She would call the police. It was her best move, the one he would have made had their positions been reversed. She would call from a pay phone and identify him as the killer, offering the satchel as proof of his guilt.
Or she might simply leave the satchel outside a police substation with an unsigned note. But he didn’t think so. He expected her to call, because only by talking to another person could she be certain her message got through. And, high on the adrenaline rush of survival, she would do it as soon as possible.
From a public phone. She wouldn’t call from the motel. She still didn’t want to be identified, didn’t want to get directly involved.
Having made the call, she would need to make a quick getaway before the police responded. The fastest escape route was the interstate. Cray was betting she would stay close to I-10, either a few miles north or south of the motel.
Which direction?
South, the city turned mean. Barrio streets, crime, danger. More police cars cruising. More cops on the beat.
She wanted to be in a less populous, less heavily patrolled area.
North, then. She would go north. Past downtown Tucson, into the near suburbs.
Of course, she might have made the call already. By now it might be too late.
Perhaps he ought to run. Race for the border. He knew enough Spanish to get by. He could live in the mountains if he had to, at least for a month or two, until the urgency of the search abated.
No.
He would not permit himself to lose. It was bad enough that he had let her get away. To allow her this ultimate victory was unthinkable.
Cray found I-10’s entrance ramp and sped into the northbound lanes. The time was 7:15.
16
Elizabeth drove three miles on the freeway, until the crowded part of town was behind her. She considered taking the Speedway Boulevard exit, but decided to go a little farther.
At Grant Road, a mile north of Speedway, she exited, heading east. Within two blocks she found a Circle K convenience store. Two phone kiosks were stationed at the side of the building, away from the main entrance.
Perfect.
She wondered if she was reckless to try this. It would be safer to simply mail the satchel to the police.
But mailing it would take more time. She was determined to have Cray arrested as soon as possible. Today, even.
He was a monster, and she wanted him caged.
She parked a block away from the convenience mart — close enough so she could run to her car after making the call, but not so close that somebody loitering near the phones might happen to see the Chevette and link it to her.
Her luggage was in the hatchback compartment.
She opened the larger suitcase and found her winter gloves, pulling them on.
No fingerprints on the phone handset.
She was thinking of everything. This would be an error-free performance. It had to be.
She shouldered her purse and picked up the satchel. Her heart was drumming fast, and the air seemed very hot, but she was all right. She was going to do this and do it perfectly, no mistakes.
Halfway to the phone she stopped with a sudden thought. Slowly she opened the satchel, and inside she found her photo album, twenty-eight pictures of herself in various guises throughout the years, and alongside it, the manila envelope containing the false documentation she had purchased or created.
She’d nearly forgotten about those items. Nearly left the satchel for the police with her photos and her phony birth certificates inside.
“Oh, Christ, Elizabeth,” she whispered, feeling something worse than fear — a kind of disorienting embarrassment, a sense of humiliation so deep it was almost physical pain.
She hurried back to the car. In the driver’s seat she fumbled open the satchel and took out the damn photo album and the damn envelope, and then she searched it thoroughly with her gloved hands, checking to be sure nothing else of hers was in there.
When she was done, she checked again. She no longer trusted herself.
Wallace Zepeda had been right. This was too much, this burden she carried. It was making her—
—
— a nervous wreck, and she couldn’t bear up under it much longer.
Cray passed the exit for downtown without slowing. Kaylie wouldn’t go into the heart of the city. Too much traffic. Too great a risk of encountering a delay after she had made her call.
The next major street was Speedway. He got off there, heading west for six blocks, looking for the Chevette.
Nothing.
This was hopeless. He would never find her. She would call, and even though the police would surely be skeptical, a squad car would be dispatched to pick up the package she had left.
Squad car.
Of course.
Cray pulled onto the roadside and opened his glove compartment, hoping fervently that Kaylie McMillan, clever as she was, had not thought to look inside and clean out its contents.
She hadn’t. The police-band transceiver was still there.
Six of the channels were preset to Tucson PD frequencies. He activated the scan mode, dialing the volume high. Coded cross talk chattered over the speaker. If the patrol unit had not yet been dispatched, he might hear the call go out.
The scanner, roaming among the various frequencies, buzzed and chirruped with ten-codes and half- intelligible inquiries and responses. He listened for the particular assignment he was waiting for.
Obviously there was a chance Kaylie had gone outside city limits, in which case the call would be handled by a sheriff’s department cruiser. Cray wasn’t monitoring those bands; he couldn’t listen to a dozen channels at once.
Or, if she had called already, he might have missed the dispatcher’s signal. Or the assignment could have been conveyed electronically via the mobile computers installed in TPD cars. Perhaps even now the police had the satchel in their hands, and an evidence technician was examining each separate, incriminating item.
He pulled back into traffic and made a U-turn, then headed east on Speedway. He would travel it for a mile or two beyond the freeway. If he still hadn’t found her car, he would continue north.
Grant Road was the next exit. Maybe he would find her there.
Elizabeth almost got out of the car again, and then in an excess of self-doubt she opened the satchel and checked its contents one last time.
She was sure there was something she’d forgotten. But no, it was all here.
Chloroform. Duct tape. Smelling salts. Pocket flashlight. Locksmith tools. Glass cutter. Suction cup. Spare
