down the elevator to the lower level, making their escape out the other side of the shopping center, on different highways.
Either I was propelled by a noble impulse or I procrastinated too long, because suddenly I had no options. I was shoved with great force into the elevator, five more smoke grenades were tossed out, the doors slid closed, and we began our descent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There were three of them in the elevator. Nobody said a word. We were all winded, breathing heavily, and, for different reasons, consumed with our own thoughts and fears.
I used the descent to take stock of my new companions. They were dressed regularly-if shitkicker haberdashery can be termed regular-with black balaclava hoods over their heads, so I couldn't observe their fiendish faces, just their soulless eyes.
The one to my right, who maintained a vise grip on my arm, was square-shouldered, lanky, and extremely tall, perhaps six foot six or six foot seven. He smelled a little rank, or these days, I guess, 'hygienically challenged.'
The one to my left-specifically, the one holding the Glock pistol at my ear-had a feminine physique, slender where it counted, curvy where it counted, with a pair of huge rockets where it counted more. I assumed this was the same lady who had jerked me around on the phone.
The third member of their party had positioned himself in front of the elevator control panel. About my size, just shy of six feet, roughly 190 pounds, which coincided neatly with the descriptive data in Clyde Wizner's personnel files.
In fact, sexually, physically, and morally, these three were a cold match for Eric Tanner's hypothetical ring.
Not present in this gathering of murderers was the fourth party in their conspiracy, the brains of this outfit, Mr. Jason Barnes. Not really surprising, considering that his picture was in every newspaper in the country.
The elevator doors slid open. We were now on the ground level of the shopping center, and mirroring the upper level, there were no walls enclosing the shops; only a narrow covered walkway separated us from the lower parking lot. The cart and I were shoved out of the elevator, then straight toward the curb, where there were two Texas Cadillacs, i.e., beat-up Ford pickups, one red in color, one black, cabs empty, engines idling.
The guy who appeared to be Clyde Wizner said to the woman, 'Get yers. Hurry' and off she loped, bouncing and jiggling.
He said to me, 'You kin help load these cases, or you kin stand with yer thumb up yer butt and I'll blow yer brains out.'
Time to be the perfect guest. I lifted the first suitcase and set it gently in the back of the black pickup.
Then the three of us were tossing suitcases into the beds of the red and black pickup trucks. There were no bags or luggage in any of the trucks, indicating, I thought, the possibility of a nearby hiding place. The license plates on both vehicles were Virginian, though presumably they were stolen, as was the fifty million, as was Sean Drummond.
In less than thirty seconds, the lady rolled up in her pickup, a yellow one, and the last four suitcases were thrown into the bed. The tall guy ran down the line and drew canvases over the cases, and there was their haul- fifty million in clean, untraceable cash divided not quite equally three ways, plus indivisible me.
The lady tossed me her keys and said, 'Yer drivin' mine. Git in.'
To clear up my apparent hesitation, she allowed me to examine how clean she kept the bore of her Glock pistol. She said, 'I'd jus' as soon kill you. Move it, asshole.'
And like that, I was in the mood for a drive.
The other two pickups sped off in different directions, as she and I climbed into the cab of her yellow Ford. Fastidiousness and nutritional fussiness were not among her faults; the floor was covered with crushed Bud cans and balled-up candy wrappers, and the lady appeared to own a bald dog, because tiny gray hairs were matted everywhere. Also, on the dash, directly in front of the steering wheel, was mounted a small video screen, presumably the one she had used to observe me inside the van.
Her right hand kept her pistol leveled at me, and with the other she removed her black balaclava hood and shook out her blond hair. As Chief Eric Tanner's witnesses attested, this was a lady who could spin a few heads; a little past thirty, cool blue eyes, tanned skin just turning wrinkly, pouty lips, and a firm chin. She was quite pretty, though a little slutty. Definitely not the type of girl Mom dreamed you'd bring home, but I think Pop would've enjoyed her. Except this lady had no heart and the black soul of a murderess.
Obeying perhaps her only law of the day, she buckled her seat belt. She said to me, 'Don't buckle yers. Try crashin' this truck, yer goin' through the windshield, not me.' She waved her pistol in front of my nose. 'What'n the hell you lookin' at? Move it.'
I pulled forward, and she directed me toward the far end of the parking lot. We sat on a long bench seat, and, showing sound survival skills, she scooted up against the passenger door and faced me. She said, 'Don't speed, neither. Git back on Route 50, toward D.C.'
After a moment, I commented, 'You lied.'
'I lie all the time. What's yer point?'
'There was no bomb.'
'Oh… yeah.' She looked around to see if any cops were in the vicinity. Unfortunately, they were all attending a convention on the other side of the mall, and it was smooth sailing. She looked at me and giggled. 'Now, don't you feel like a stupid ass? Law degree and all that… still, I bullshitted you down to yer underpants. You were shittin' yer drawers.'
'I never believed you in the first place.'
'Liar.' She laughed. 'I saw yer face through the camera, and heard you tell the FBI. Like hell you din't believe me.'
I laughed, too. 'It did kind of suck.'
I kept my eyes on the road, but after a moment I said to her, 'You know, every cop in the entire world is going to come after you. Forever. You murdered a lot of important people. They'll never forget. Never. Eventually, they'll get you.'
'Shut up.'
'I just thought you should know they're really pissed.'
'So what? They ain't impressed me yet.'
That was probably true. After another moment I said, 'What should I call you?'
'Don't call me nothin'. Shut up and drive.'
'Come on. Give me a name. You're going to kill me anyway. Think about it… What will it hurt?'
She seemed to consider this. Obviously, she had removed her balaclava because in this era of terrorphobia people get a little stressed when they see hooded people riding around town. Yet allowing me to see her face was bad news for me. In fact, I was clueless as to why they hadn't already whacked me. Somehow, I fit into their agenda. Probably it suited their purposes to keep a hostage until they were free and clear, not a second longer. In any event, her failure to contradict my assertion confirmed that I didn't have to worry about my dinner plans. She said, 'Mary-Lou.'
Why do all these people from Texas sound like country singers? I said, 'Pretty name.'
'Don't try that shit. We ain't gonna be friends.'
I looked at her. 'You're right, MaryLou, we'll never be friends. I'd just like my last few hours to pass pleasantly. Okay with you?'
We could hear, off in the distance, the screams of sirens, and again she twisted around and looked to be sure there weren't any flashing lights on our tail. No such luck.
I mentioned, 'Anyway, it doesn't matter. The Bureau already knows about you.'
'Yeah, right-nice try. They don't got a clue about me.'
'Well… look, I hate to be the harbinger of bad news here… but yeah… they really do.'
