the top of the long straight slope down toward the Valley, Peter drove forward to flash his high beams into the Colt’s rearview mirror.
The Colt at once braked hard, swerving off onto the shoulder of the road. Peter did the same, dropping farther back, and the two vehicles stopped about four lengths apart. The Colt’s driver’s door opened, but from his angle Mark couldn’t see what was happening. “Is he getting out?”
“No. He put the case on the ground.”
The Colt’s door closed, and the car at once spurted away, throwing gravel in its wake, leaving behind a small brown-leather case with a handle; it was about the right size and shape to carry two liquor bottles. Peter drove forward, stopped next to the case; Mark opened the door, picked it up, then slammed his door and Peter accelerated.
The case opened like a book, revealing in the faint glow of the map-light a dark blue plush interior separated into more than a dozen small compartments; it reminded Mark of cliff dwellings in photographs. A folded sheet of paper proved to contain the doctor’s instructions; Mark put it away in a pocket and returned his attention to the case.
Each compartment contained a bottle or box, with a small plush strap across to keep the contents in place. Mark murmured to himself, “One of these buttons?” His thumb stroked the chrome snaps on each of the straps, feeling for one to be different. “No; they didn’t have time for structural changes. In one of the bottles.”
Peter meanwhile was driving rapidly down the slope toward the Valley, where the Ventura Freeway crossed this one, in an interchange with almost limitless options. While Mark went through the bottles, opening each, emptying the contents into his palm and then returning them, Peter took the exit ramp for the VenturaFreeway east, then switched back to the San Diego Freeway north, then at the last instant took another downramp to the local streets. His rearview mirror told him that no one had followed him through all his maneuvers.
Mark had finished his first scanning of the case by now, and had found nothing. He was frowning at it, thinking it over, stroking his beard, considering the possibilities. Peter said, “Nothing?”
“I don’t believe it. Wait a minute. Inside a capsule!” He reached for a bottle, shook a dozen or more large capsules into his palm, then picked them up one at a time, shaking each next to his ear before putting it back in the bottle propped on his lap. The capsules were red and green, opaque, and contained something with the consistency of coarse sand; a faint rattling sound could be heard inside each.
Except one. Mark nodded in satisfaction when he reached it. “Right,” he said.
Peter seemed honestly surprised. “Did they really?”
“Really.” Dumping the rest of the capsules back into the bottle, Mark broke open the odd one, and there in his palm was the transmitter, a tiny bug no bigger than a shirt button.
“Those stupid bastards,” Peter said.
A cold rage lived deep within Mark, ready to be stirred by almost anything. It was rising now, making his face bonier beneath the beard, making his voice softer and colder. “What we should do,” he said, “is dump this whole case out into the street and let them decide if he dies first or they deal first.”
“No,” Peter said. “As long as he’s alive and unhurt, they have to be cautious against us.”
Mark held up the hand with the bug in it. “Like this?”
“Devious, but cautious. Go ahead and use your package.”
“Right.” Tucking the bug into his shirt pocket, Mark closed thepill-case and put it on the back seat, then brought forward the brown paper bag, which seemed fairly heavy. He opened the bag, then reached in to remove the twisty sealing the Baggie within. When the Baggie was opened, a stench filled the car.
“Jesus!” said Peter.
“Won’t be long.” Mark dropped the transmitter into the Baggie, sealed it again, and closed the paper bag.
The Colt at once braked hard, swerving off onto the shoulder of the road. Peter did the same, dropping farther back, and the two vehicles stopped about four lengths apart. The Colt’s driver’s door opened, but from his angle Mark couldn’t see what was happening. “Is he getting out?”
“No. He put the case on the ground.”
The Colt’s door closed, and the car at once spurted away, throwing gravel in its wake, leaving behind a small brown-leather case with a handle; it was about the right size and shape to carry two liquor bottles. Peter drove forward, stopped next to the case; Mark opened the door, picked it up, then slammed his door and Peter accelerated.
The case opened like a book, revealing in the faint glow of the map-light a dark blue plush interior separated into more than a dozen small compartments; it reminded Mark of cliff dwellings in photographs. A folded sheet of paper proved to contain the doctor’s instructions; Mark put it away in a pocket and returned his attention to the case.
Each compartment contained a bottle or box, with a small plush strap across to keep the contents in place. Mark murmured to himself, “One of these buttons?” His thumb stroked the chrome snaps on each of the straps, feeling for one to be different. “No; they didn’t have time for structural changes. In one of the bottles.”
Peter meanwhile was driving rapidly down the slope toward the Valley, where the Ventura Freeway crossed this one, in an interchange with almost limitless options. While Mark went through the bottles, opening each, emptying the contents into his palm and then returning them, Peter took the exit ramp for the VenturaFreeway east, then switched back to the San Diego Freeway north, then at the last instant took another downramp to the local streets. His rearview mirror told him that no one had followed him through all his maneuvers.
Mark had finished his first scanning of the case by now, and had found nothing. He was frowning at it, thinking it over, stroking his beard, considering the possibilities. Peter said, “Nothing?”
“I don’t believe it. Wait a minute. Inside a capsule!” He reached for a bottle, shook a dozen or more large capsules into his palm, then picked them up one at a time, shaking each next to his ear before putting it back in the bottle propped on his lap. The capsules were red and green, opaque, and contained something with the consistency of coarse sand; a faint rattling sound could be heard inside each.
Except one. Mark nodded in satisfaction when he reached it. “Right,” he said.
Peter seemed honestly surprised. “Did they really?”
“Really.” Dumping the rest of the capsules back into the bottle, Mark broke open the odd one, and there in his palm was the transmitter, a tiny bug no bigger than a shirt button.
“Those stupid bastards,” Peter said.
A cold rage lived deep within Mark, ready to be stirred by almost anything. It was rising now, making his face bonier beneath the beard, making his voice softer and colder. “What we should do,” he said, “is dump this whole case out into the street and let them decide if he dies first or they deal first.”
“No,” Peter said. “As long as he’s alive and unhurt, they have to be cautious against us.”
Mark held up the hand with the bug in it. “Like this?”
“Devious, but cautious. Go ahead and use your package.”
“Right.” Tucking the bug into his shirt pocket, Mark closed thepill-case and put it on the back seat, then brought forward the brown paper bag, which seemed fairly heavy. He opened the bag, then reached in to remove the twisty sealing the Baggie within. When the Baggie was opened, a stench filled the car.
“Jesus!” said Peter.
“Won’t be long.” Mark dropped the transmitter into the Baggie, sealed it again, and closed the paper bag.
Similar Books
