Andrew Grant - Even

A gold Lexus SUV was waiting for us at the mouth of the driveway. I could see two people inside. Presumably a couple of Lesley’s guys, sent to keep an eye on us. Then two more came up behind us in a black Grand Cherokee and we sat in line for a moment, penned in, until the Lexus pulled away.

The road near the house was narrow and uneven with a steeply domed center. There were no lights or markings, and tall trees were densely packed in on both sides. It was like driving through woods, except for the untidy festoons of power lines and telephone wires hanging down from rough poles that sprouted at unequal intervals from the shoulders. They gave the whole place a temporary feel, like it hadn’t been properly finished.

“So which part of France are you from?” I said, to break the silence.

“I’m not from France,” Patrick said. “I’m from Algeria.”

“Lesley said you were French.”

“No. I speak French. And I moved to Paris when I was a kid. My brother was a footballer. A pretty good one. Scouts from PSG spotted him. The club paid for my whole family to move there.”

“Excellent. Did he make it?”

“My brother? No. Broke his leg. In a training match. Had operations, physical therapists, everything. But he wasn’t the same. Never played for the first team. Never even made it to the bench.”

Patrick slowed as we approached a crossroads. The Lexus made a right turn. We followed. This road was smoother, and after half a mile it became much straighter and broader. The trees thinned out on both sides and then gave way to a row of neat, white-painted buildings. There were shops, restaurants, a couple of real-estate offices, and in the center, a fire station. The doors were open and inside a guy in uniform was standing around drinking coffee while two others polished the brass on a pair of old-fashioned fire trucks.

“Worried about tomorrow?” Patrick said.

“Not really,” I said. “Well, maybe a little.”

“What bothers you? The death of Varley?”

“No. Not him. It’s us I’m thinking about. Whether the FBI believes my story. How you’re going to get out of the building.”

“OK. Listen, David. I’ve been thinking about these things, as well,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and handing me a piece of paper. “Here’s an address. It’ll pan out if they check. Tell them that’s where the kidnappers took you. You heard the guards talking, one was boasting about last night… you fill in the rest.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Might just do that.”

“And the FBI building. You’ve been there. What can I expect?”

“Finding an exit’s the main problem. The first-floor windows don’t open, the ground floor’s boarded up tight, and the only way out is through the garage. Today they had four guys on it, and a backup van outside. Tomorrow there could be more, given what happened.”

“That’s not so bad. Have faith, David. I’ve lived through worse. This thing is going to work out.”

The last building we passed in the little town was a police station, also painted white. It was a small place. Only a single story. A light was on in one of the rooms and a patrol car was sitting on the gravel forecourt outside. Patrick saw it and instinctively checked his speed.

A quarter of a mile farther on we came to a broad stretch of road with streetlights and white lines. An angular concrete bridge crossed over, carrying some kind of highway. A pair of heavy trucks lumbered across as we approached. We emerged at the far side and followed the Lexus up the southbound on-ramp, easing carefully around the tight curve at the top.

Patrick slotted back in line and our little convoy drifted up to a steady sixty. The leather upholstery was soft and supple, and I sank into it like I was sitting in an old armchair. The car wasn’t much to look at, but I had to admit it was comfortable. Certainly a step up after Lesley’s dog cage or the jail cell. The interior was warm, too, and the gentle swaying motion was relaxing. The radio was off so the only sound was the wheels drumming rhythmically against the joints in the pavement, reeling in the miles between us and the city.

I did work hard on staying awake after that, but maybe not quite hard enough. I felt my eyes slowly creep shut, and they stayed that way for twenty minutes before Patrick nudged me in the ribs and pointed at something through the windshield.

“Look,” he said. “Your trick worked. Lesley didn’t think it would.”

The road ahead of us broadened out so that you could choose which tollbooth to line up at before using the bridge across to Manhattan. But Patrick was pointing to the other side of the highway. Over there, drivers leaving the city crossed the river before parting with their cash. That meant we couldn’t see the lines of vehicles, but we got a good look in through the backs of the booths.

“See?” Patrick said. “Two people.”

He was right. There were two people in each booth. One sitting down, operating the equipment. And another standing up, silhouetted against the oncoming headlights. The shape of their headgear was unmistakable. They were police officers. I checked the booths on our side. It was harder to see in, but each one definitely had only a single occupant.

“Nice job,” Patrick said. “Telling them you were still in the city. Smart. They’re looking for you getting out, not back in. Keep it up, and you can work with me again.”

“I’m flattered,” I said. “But before you kiss me, what’s she doing?”

There was one officer on our side of the road, weaving her way through the traffic in the general direction of the central divider. Her progress was slow and erratic, and I saw she was handing out leaflets from a satchel she was carrying over her shoulder.

“What do you think they are?” Patrick said. “Takeout menus?”

“Hope so,” I said. “I’m starving. Let’s get one.”

“You can eat at the hotel, if we ever get there,” he said, pulling into the next lane and slipping into the shadow of the Lexus. “Let’s hope these guys figure out what we’re doing. They’re not the sharpest tools in Lesley’s shed, if you know what I mean.”

We crept steadily forward, hidden from the officer’s view, until we were only two cars away from the barrier. Then the Lexus stopped moving. The car at the front of their line was having a problem. Patrick held back as long as he could, but the traffic was building up behind us. Someone honked their horn. Attention was all we needed, so Patrick lifted his foot off the brake and let the car nose ahead, into the open.

I looked over to the left, expecting the officer to be several lanes away. But she wasn’t. She’d turned around and was heading back in our direction. We rolled another half car’s length forward, and she reached the lane next to the Lexus. She handed a leaflet to a gray-haired guy in a pickup and kept moving, straight toward us. She was heading directly for Patrick. And we were boxed in. A sign near the booth said drivers would be fined for reversing in the line. Fat chance. There was nowhere for us to go.

The officer was barely three yards away. The next leaflet was half out of her satchel. I could see my own eyes staring back at me from a black-and-white photo in the center of the page when Patrick suddenly reached down in front of me and opened the glove box. He started to rummage around inside it, urgently searching for something.

Patrick’s lost it, I thought. He’s got a gun in there.

My fingers were curled around the door handle, starting to pull, when the officer abruptly veered away to her right. She was moving purposefully now, heading for the back of our car. I thought of Julianne. She was still locked in the trunk. Had she found a way to call for help without Patrick or me realizing?