He was taking the left ramp that would lead him around and into the airport again when he glanced in the mirror and saw the green Plymouth behind him. The cop had been hiding in the traffic, but no one else was taking the turn to go back into the airport, so there he was. He’d made a very quick and sure ID as Parker had driven by him. Parker couldn’t see him well enough, inside the car back there, but he knew the guy would be on his radio.
This little red car was too identifiable. He couldn’t stay in it, but how could he get clear of it without the cop being all over him?
He completed the left-turn U, and this time he noticed the additional lanes that went off to the right, before the terminals, with a big sign above: CARGO.
Those lanes were empty. Parker accelerated into them, widening the distance from the pursuer, the Saab giving him just that much more juice than the Plymouth could deliver. But he wouldn’t have the advantage for long.
This road curved rightward away from the passenger terminals and soon had large storage buildings on its left side, each with an airline name prominent on it. On the right were a high chain-link fence and scrubby fields. A few trucks moved along this road, and Parker snaked through them, looking for an out.
There. On the left, a building with a large open hangar-type entrance on the front. Parker hit the brakes, spun the wheel, hit the accelerator, and roared into the building.
There were trucks in here, too, being loaded or unloaded, with one narrow lane among them and stacks of goods piled high on both sides. Too many workmen moved among the trucks; Parker held down the horn, accelerated, saw the broad open door at the far end, cluttered with electric carts for carrying cargo out to the planes, and braced his forearms on the steering wheel as he slammed down onto the brake, then pushed open his door and slid out of the Saab as it continued to travel at ten miles an hour, straight toward that far opening.
Parker hit the floor rolling, under a truck and out the other side, coming to his feet with the Terrier in his hand. He ran to the front of the truck, saw that the Saab had stopped when it ran into the carts just outside the building, and the Plymouth was just braking to a stop behind it. He ran toward the Plymouth, and its door opened, and the cop got out, and was Turley.
The CID man from Stoneveldt, student of game theory. Of course the law would have him part of this detail, since he knew Parker, had sat across a desk from him twice, told him nobody had ever escaped from Stoneveldt. A small bulky red-haired middleweight, now reaching inside his windbreaker as he slammed the Plymouth’s door and took a step toward the Saab.
‘Turley!’ Parker yelled.
Turley spun around, astonished, and Parker took a flat stance, the Terrier held out in front of himself with both hands. ‘Hands where I can see them!’
Turley stared all around, not sure what to do. His hand was still inside the windbreaker, but he had to know what would happen if it came out full. Half a dozen workmen, wide-eyed, backed away.
Parker yelled, ‘I’m a police officer! This man is under arrest!’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Turley yelled. Now his hand did come out from inside his windbreaker, empty, so he could wave his arms in outrage. ‘I’mthe cop!’ he yelled. ‘This man’s an escaped’
Parker had reached him now. ‘Stop yelling,’ he said.
Turley blinked at him, trying to catch up.
Parker shook his head. ‘Game theory,’ he said. ‘Chapter two.’
‘You’ll never get out of the airport,’ Turley told him. ‘Do you want to add murder one?’
‘So everything’s going your way,’ Parker agreed. ‘So all you have to be is calm, am I right?’
Turley nodded, thinking about that. He’d come down from his rage as quickly as he’d gone up. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘So why don’t you just hand me the weapon and let’s let these people go back to work.’
‘We’re getting in your car,’ Parker told him. ‘You’re driving. If you don’t like that idea, I’ll give you some murder one and do my own driving.’
‘You would, too,’ Turley said. ‘You proved that with Jelinek.’
Parker waited for Turley to get used to the idea. Turley thought for a second, glancing toward the useless workmen, and then shrugged. ‘You’re the escape artist. I’ll enjoy watching you at work.’
‘That’s the way,’ Parker said. Backing away from Turley, he said, ‘We open our doors at the same time. We get in at the same time.’
Turley nodded, and stood with his left hand on top of the car while Parker moved around it to the passenger side and said, ‘Now.’
They opened both doors, slid in, and Parker said, ‘Don’t drive backwards. You can get around the Saab.’
Turley put the Plymouth in gear and drove them out of there, through the tight fit between the Saab and a couple of the electric carts, out to the business side of the airport, while behind them the workmen clustered into groups to try to decide what they’d just been witnesses to.
Now they were among the taxiways, with planes landing and taking off some distance away. Clear routes were marked in white paint on the gray concrete, and various vehicles traveled around back here, all staying within the lines.
Turley said, ‘Do you have some sort of plan in mind?’ As though the idea were ridiculous.
To the left were the main terminal buildings. To the right the buildings grew fewer, and some chain-link fence could be seen. Whatever was happening with Mackey and Brenda, there was no point in Parker trying to link up with them again. ‘To the right,’ he said.
Turley nodded, and they drove along the rear of the cargo buildings, hundreds of workmen moving around, dozens of vehicles of all kinds, nobody paying them any attention in their unmarked car.
