Nobody Runs Forever

He was just coming to the conclusion that the thing to do was find a railroad station. He could leave the Lexus, and take trains until he was alone, then rent a car and come back. But as he was thinking that, a graceful brown- leather covered arm—it reminded him of a ballerina’s arm move, starting a lift—came out of the driver’s door of the Plymouth and slapped a suction-cup red flasher on the roof.

No siren, but the flasher started its spinning crimson roll, and the bright beams of the Plymouth’s headlights flared alternately left and right, and she accelerated past the intervening cars—they dodged out of the way like rabbits from a coyote—and when she’d reached his rear bumper, a loud-hailer voice, so distorted you couldn’t tell if it was male or female, said, “Pull over on the shoulder.”

He did. The only ID he carried on him belonged to John B. Allen, and was safe. The registration in the glove compartment carried the name Claire Willis, who would be his married sister. There was no bad paper out on either name. If this cop didn’t happen to find the Beretta clipped under his seat—and why should she?—there was nothing in the car to cause him trouble.

He stopped, crunching on the gravel shoulder, and ignored the gawkers as they crept by. Instead, he watched the rearview mirror.

She took her time in there. He could see her, on her radio. Checking the license plate, maybe arranging for backup, if it should turn out to be needed. But then at last she did come out, a tall, slender blonde woman in tan slacks and a short leather car coat, and moved forward toward his car.

A cop walks like a cop. Even the woman cops do it. Women walk as though they have no center of gravity, as though they’re all waifs, or angels, but cops walk as though their center of gravity is in their hips, so they can be very still or very fast. To see that kind of body motion on a woman was strange, particularly on a good-looking blonde.

Parker rolled his window down and looked out at her. Very good-looking. Sure of herself because she was a cop and because she was good-looking. And good at her work—Parker hadn’t been able to lose her.

He said, “Yes, Officer?”

“May I see license and registration, please?”

“Sure. Registration in the glove compartment. Okay?”

She seemed surprised at the question. “Get it, please.” He handed her the documents, and she studied them, saying, “May I ask your occupation, Mr. Allen?”

Fortunately, he remembered what he’d told Elaine Langen that time: “Mostly,” he said, “I’m a landscape architect.”

She raised a brow. “Mostly?”

“Well, it’s seasonal work,” he said, having no idea whether it was or not, but figuring she wouldn’t know either. “The rest of the year, I do other things. Or nothing. Depends how the season went.”

“This is your wife’s car?”

“Sister. My Navigator’s in the shop.”

“And have you had work up in this area, Mr. Allen?”

“It’s done now,” he said. “It was just consultancy, for a Mrs. Langen. I’m not doing the project. You want her address? I have it somewhere.”

“Not needed. Just wait a moment,” she said, and took his license and registration away to her car.

She was curious about him. She knew, from Elaine Langen’s stupid move with the gun, from Jake Beckham, gunshot in a hospital—she knew something was in the air. And all of a sudden, she had the new guy in her territory, connected both to Elaine Langen and to Jake Beckham.

At this point, there was no way for the cop to get a handle on what was going down, but she was curious. She was going to poke; she was going to pry, and all because of Elaine Langen.

Two days. Two days from now this cop, and every other cop for five hundred miles, would know what was going down. Let them know. By then, it wouldn’t matter. Not to Parker, anyway.

She came back. “Mr. Allen, I wonder if you’d open your trunk.”

“Sure,” he said, and got out and did so. He waited till she was shining her flashlight in at the trunk, empty except for a folded sheet of blue tarpaulin, and then he said, “Is it all right to ask what this is all about?”

“Just a routine traffic check.”

He laughed at her. “You’ve been dogging me for fifteen miles. I tried to shake you, and I couldn’t.”

She looked at him, no expression. “Do you consider yourself good at shaking cars pursuing you?”

“I guess not.” He shrugged. “I never tried it before, and it didn’t work this time. But the thing is, Officer—”

“Detective,” she said. “Detective Second Grade Gwen Reversa.”

“How do you do, Detective. The thing is, it’s pretty obvious you’re just after me, and since I don’t know anything I’m in trouble for, I’m wondering how come.”

Instead of answering, she said, “Thank you,” with a nod, meaning he could close the trunk; so he did, as she moved very slowly around the car, studying every inch of it. She was, he knew, looking for a violation, a broken light or something like that, so she could cite him and then possibly bring him in for further questioning. But there would be nothing to hook on to. He kept the Lexus clean.

Nevertheless, he realized, this car was through. When the detective finished her inspection, he would leave the Lexus, wiped down and key in ignition, in some store’s parking lot where he could walk to a car rental agency. And when he got back to the motel, he’d phone Claire to report the Lexus stolen, get a rental of her own, and think about what car she’d want next.

It was with obvious reluctance that Detective Reversa gave him back his license and registration. “Thank you, sir,” she said.