what might happen if they returned to find the door unlocked. They would
hunt me down before I managed to get off the property.
I flew back, locked both dead bolts using the key, then ran up the stairs. It was now a race—either I’d get out the front
door without being seen, or I was dead.
My heart was weak from the lack of exercise, and it was flopping like a waterless fish. I was sure they’d opened the doors
from the outside, so I sprinted for the side door leading into the garage, thinking I could slip out the back of the garage
and then…
I didn’t know what then. I only had to get out of the house before they saw me.
The door was open. I yanked it wide and for the first time stepped into Lamont’s garage. Light streamed in through two small
windows near the ceiling. I closed the door behind me and allowed myself to breathe.
Lamont’s BMW was gone. A white Audi sedan sat in the third bay. As much as I would have liked to zoom away to safety in a
car, I wasn’t sure I could still drive well enough to navigate busy streets. Or, for that matter, lead a chase through those
streets—they wouldn’t just let me drive away. Besides, I didn’t have the keys.
I tiptoed to a door that led out the back, twisted the lock, and pulled it open a crack. I recognized the terrain leading
down to the rocky beach. No one blocked the way that I could see.
Now the challenge of getting away from the house unseen confronted me. My tender feet couldn’t exactly blaze a trail through
the underbrush, and running down the street in nothing but a flannel top, with a sack that look conspicuously like pajama
bottoms stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, was hardly the way to slip into obscurity.
I stood with the garage door opened a foot, frozen by the thought that I had come so far only to go nowhere.
The Audi was there to my left. The Audi had a trunk. What if I hid in the trunk until they left?
I heard the solid clunk of a door closing inside the house, and that got my feet moving in the direction of the car. I only hoped that there was
a way to open the trunk from the dash. And that the Audi wasn’t locked. What if the Audi was locked?
The driver’s door came open when I pulled the handle. Thank God. Thank God, thank God. I dropped my two-legged bag on the
ground by the driver’s door before slipping into the front seat. I pushed buttons and pulled levers, praying for the right
one. The hood popped halfway; the steering wheel tilted up. Where was the trunk release?
I muttered something nasty in a raspy voice.
The lever that opened the trunk was located to the left of the steering wheel. I learned this when I jerked it and was rewarded
with a solid pop behind me.
Elated, I dipped out, grabbed my makeshift moneybag, and ran to the rear. I threw the stuffed pajamas into the trunk and was
starting to climb in when I saw that I’d left the driver’s door open. Nothing I did was smooth, but at least I was thinking
on my feet.
It took me five seconds to close the door.
It took me fifteen to get into the trunk, because when I had one leg inside, I realized I couldn’t lock myself in. How would
I get out? I pulled my leg out and stared dumbfounded until I saw the cord with a handle marked TRUNK RELEASE .
Of course! All cars must have a simple means of escape for stowaways. Moments later, I was in the dark trunk with my back
to the money-filled pajamas, sweating profusely and breathing hard but otherwise alive and safe.
For the moment.
Hidden away in the trunk, I could hear nothing but my breathing, which gradually slowed until I was able to draw air through
my nose. Then the real wait began. A dozen times I was tempted to pull that cord and see if Bourque’s men had gone. How would
I know?
I would wait until dark, I decided. Once it was dark, I could climb out and sneak around unnoticed. Then again, legs as white
as mine would likely be noticed half a mile down the road. Maybe I
hunt me down before I managed to get off the property.
I flew back, locked both dead bolts using the key, then ran up the stairs. It was now a race—either I’d get out the front
door without being seen, or I was dead.
My heart was weak from the lack of exercise, and it was flopping like a waterless fish. I was sure they’d opened the doors
from the outside, so I sprinted for the side door leading into the garage, thinking I could slip out the back of the garage
and then…
I didn’t know what then. I only had to get out of the house before they saw me.
The door was open. I yanked it wide and for the first time stepped into Lamont’s garage. Light streamed in through two small
windows near the ceiling. I closed the door behind me and allowed myself to breathe.
Lamont’s BMW was gone. A white Audi sedan sat in the third bay. As much as I would have liked to zoom away to safety in a
car, I wasn’t sure I could still drive well enough to navigate busy streets. Or, for that matter, lead a chase through those
streets—they wouldn’t just let me drive away. Besides, I didn’t have the keys.
I tiptoed to a door that led out the back, twisted the lock, and pulled it open a crack. I recognized the terrain leading
down to the rocky beach. No one blocked the way that I could see.
Now the challenge of getting away from the house unseen confronted me. My tender feet couldn’t exactly blaze a trail through
the underbrush, and running down the street in nothing but a flannel top, with a sack that look conspicuously like pajama
bottoms stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, was hardly the way to slip into obscurity.
I stood with the garage door opened a foot, frozen by the thought that I had come so far only to go nowhere.
The Audi was there to my left. The Audi had a trunk. What if I hid in the trunk until they left?
I heard the solid clunk of a door closing inside the house, and that got my feet moving in the direction of the car. I only hoped that there was
a way to open the trunk from the dash. And that the Audi wasn’t locked. What if the Audi was locked?
The driver’s door came open when I pulled the handle. Thank God. Thank God, thank God. I dropped my two-legged bag on the
ground by the driver’s door before slipping into the front seat. I pushed buttons and pulled levers, praying for the right
one. The hood popped halfway; the steering wheel tilted up. Where was the trunk release?
I muttered something nasty in a raspy voice.
The lever that opened the trunk was located to the left of the steering wheel. I learned this when I jerked it and was rewarded
with a solid pop behind me.
Elated, I dipped out, grabbed my makeshift moneybag, and ran to the rear. I threw the stuffed pajamas into the trunk and was
starting to climb in when I saw that I’d left the driver’s door open. Nothing I did was smooth, but at least I was thinking
on my feet.
It took me five seconds to close the door.
It took me fifteen to get into the trunk, because when I had one leg inside, I realized I couldn’t lock myself in. How would
I get out? I pulled my leg out and stared dumbfounded until I saw the cord with a handle marked TRUNK RELEASE .
Of course! All cars must have a simple means of escape for stowaways. Moments later, I was in the dark trunk with my back
to the money-filled pajamas, sweating profusely and breathing hard but otherwise alive and safe.
For the moment.
Hidden away in the trunk, I could hear nothing but my breathing, which gradually slowed until I was able to draw air through
my nose. Then the real wait began. A dozen times I was tempted to pull that cord and see if Bourque’s men had gone. How would
I know?
I would wait until dark, I decided. Once it was dark, I could climb out and sneak around unnoticed. Then again, legs as white
as mine would likely be noticed half a mile down the road. Maybe I
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