The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley Page B
Authors: A. J. Hartley
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Antiquities, greece, Theft from museums, Museum curators
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drive around for an hour. Or go and walk in Piedmont Park. Yes. Follow the route home, park on Ju- niper, and take a walk round the lake.
The idea gave her a sense of purpose, and she relaxed a fraction, slipping into her familiar mode as she let the flow of the traffic siphon off her anxiety. Her conscious mind, calmer now, returned to the conversation she had overheard in the bathroom. Could she have misheard? It was possible, she supposed, but she was prepared to bet she hadn't. Could it have been some kind of private joke? Less likely still. So Keene suspected that Cerniga--the man in charge of the investigation into Richard's death--was not actually a cop at all? How was that possible? What did it mean?
Coming around the Grady Curve she was still in the inside lane with a sheer concrete wall to her right, and the less conscious part of her brain which was focused on the driving interrupted her other thoughts with a nod toward a familiar sign: Right Lane Ends, 1500 Feet.
She checked her wing mirror and began to move left, swerving back sharply when she saw a truck, which had been nestling in her blind spot.
Pay attention!
89
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
She shrugged all other considerations off and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
The truck to her left was still there, apparently oblivious to the fact she had almost hit him. She sped up to ease past, but the truck (now that she got a look at it, it was actually a van) matched her speed.
Typical.
"Go ahead, then, you macho idiot," she muttered, slowing down to let him go. She didn't have enough road to argue the point, and the Atlanta traffic moved at unforgiving speeds. Without a hard shoulder and with only a concrete wall to her right, there was no room for error.
The van slowed with her, its front end keeping perfect pace with hers. Deborah turned to give the driver a steely glare, but the windows of the van were heavily tinted, and she couldn't see in.
Van?
Two things struck her in rapid succession. This was the same van which had burned rubber trying to stay up with her when she had first come onto the interstate. The driver to her left was not just some road-raging moron playing high-speed chicken.
Lane Ends 1000 Feet, said the sign overhead. Merge Left.
"I'm trying to," she said.
She turned on her signal and blew her horn. He didn't move. She didn't expect him to. He had followed her from the museum and had boxed her in on purpose. She accelerated to fifty, then sixty miles an hour. Ahead she could see the lane turn into a narrow wedge marked by orange cones which lined a dog-legged concrete wall that kicked into her path. The van beside her accelerated and inched fractionally over the line into her lane. He was squeezing her in. To her right the dark mass of the wall swelled suddenly. She was running out of room. Through her mounting panic, Deborah glimpsed one thing with absolute certainty: if he didn't move and she hit the wall ahead at this speed, the collision would kill her.
90
A. J. Hartley
Lane Ends 500 Feet.
She braked hard, so hard in fact that the rear of the Toyota slewed slightly, and part of her tail caught the cement apron beside her with a sudden bang, followed by a singing screech of metal. For a split second the van beside her seemed to pull ahead, but then it was braking too, slowing down to hem her in.
She was down to twenty-five miles an hour, but the wall ahead was looming large.
Fine, she thought, I'll stop completely. But then what? What if he stops too? What if he gets out?
For the briefest instant she saw Richard's body lying there on the floor, so pale, so old. Whoever had done that to him had been without mercy.
She fixed her eyes on the concrete wall ahead and slammed the accelerator to the floor.
CHAPTER 20
It was an insane thing to do. It was, she thought as the solid gray mass hurtled toward her, reckless, suicidal. It was also the last thing the van driver had expected, and by the time he realized what
The idea gave her a sense of purpose, and she relaxed a fraction, slipping into her familiar mode as she let the flow of the traffic siphon off her anxiety. Her conscious mind, calmer now, returned to the conversation she had overheard in the bathroom. Could she have misheard? It was possible, she supposed, but she was prepared to bet she hadn't. Could it have been some kind of private joke? Less likely still. So Keene suspected that Cerniga--the man in charge of the investigation into Richard's death--was not actually a cop at all? How was that possible? What did it mean?
Coming around the Grady Curve she was still in the inside lane with a sheer concrete wall to her right, and the less conscious part of her brain which was focused on the driving interrupted her other thoughts with a nod toward a familiar sign: Right Lane Ends, 1500 Feet.
She checked her wing mirror and began to move left, swerving back sharply when she saw a truck, which had been nestling in her blind spot.
Pay attention!
89
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
She shrugged all other considerations off and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
The truck to her left was still there, apparently oblivious to the fact she had almost hit him. She sped up to ease past, but the truck (now that she got a look at it, it was actually a van) matched her speed.
Typical.
"Go ahead, then, you macho idiot," she muttered, slowing down to let him go. She didn't have enough road to argue the point, and the Atlanta traffic moved at unforgiving speeds. Without a hard shoulder and with only a concrete wall to her right, there was no room for error.
The van slowed with her, its front end keeping perfect pace with hers. Deborah turned to give the driver a steely glare, but the windows of the van were heavily tinted, and she couldn't see in.
Van?
Two things struck her in rapid succession. This was the same van which had burned rubber trying to stay up with her when she had first come onto the interstate. The driver to her left was not just some road-raging moron playing high-speed chicken.
Lane Ends 1000 Feet, said the sign overhead. Merge Left.
"I'm trying to," she said.
She turned on her signal and blew her horn. He didn't move. She didn't expect him to. He had followed her from the museum and had boxed her in on purpose. She accelerated to fifty, then sixty miles an hour. Ahead she could see the lane turn into a narrow wedge marked by orange cones which lined a dog-legged concrete wall that kicked into her path. The van beside her accelerated and inched fractionally over the line into her lane. He was squeezing her in. To her right the dark mass of the wall swelled suddenly. She was running out of room. Through her mounting panic, Deborah glimpsed one thing with absolute certainty: if he didn't move and she hit the wall ahead at this speed, the collision would kill her.
90
A. J. Hartley
Lane Ends 500 Feet.
She braked hard, so hard in fact that the rear of the Toyota slewed slightly, and part of her tail caught the cement apron beside her with a sudden bang, followed by a singing screech of metal. For a split second the van beside her seemed to pull ahead, but then it was braking too, slowing down to hem her in.
She was down to twenty-five miles an hour, but the wall ahead was looming large.
Fine, she thought, I'll stop completely. But then what? What if he stops too? What if he gets out?
For the briefest instant she saw Richard's body lying there on the floor, so pale, so old. Whoever had done that to him had been without mercy.
She fixed her eyes on the concrete wall ahead and slammed the accelerator to the floor.
CHAPTER 20
It was an insane thing to do. It was, she thought as the solid gray mass hurtled toward her, reckless, suicidal. It was also the last thing the van driver had expected, and by the time he realized what
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