Shiver (9 page)

The motor operating the winch had never sounded so loud. Sam winced as she switched it on and it roared to life, but there
was no help for it. There was no other way to put the car down. If anybody hunting them got within earshot, it was all over. The darkness, the deserted lot, the late hour, wouldn’t help one iota in the face of that nerve-jangling noise. Might as well beam a giant spotlight in the sky flashing
“we’re here, we’re here, we’re here”
and have done. By the time the Beemer’s front wheels touched the ground, Sam was so antsy she was ready to jump out of her skin. Her heart pounded like a piston in her chest. She was breathing way too fast. Casting anxious glances all around, she ran to disconnect the sling even as the car was still settling onto its tires.

“Come
on.
” Like a dog coming up short on the end of a too-restrictive leash, she gave an impatient tug to the cord tethering her to him as she moved faster than Quasimodo could keep pace. Unfastening the sling was the work of only a few moments, but she was sweating by the time she was done. At any second she expected to see cars screeching into the alley after them. Waiting impatiently as the winch and sling swung back into place, she shifted from foot to foot while her eyes darted everywhere. Her captor betrayed no similar signs of anxiety. He leaned against the truck’s rear fender just a few feet from where she guided the winch back into position. His head was lowered, his shoulders slumped, and the foot of his wounded leg barely touched the ground. The gun was no longer aimed at her, but rather pointed down. His hold on the cable that served as her leash seemed slack. Was he still watching her? She couldn’t be sure: the shadows obscuring his face were too dense.

As she shut the motor down and secured the winch and sling, she kept a covert eye on him. What was the likelihood that she could give the cable a hard jerk and successfully wrench the other end away from him? How was he holding it? She couldn’t quite see, but it was in his left hand, and she remembered that injured finger. How secure could his grip be? If she tried and succeeded, then maybe she could jump inside the truck and drive away. Or even just run for it. She was, she calculated, maybe seven miles from her duplex. On foot, it would take her . . .

“Let’s go.” He straightened and tightened his hold on the cable even as she did the math. She wondered if something in her body language had given her away.

Whatever, she had lost the chance. He now stood straighter, seeming fully alert. And he was definitely watching her. In response to his gesture, she walked around to the passenger door and opened it. A tiny glow deep in the recesses of the foot well caught her attention: her phone. Her eyes widened. Her heart lurched. His injuries made him slow, and he hadn’t quite caught up with her yet; she had still been contemplating the possibility of jumping inside and trying to slam and lock the door in his face when she had spotted her phone. Instead she used those few precious seconds to snatch up her phone, then slid it into the front pocket of her jeans as she clambered up into the truck and slid across into the driver’s seat.

First chance she got she was calling 911. Whether they believed she’d acted in self-defense or not, she would way rather
deal with the police than with whatever murderous criminals were on Quasimodo’s trail. At least with the police she wouldn’t have to worry about Tyler’s safety.

Although if they put her in jail, what would happen to him? And if Quasimodo was telling the truth and not just exaggerating to scare her, and someone went after Tyler, how would she be able to protect him if she was locked up in a cell?

Worrying the matter like a dog with a bone, she automatically started to untie the knot in the cord around her waist.

“Leave that alone, and get us the hell out of here.” Quasimodo sounded short of breath as he hitched himself onto the seat beside her and closed the door. The other end of the jumper cable was not only held in his left hand, she saw; it was also wrapped around his left arm, which meant that just jerking the cord out of his grip and running wouldn’t have worked even if she had tried it. He wasn’t taking any chances on losing her, it seemed, and his forethought earned him a spurt of grudging admiration. The gun he had thrust into the waistband of his jeans. The butt protruded; he would be able to grab it easily. His wounded leg angled stiffly down into the foot well, so that he had to turn sideways in the seat to accommodate it. He wasn’t looking at her, but rather out through the passenger-side window. It was hard to be sure, but she thought his expression was grim. Sam followed his gaze, then stiffened, her attention riveted by the intermittent bursts of light that he, too, must be watching. The headlights of a car speeding down Story, just glimpsed between the buildings lining the street. Identifying the light bursts made her breath catch.

The car was moving way too fast to be anything but bad news, and it was coming from the direction of the scrap yard. Of course, there were lots of reasons cars might be speeding through East St. Louis, and a number of places in that general direction that the car could have been coming from besides the scrap yard, but still she caught her lower lip between her teeth and wrenched the truck into gear.

“Go left.” There was tension in his voice.

Since left was away from Story, she was down with that. Even as she complied, Sam saw a second set of headlights racing behind the first.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. It was tempting to floor it, but trying to speed away over the alley’s pitted asphalt would, she feared, make way too much noise. At the best of times the truck was an unpredictable collection of rattles and groans. At full speed, over rough terrain like the broken pavement of the alley, it could get loud enough to wake the dead. All it took was one person looking out one window to see what was up. Just in case no one from the tenements had noticed her truck preparing to tow away the Beemer earlier, she didn’t want to draw anyone’s attention to the name and number on the side of the truck now.

“Do you think that’s them?” She glanced fearfully back over her shoulder as she spoke. The first vehicle was nearing the gas station. If it were following the Beemer’s GPS signal, it would turn into the alley in the next few seconds.

“Don’t know.” He shifted so he could look out the rear window as she drove as fast as she dared toward the end of the alley.
The truck trundled over the ruts, making way more noise than Sam would have liked even at the relatively sober speed she was keeping it to. With the window blown out, she could hear every clank and rattle. “But I’d rather not find out.”

“Me neither.” Nearing the end of the alley, Sam braked just enough to make the turn safely. Remembering the brake lights, which were intact, she winced at the sudden mental picture she had of them glowing brilliant orange through the darkness. The alley was straight; anyone turning in would be able to see the twin red lights shining at its far end. As the truck slowed with its usual painful screech, she glanced fearfully into the rearview mirror. As far as she could see, there were no headlights turning into the alley, which didn’t mean that it couldn’t happen at any second.

“Not that way.” He shook his head as she eased up on the brake and started to pull the wheel around so they were headed toward town. “Go north.”

Her eyes widened. “There’s nothing that way.”

“The expressway on-ramp is that way.”

The expressway on-ramp. Where was he planning to make her drive him? Her already frayed nerves stretched tighter. She couldn’t just disappear.

“Home’s the other way. I need to go home. Like I said, I have a little boy.” There was a note of genuine desperation in her voice.

CHAPTER SIX

“Y
ou really want to take this home with you?” Quasimodo must have read the instant negative in her face, because he gave a jerk of his head toward the north and once again said, “That way.”

Sam’s lips tightened, but she turned the way he wanted. What choice did she have? Leading trouble right back to Tyler was the very last thing she wanted to do. He would be asleep right now in his bed in their duplex, with Mrs. Menifee stretched out on the couch, probably sleeping, too.
Take me home safe to him.
She wasn’t a praying person, because in her experience praying was pretty much a waste of time, but for Tyler’s sake she sent the plea winging skyward as she cast another glance at the rearview mirror: still nothing. But the truck had no sooner made the turn and started to chug away down the street than she caught a glimpse of headlights pulling into what she thought, from the headlights’ position, must be the other end of the alley the truck had just exited. She sucked in air. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Look,” she breathed, but he was already looking. From his
expression she knew he was harboring the same suspicion she was. “Do you think it’s them?”

“No way to be sure.”

But his tone told her that he thought it was likely.

Her stomach tied itself into a knot. “That was quick.”

“Yeah, well, they want me real bad.”

Her chest tightened.

“Why?” The question was almost a wail. It emerged of its own volition even as she glanced fearfully back at the lights.

“Let’s just say I pissed some people off.”

Sam’s lips tightened as she shot him a scathing glance, but she knew that was all the explanation she was going to get. She didn’t really want to know the answer anyway. Like he had said earlier, the less she knew, the safer she probably was. One thing she had learned in the course of growing up in East St. Louis was that too much curiosity could get you killed. Mind your own business, do your own thing, look the other way: those were words to live by. Anyway, she didn’t care what Quasimodo had done. All she wanted was to get away from him, grab her son, and run somewhere safe where she could hide until it was all clear and things got back to normal. To think that earlier she was pretty much hating her life. Would she ever complain about it again? Knowing herself, Sam gave a wry inner grimace. Probably, but only after this night was a distant memory. Because at least in her regular life she and Tyler were together, and she wasn’t afraid they were going to die. Panic dampened her palms and dried her throat as she thought of her son: whatever it took, she had to get
back to him. Fighting off the urge to scream or launch herself on her captor or do something else totally unproductive, she looked toward the headlights again. Had the car stopped? She couldn’t tell for sure. It would have stopped if whoever was driving had been looking for the Beemer and found it.

“You got any more bullets for this gun?” He had pulled the revolver out of his waistband and was checking the cylinder.

The question rattled her. “No.” A building blocked her view of the alley. No way to tell what was up with the headlights now.

“Too bad.” Snapping the cylinder back into place, he thrust it back into his waistband.

Sam’s heart stuttered. “What, are you planning a shootout?”

“I like to know where I stand.”

Her eyes fastened on him. She realized that until now she must have been in some kind of shock that had dulled her responses. Fear suddenly felt as sharp and painful as a stomach full of glass shards. She was cold all over, and breathless.

Her mouth was so dry she had to swallow before she could speak. “Let me go. Please.”

He met her gaze. Her eyes blazed with intensity, she knew. For a moment, as their gazes met, she thought—maybe. Then he gave a single negative shake of his head.

“Like I said, it’s too late for that.”

“Bullshit.” Casting another scared glance toward the alley, she saw another building instead. It was one of a long row lining the block. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The look she
shot him was hunted. “You could absolutely let me go if you wanted to, and we both know it.”

“We’ve been over this before: I can’t drive. Anyway, even if I could let you go, I wouldn’t. You’d just get yourself killed.”

Try as she might, she could see nothing more of what was happening around the Beemer, so she ignored her pounding heart to concentrate on putting as much distance between them and it as she could. The street was largely deserted so late at night, but signs that people were near abounded. Cars were parked all along the curb. A man emerged from one of them and hurried inside a building even as the wrecker trundled past. A couple of lights in upstairs windows made Sam think that they were apartments in which people might be still awake. Knowing that potential help was so close was tantalizing, but she knew, too, that there was no way to take advantage of it. Closing her mind to the impossible, she stepped harder on the accelerator. Seeing what the headlights in the alley were up to was now impossible; escaping while the escaping was good was something she could still do.