signals. He swerved past slower cars. His tires screamed on the turns. He had a hard time breathing. The steering wheel was slick in his hands, but he held on tight – except when he had to let go, one hand at a time, to wipe the tears from his eyes.
I’ll never make it in time, he thought.
Please, God, save her. Don’t let him kill her. Please!
Lower in his mind, he figured that God probably didn’t have much to do with it.
Maybe, he thought. You never know.
I already saved her once, tonight. What are the odds I can do it again? It’d be a miracle .
Let’s have a miracle! Please!
The real miracles, he realized, seemed to be working for the other side. That was the same guy. He had been shot at least twice – once in the head. But he’d still been able to get up and drive over to Elise’s house and jump her.
No bullet-proof vest, either. That’s movie stuff. That’s cop stuff. Maybe some nut-cases do wear vests, but not this guy. Neal had noticed, way back at the start, how he’d been able to see the shape of the guy’s cadaverous torso through the skin-tight shirt.
I hit the bastard, Neal thought. Hit him good.
Not good enough .
Maybe he’s close to the end of his rope.
But those punches Elise caught in the guts hadn’t felt like they’d come from a guy on the verge of collapse. They’d been damn hard. And the way he’d picked her up by the hair . . .
But who knows?
He can’t keep going and going forever.
Maybe she’ll be able to take him. Hurt him enough to get away. Or enough to slow him down.
Neal had the green at Olympic Boulevard. Not that it mattered. Red, amber or green, he wouldn’t have stopped. He’d been blowing through intersections against the red all down Venice Boulevard, Centinela, and now Bundy. Hoping not to end the race with a crash. Hoping a cop might see him and give chase.
Tonight, the cops must be somewhere else.
Soon, he shot across Santa Monica Boulevard.
Almost there, he thought. A few more minutes.
Fight him, Elise! Hang on.
What if they’re gone?
Last time, the bastard hadn’t worked on her in the house; he’d driven her away.
Maybe he’ll do that again, carry her out to the van and head for somewhere else.
Maybe he’s too hurt to carry her.
Find out soon.
At the corner of Bundy and San Vicente, the traffic light was red. The intersection looked clear. Knowing he would probably flip over if he took the turn at full speed, he slowed down slightly. He swung left. He skidded, tires squealing. Came out of the skid, and stepped on the gas.
Greenhaven coming up.
Nothing in the rearview.
Bearing down on Greenhaven, he hit the brakes. Slowed abruptly and almost came to a stop before making his turn onto the narrow lane.
As he raced the final stretch to Elise’s house, he knew he’d made good time.
Must’ve averaged sixty.
Doubted he could’ve gone faster.
But the guy’d had at least ten minutes with Elise. More like fifteen.
No sign of the van.
Was it just around the bend? Or gone? Gone with Elise inside?
As Neal swung into her driveway, his headlights reached past the open iron gate and lit the rear of a black van parked in front of Elise’s garage.
The sight of the van struck him like a kick to the heart.
Still here, he thought. Oh, God.
He killed his lights, shut off the engine, pulled the ignition key and switched the key case to his left hand. With his right, he flipped open the console and dug for the bottom.
Come on, come on, where is it!
He found the spare ammo magazine.
Snatched it up.
Flung open his door and leaped out.
Running toward the van, he pocketed the keys. He clamped the steel magazine between his teeth, reached deep into his right pocket and drew out the pistol.
The van was dark and quiet.
Engine not running.
Not yet.
You’re not going anywhere, bastard, he thought.
Ducking as he rushed past the rear, he shoved his pistol toward the tire and fired. The blast stunned his ears. The gun bucked in his hand.
I’ll never make it in time, he thought.
Please, God, save her. Don’t let him kill her. Please!
Lower in his mind, he figured that God probably didn’t have much to do with it.
Maybe, he thought. You never know.
I already saved her once, tonight. What are the odds I can do it again? It’d be a miracle .
Let’s have a miracle! Please!
The real miracles, he realized, seemed to be working for the other side. That was the same guy. He had been shot at least twice – once in the head. But he’d still been able to get up and drive over to Elise’s house and jump her.
No bullet-proof vest, either. That’s movie stuff. That’s cop stuff. Maybe some nut-cases do wear vests, but not this guy. Neal had noticed, way back at the start, how he’d been able to see the shape of the guy’s cadaverous torso through the skin-tight shirt.
I hit the bastard, Neal thought. Hit him good.
Not good enough .
Maybe he’s close to the end of his rope.
But those punches Elise caught in the guts hadn’t felt like they’d come from a guy on the verge of collapse. They’d been damn hard. And the way he’d picked her up by the hair . . .
But who knows?
He can’t keep going and going forever.
Maybe she’ll be able to take him. Hurt him enough to get away. Or enough to slow him down.
Neal had the green at Olympic Boulevard. Not that it mattered. Red, amber or green, he wouldn’t have stopped. He’d been blowing through intersections against the red all down Venice Boulevard, Centinela, and now Bundy. Hoping not to end the race with a crash. Hoping a cop might see him and give chase.
Tonight, the cops must be somewhere else.
Soon, he shot across Santa Monica Boulevard.
Almost there, he thought. A few more minutes.
Fight him, Elise! Hang on.
What if they’re gone?
Last time, the bastard hadn’t worked on her in the house; he’d driven her away.
Maybe he’ll do that again, carry her out to the van and head for somewhere else.
Maybe he’s too hurt to carry her.
Find out soon.
At the corner of Bundy and San Vicente, the traffic light was red. The intersection looked clear. Knowing he would probably flip over if he took the turn at full speed, he slowed down slightly. He swung left. He skidded, tires squealing. Came out of the skid, and stepped on the gas.
Greenhaven coming up.
Nothing in the rearview.
Bearing down on Greenhaven, he hit the brakes. Slowed abruptly and almost came to a stop before making his turn onto the narrow lane.
As he raced the final stretch to Elise’s house, he knew he’d made good time.
Must’ve averaged sixty.
Doubted he could’ve gone faster.
But the guy’d had at least ten minutes with Elise. More like fifteen.
No sign of the van.
Was it just around the bend? Or gone? Gone with Elise inside?
As Neal swung into her driveway, his headlights reached past the open iron gate and lit the rear of a black van parked in front of Elise’s garage.
The sight of the van struck him like a kick to the heart.
Still here, he thought. Oh, God.
He killed his lights, shut off the engine, pulled the ignition key and switched the key case to his left hand. With his right, he flipped open the console and dug for the bottom.
Come on, come on, where is it!
He found the spare ammo magazine.
Snatched it up.
Flung open his door and leaped out.
Running toward the van, he pocketed the keys. He clamped the steel magazine between his teeth, reached deep into his right pocket and drew out the pistol.
The van was dark and quiet.
Engine not running.
Not yet.
You’re not going anywhere, bastard, he thought.
Ducking as he rushed past the rear, he shoved his pistol toward the tire and fired. The blast stunned his ears. The gun bucked in his hand.
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