Zack didn't immediately reply. At the intersection up ahead, there was a deserted gas station and at the edge of the empty lot near the road was an open phone booth. "I'd like to make a phone call if you wouldn't mind stopping. It won't take more than a couple of minutes."
"I don't mind at all." Julie pulled the Blazer to a stop underneath the street lamp near the phone booth and watched him walk across the headlight's beams. Dusk had descended even earlier than usual, and the storm seemed to be outrunning them, dumping snow with surprising force, even for the blustery Texas Panhandle. Deciding to exchange her bulky coat for a cardigan sweater that would be more comfortable while she drove, she turned on the radio, hoping for a weather forecast, then she got out of the car, walked around to the tailgate, and opened it.
With the tailgate down she could hear the Amarillo announcer extolling the wisdom of buying a new car at Wilson Ford:
"Bob Wilson will meet any price, anywhere, anytime…" he enthused.
Listening for a mention of the weather, she took off her coat, pulled her tan mohair sweater out of her suitcase, and glanced at the map that was sticking out of his duffel bag. Since she didn't have a map with her and wasn't entirely sure what route would intersect with the interstate or if she was taking her passenger so far out of his way that he'd prefer to try to hitchhike with someone else, she decided to look at his map. She glanced at him in the phone booth, intending to hold up the map and ask his permission, but his shoulder was turned to her and he seemed to be speaking into the phone. Deciding he couldn't possibly object, Julie folded the typewritten instructions back and opened the map he'd been studying. Spreading it across the tailgate, she held the ends down while the wind tried to whip them out of her hands. It took a full moment before she realized it wasn't a map of Texas, but of Colorado. Puzzled, she glanced at the neatly typed instructions attached to the map:
"Exactly 26.4 miles after you've passed the town of Stanton," it said, "you'll come to an unmarked crossroads. After that, begin looking for a narrow dirt road that branches off from the right and disappears into the trees about fifteen yards off the highway. The house is at the end of that road, about five miles from your turnoff, and is not visible from the highway or any side of the mountain."
Julie's lips parted in surprise. He was heading not for a job in some unknown Texas town, but for a house in Colorado?
On the radio, the announcer finished his commercial and said, "We'll have an update on the storm coming our way, but first, here's some late breaking news from the sheriff's department…"
Julie scarcely heard him, she was staring at the tall man using the phone, and she felt again that strange, slithering unease … of shadowy familiarity. He'd kept his shoulder turned to her, but he'd removed his sunglasses and was holding them in his hand now. As if he sensed she was staring at him, he twisted his head toward her. His eyes narrowed on the open map in her hands at the same instant Julie had her first clear, brightly lit view of his face without the concealing sunglasses.
"At approximately four o'clock this afternoon," said the voice on the radio, "Prison officials discovered that convicted murderer Zachary Benedict escaped while in Amarillo—"
Momentarily paralyzed, Julie stared at that rugged, harsh face of his.
And she recognized it.
"No!" she cried as he dropped the phone and started running toward her. She bolted around her side of the car, yanking her door open and diving across the front seat, slapping at the lock on the passenger door a split second after he yanked the door open and grabbed for her wrist. With a strength born of pure terror, she managed to wrench her arm free and throw herself sideways through her open door. She hit the ground on her hip, scrambled to her feet, and started running, her feet sliding on the slippery snow, screaming for someone to help, knowing there was no one around to hear her. He caught her before she'd run five yards and yanked her around and back, trapping her against the side of the Blazer. "Hold still and shut up!"
"Take the car!" Julie cried. "Take it and leave me here."
Ignoring her, he looked over his shoulder at the map of Colorado that had blown against a rusty trash container fifteen feet away when she dropped it. As if in slow motion, Julie watched him remove a shiny black object from his pocket and point it at her, while he backed toward the map and picked it up. A gun. God in heaven, he had a gun!
Her entire body began to tremble uncontrollably while she listened in a kind of hysterical disbelief to the newscaster's voice belatedly confirming that fact as the news bulletin came to an end: "Benedict is believed to be armed and he is dangerous. If seen, his whereabouts should be reported immediately to the Amarillo police. Citizens should not attempt to approach him. A second escaped convict, Dominic Sandini, has been apprehended and taken into custody…"
Her knees threatened to buckle as she watched him coming toward her with a gun in one hand and the map and directions blowing from his other hand. Headlights crested the hill a quarter of a mile away, and he slid the gun back into his pocket to keep it out of sight, but he kept his hand there with it. "Get into the car," he ordered.
Julie flashed a look over her left shoulder at the approaching pickup truck, frantically calculating the impossible odds of outrunning a bullet or even being able to attract the notice of the vehicle's driver before Zachary Benedict shot her down. "Don't try it," he warned in a deadly voice.
Her heart thundering against her ribs, she watched the pickup turn left at the crossroads, but she didn't disobey his order. Not here, not yet. Instinct warned her that this deserted stretch of road was too isolated to succeed in anything but getting killed.
"Get moving!" He took her arm and headed her to the open door on the driver's side. Cloaked in the deepening dusk of a snowy winter evening, Julie Mathison walked unsteadily beside a convicted murderer who was holding a gun on her. She had the chilling sensation they were both living a scene from one of his own movies—the one where the hostage got killed.
Chapter 18
Her hands shook so violently she had to grope for the keys in the ignition, and when she tried to start the car she nearly flooded the engine because even her legs were jerking with fright. He watched her unemotionally from the passenger seat. "Drive," he snapped when the engine was started. Julie managed to turn the car around and guide it to the end of the parking lot, but she stopped at the main road, her mind so paralyzed with terror that she couldn't think of the words to ask the obvious question.
"I don't mind at all." Julie pulled the Blazer to a stop underneath the street lamp near the phone booth and watched him walk across the headlight's beams. Dusk had descended even earlier than usual, and the storm seemed to be outrunning them, dumping snow with surprising force, even for the blustery Texas Panhandle. Deciding to exchange her bulky coat for a cardigan sweater that would be more comfortable while she drove, she turned on the radio, hoping for a weather forecast, then she got out of the car, walked around to the tailgate, and opened it.
With the tailgate down she could hear the Amarillo announcer extolling the wisdom of buying a new car at Wilson Ford:
"Bob Wilson will meet any price, anywhere, anytime…" he enthused.
Listening for a mention of the weather, she took off her coat, pulled her tan mohair sweater out of her suitcase, and glanced at the map that was sticking out of his duffel bag. Since she didn't have a map with her and wasn't entirely sure what route would intersect with the interstate or if she was taking her passenger so far out of his way that he'd prefer to try to hitchhike with someone else, she decided to look at his map. She glanced at him in the phone booth, intending to hold up the map and ask his permission, but his shoulder was turned to her and he seemed to be speaking into the phone. Deciding he couldn't possibly object, Julie folded the typewritten instructions back and opened the map he'd been studying. Spreading it across the tailgate, she held the ends down while the wind tried to whip them out of her hands. It took a full moment before she realized it wasn't a map of Texas, but of Colorado. Puzzled, she glanced at the neatly typed instructions attached to the map:
"Exactly 26.4 miles after you've passed the town of Stanton," it said, "you'll come to an unmarked crossroads. After that, begin looking for a narrow dirt road that branches off from the right and disappears into the trees about fifteen yards off the highway. The house is at the end of that road, about five miles from your turnoff, and is not visible from the highway or any side of the mountain."
Julie's lips parted in surprise. He was heading not for a job in some unknown Texas town, but for a house in Colorado?
On the radio, the announcer finished his commercial and said, "We'll have an update on the storm coming our way, but first, here's some late breaking news from the sheriff's department…"
Julie scarcely heard him, she was staring at the tall man using the phone, and she felt again that strange, slithering unease … of shadowy familiarity. He'd kept his shoulder turned to her, but he'd removed his sunglasses and was holding them in his hand now. As if he sensed she was staring at him, he twisted his head toward her. His eyes narrowed on the open map in her hands at the same instant Julie had her first clear, brightly lit view of his face without the concealing sunglasses.
"At approximately four o'clock this afternoon," said the voice on the radio, "Prison officials discovered that convicted murderer Zachary Benedict escaped while in Amarillo—"
Momentarily paralyzed, Julie stared at that rugged, harsh face of his.
And she recognized it.
"No!" she cried as he dropped the phone and started running toward her. She bolted around her side of the car, yanking her door open and diving across the front seat, slapping at the lock on the passenger door a split second after he yanked the door open and grabbed for her wrist. With a strength born of pure terror, she managed to wrench her arm free and throw herself sideways through her open door. She hit the ground on her hip, scrambled to her feet, and started running, her feet sliding on the slippery snow, screaming for someone to help, knowing there was no one around to hear her. He caught her before she'd run five yards and yanked her around and back, trapping her against the side of the Blazer. "Hold still and shut up!"
"Take the car!" Julie cried. "Take it and leave me here."
Ignoring her, he looked over his shoulder at the map of Colorado that had blown against a rusty trash container fifteen feet away when she dropped it. As if in slow motion, Julie watched him remove a shiny black object from his pocket and point it at her, while he backed toward the map and picked it up. A gun. God in heaven, he had a gun!
Her entire body began to tremble uncontrollably while she listened in a kind of hysterical disbelief to the newscaster's voice belatedly confirming that fact as the news bulletin came to an end: "Benedict is believed to be armed and he is dangerous. If seen, his whereabouts should be reported immediately to the Amarillo police. Citizens should not attempt to approach him. A second escaped convict, Dominic Sandini, has been apprehended and taken into custody…"
Her knees threatened to buckle as she watched him coming toward her with a gun in one hand and the map and directions blowing from his other hand. Headlights crested the hill a quarter of a mile away, and he slid the gun back into his pocket to keep it out of sight, but he kept his hand there with it. "Get into the car," he ordered.
Julie flashed a look over her left shoulder at the approaching pickup truck, frantically calculating the impossible odds of outrunning a bullet or even being able to attract the notice of the vehicle's driver before Zachary Benedict shot her down. "Don't try it," he warned in a deadly voice.
Her heart thundering against her ribs, she watched the pickup turn left at the crossroads, but she didn't disobey his order. Not here, not yet. Instinct warned her that this deserted stretch of road was too isolated to succeed in anything but getting killed.
"Get moving!" He took her arm and headed her to the open door on the driver's side. Cloaked in the deepening dusk of a snowy winter evening, Julie Mathison walked unsteadily beside a convicted murderer who was holding a gun on her. She had the chilling sensation they were both living a scene from one of his own movies—the one where the hostage got killed.
Chapter 18
Her hands shook so violently she had to grope for the keys in the ignition, and when she tried to start the car she nearly flooded the engine because even her legs were jerking with fright. He watched her unemotionally from the passenger seat. "Drive," he snapped when the engine was started. Julie managed to turn the car around and guide it to the end of the parking lot, but she stopped at the main road, her mind so paralyzed with terror that she couldn't think of the words to ask the obvious question.
