Tim Green: The Letter Of The Law

All he needed now was a little more luck. If Sales somehow ran Lipton to ground, much of Unger's thunder would be stolen. If, however, Lipton managed to escape, sooner or later he'd return to the lake house and when he did…

Sales jammed on his brakes and dipped back inside the double yellow line. A tractor-trailer hummed past with his sonorous air horn blaring. The next instant, Sales crossed over the line again, this time accelerating past a Volkswagen bug just as it topped a rise in the road. The scream of the little car's horn and its driver's middle finger never registered with Sales. His focus was on the white van that was up ahead weaving smoothly through four lanes of traffic. When the road widened to four lanes at the bottom of the hill, Sales, too, was able to move much faster.

The height of the van had made it possible for Sales to draw a bead on the professor from the moment he pulled out of the apartment complex. Compared with his own pickup truck, the maneuverability of the Mercedes and the power of its large engine gave him a superhuman feeling. Exhilaration and the car's true capabilities had enabled him to steadily close the gap. But after Sales's first wild pass, Lipton began to drive like a maniac. Then it became a game of chance. There were few risks either of them was unwilling to take, and it seemed only a matter of time before one or the other would end in a fiery heap of crushed metal and glass.

Sales careened up behind a delivery truck in the left lane. He flashed his lights and leaned on the horn. For a moment, he lost sight of the van. The instant the ponderous truck began to move into the right lane, Sales floored the accelerator. But in that same second, he realized that Lipton had dipped through a small break in the center guardrail and was now racing full speed in the opposite direction. In the fleck of time it took for the two vehicles to pass each other, Sales could clearly make out the professor's contorted grin.

Sales's mind suddenly slowed and it seemed almost a matter of hours while he considered all the things he could or should have done to stay on the professor's tail. In reality, it was less than twenty seconds before he reached the next intersection, spun in a wild U-turn, and began his chase anew. But those seconds had been too costly. The white van was nowhere to be seen. Sales slowed his progress along the four-lane road, his head on a crazy swivel, scanning the parking lots and driveways of restaurants, strip malls, and gas stations for any sign of the hidden van. It was hopeless. He sped five miles in one direction, nearly halfway back to the apartment complex, before turning around and racing back.

Sales's stomach was in knots and a salty wave of nausea swept over him. The image of Lipton's sneering face as he went the opposite way in the van had burned itself into the forefront of his brain. It was a sight that would haunt him the rest of his living days. He knew that, and his breathing became shallow and strained. A sweat broke out on his upper lip and forehead, despite the cool blast of the big car's air-conditioner. It was that same feeling of panic he'd felt when he'd called his daughter's apartment and gotten no answer. It was that sense that everything had gone wrong and nothing would ever be the same again.

Lipton was gone, and every instinct Sales possessed as a hunter told him that he wouldn't get that close again. Lipton had experienced too much pressure. He had already proved that his obsession with Casey wasn't insatiable. He'd moved on to Patti. His next victim would be on the other side of the country, perhaps the other side of the world. Sales's head began to throb. A low, pathetic stuttering noise rumbled in his throat, the sound of panic. The fleeting urge to pull over, put the Glock in his own mouth, and pull the trigger was so palpable he could almost taste the tangy metal barrel.

"Fuck that," Sales said angrily and aloud.

He had to think like a hunter. Right now, he was hunting an animal. That was what Lipton was. Despite his money, his urbane manner, and his dashing good looks, he was an animal, not a human being, an animal. Sales knew how to think like an animal. When stalking an animal, one had to predict its path of escape and head it off. Lipton was hiding somewhere. He was sure the white van was tucked in behind one of the myriad buildings lining the busy road. When he came out, whenever that was, he would head for his warren. He would seek a path to safety using the quickest, easiest route. Sales considered the area he was in. The closest highway was 290. The question was: east or west?

"Play the odds," Sales told himself. It was an unemotional decision determined by pure math. West led to the open country. East led to Austin, the loop around the city, or Interstate 35, which could in turn lead to San Antonio or Dallas. The possibilities were infinite. There was a cloverleaf where 290 met the loop. He had to get there as fast as he possibly could. If his hunch was right, and Lipton was hiding, then he might have a chance to pick up his trail once more. With all the speed traffic would allow, Sales got onto the highway. At the cloverleaf, he did a quick illegal U-turn to get himself up on the overpass. He pulled over on the narrow shoulder where he could see the oncoming traffic entering the loop and follow it in any one of three different directions.

His emotions were in check now. He had chosen the best strategy he could think of, and now he needed to wait. Patience was just as critical to the hunt as accurate anticipation. Ten minutes went by, then fifteen. On its journey westward, the sun had dipped into an oncoming bank of broken gray clouds, giving the day a sudden purplish tint. Sales fiddled with the dial on the face of his watch and strained his eyes as far into the distance as he could for an eastbound white van. Every minute or so he'd see something white and his heart would race. With every false alarm, he grew more and more certain that Lipton had either chosen to stick to the back roads or beaten him to the highway.

Then he saw another white vehicle coming toward him. It was a truck. No… it was a van. Sales's heart thumped like a broken machine. He took a deep breath. He had to see Lipton without being seen. He didn't want to get into a crazy game of chase, there was too much chance involved in that. He was better off following from a distance. When the van veered off the exit just short of the bridge, Sales slumped down in the seat. Not that it would make a difference. The car alone would give him away. If Lipton recognized it, the chase would begin anew. Sales wanted Lipton lulled into a sense of security. Only then would he run himself to ground. If that happened, Sales wouldn't make any of the mistakes he had in the past.

The professor exited the loop where it intersected route 35 and went north. Sales whipped his car around and stayed with him, sometimes falling as far back as a half mile where a flat stretch of road allowed. Thankfully, there was still enough traffic for the Mercedes to blend in. The van itself stood out above most cars. Sales's hands remained rigidly fixed on the wheel, and by the time the van exited at Selton they were painfully cramped. Sales took no notice, though. Now was likely to be the most difficult part of following Lipton. Sales wasn't intimately familiar with the reservoir area, but he knew it was rural. If Lipton got too far ahead, he could make a quick turn-off and be gone forever.

Luckily, in less than a mile of twisting road the pavement turned into dusty stones. The van left a trail of brown dust that was as easy to follow as a rabbit in fresh snow. In less than ten minutes, Sales was driving past the faded box that bore Lipton's family name. He continued on, not knowing how well positioned the professor might be to keep an eye on the entrance and not wanting to spook him. Besides, Sales was much more comfortable approaching the house through the woods than he was walking up the drive.