He squeezes off three rounds. One catches the man in the chest, one hits the woman in the neck, and the last flies between them and finds the tinted glass window, punching through with a spiderweb of cracks.
Fuller drops the Colt, checks the Sig. It's a P229, chambered for 9mm. Thirteen-round clip, plus one in the throat. He thumbs off the safety and walks into the women's bathroom.
Empty, except for a stall. An elderly woman opens the door.
'You're in the wrong bathroom.'
'Nope.' Fuller grins. 'You are.'
The Sig has a lighter recoil than the Colt, and the results aren't as messy.
Fuller turns back to the door and eases it open a crack. Corlis bursts into the lobby, his .45 clutched in a two- handed grip.
Unfortunately for him, he's looking in the direction of the men's room, rather than behind him.
Fuller gives him four in the back. Corlis sprawls onto his face, arms and legs splayed out like a dog on ice. He's still clutching the gun in his right hand, but Fuller is on him in four steps and he stomps hard on Corlis's wrist. The hand opens, and Fuller shoves the Colt into the front of his pants.
He kneels next to Corlis and speaks above the man's whimpering.
'Thanks for stopping, buddy. I appreciate it.'
At this close range, the Sig does quite a job on the trooper's crew cut.
Minding the blood, Fuller takes the wallet and badge, and exits through the opposite doors, the side where the cars are going north. The semi is still there, parked off to the side. Fuller walks over, then uses the side bar to hoist himself onto the running board. He peers into the cab.
The driver is at the wheel, eyes closed and snoring pleasantly. The guy is white, mid-forties, and his brown hair is cut into a mullet.
Haven't seen one of those in a while, Fuller thinks.
He holds up Robertson's badge and taps on the window. The guy wakes up, startled.
'What's going on, Officer?'
'Please step out of the vehicle, sir.'
'What's going on?'
'I need you to step out of the vehicle, please.'
The man complies. He's awake now, and copping an attitude. 'What's the problem?'
'No problem. I didn't want to get your blood in my new truck.'
Two in the chest, and Fuller takes the man's keys and wallet, hops into the driver's seat, and starts the engine.
He figures he has a twenty-minute lead. That will be enough to get him to Interstate 80, and from there, he can take back roads and side streets.
Fuller flips on the CB, and switches it to the police frequency. Standard chatter, no mention yet of his little dalliance.
He yanks the Colt out of his pants and sets it on the passenger seat. The Sig he keeps on the dashboard. Fuller pulls out onto the highway.
He's two miles away from I-80 when the news breaks. Fuller picks up the mike.
'This is car 6620. Suspect is an African American male, five feet ten inches tall, in his mid-thirties, driving a brown sedan. He was last seen heading south on Route 57. Over.'
'Car 6620, what's your position?'
Fuller smiles, doesn't answer. That will keep them confused for a few more minutes. He merges onto I-80, squad cars screaming past him. A large green sign reads: CHICAGO 40 MILES.
'Ready or not, Jack. Here I come.'
Chapter 44
'You've always been like this, since you were a little girl.'
Mom sat on the sofa with Mr. Griffin, who had fallen asleep sitting up, his head tilted back and his mouth open wide enough to drive a car into. She removed the half-finished drink from his hand -- I guessed it to be a bloody Mary from the red color and the celery stick -- and raised it to her own lips.
'Been like what?' I asked.
'Been moody, when you should be happy. Remember when you won your first medal in tae kwon do?'
'No.'
'You won it for sparring. You must have been eleven or twelve. I think you were eleven, because you were wearing pigtails and on your twelfth birthday you declared yourself a grown-up and that you'd never wear pigtails again.'
'Do all old people ramble on like you?'
Mom smiled at me. 'We do. When you turn sixty, you get a license to ramble from the federal government.'
'Mine may come in the mail, in the time it takes you to finish this story.'
