing supposed to have four-wheel drive?
Don't let me down now! Please! C'mon! C'mon!
If God wouldn't help him, maybe the devil would. Or the all-powerful God of Trucks and Fools. The big engine roared. The oversized tires spun free and threw more mud, found traction, and the truck lurched forward and picked up speed.
Coulter gleefully stomped the accelerator. The truck responded as if it were alive and born for the challenge.
Small branches whipped and scratched against the truck's steel sides. Welcome sounds. They meant the swamp was opening its arms for him and freedom could be had. He drove like a maniac. More dark water splashed from time to time, some of it splattering on the windshield.
Coulter used the truck's wipers and forged on. The road had become a narrow, muddy tunnel through the swamp. That was fine with him. The bumpier and muddier the better. This was exactly the kind of place that would soon bog down a low-slung car.
After a while, Coulter chanced a glance in the rearview mirror and saw through the trees a glimmer of headlights, far behind. A few seconds later he looked again and saw only blackness.
He backed off a bit on the accelerator, driving more carefully. His breathing was ragged and his heart was pounding as if it might break a rib. He knew he wasn't out of the woods yet, literally, but he couldn't help letting out a loud whoop. He'd shaken them.
Desperado on the run!
Goddamn he was something! He'd shaken them!
For now.
49
Wes Nobbler and Greeve had gotten to Ruth Malpass's apartment first and confiscated her notebook computer. After that, it was seconds for Quinn and his team. When they requested the laptop, they were informed that Nobbler and Greeve were the real NYPD, but that they'd share.
Quinn informed Renz of this, and Renz promptly phoned and gave Nobbler one of his better ass-chewings and made it clear who was working the Torso Murders case.
It wasn't Nobbler.
Nobbler had reluctantly given Quinn's team a copy of the hard drive of Malpass's computer's, made after Pearl and an NYPD computer whiz observed the transfer of the files to make sure it was complete.
The drive revealed no sign of E-Bliss.org. Pearl had gone over it and found some e-mail messages and addresses to follow up on, but nothing promising. The computer's Internet history was also unrevealing. Ruth had read several newspapers online and regularly visited a few show-business sites and gossip blogs. Pearl had reported that Ruth had bought lots of shoes over the Internet. That meant nothing other than that Pearl had new sources of shoes.
Today Pearl and Fedderman were getting follow-up statements from Ruth's neighbors, who were telling them what a fine woman Ruth was. That had been the report from two of the actors and the producer of Major Mary, the musical she'd been costuming.
Quinn got a key from the super and entered Ruth's apartment. It was pretty much what he expected except for the scent; there was a sachet or something like one somewhere giving off a faint whiff of cinnamon. The apartment was a functionally furnished loft, with a southern exposure and shelves of art books and pottery and sculpture. There was a shiny steel framework on one wall that held clothes. At first Quinn thought they were Ruth's and simply didn't fit in the big oak wardrobe, but then he realized they must be part of her work.
Near a window was a wooden drafting board with a large pad of paper on it. The top sheet was curled back over the high end of the slanted board. There was no chair nearby. Ruth must have stood while she worked.
