Her eyes closed, her heart slowed.

“I’m on the way,” he said to her.

The cell phone clattered to the floor, and she was no longer there to hear him say, “Nahlman, hold on.”

She could not wait. She was dead. She was gone.

20

Peter Finn stood beside the urinal and watched Agent Allen frowning, puzzling over a cell phone with a dark screen. Was it broken? No, for now the FBI man decided to turn it on. The small device in his hand came to life and beeped. The agent raised the phone to his ear, saying, “Allen here… Riker?”

The FBI agent left the men’s room on the run, and Peter had his father all to himself, though Joe Finn was behind the closed door of a stall.

Better that way.

The boy had been waiting for this moment for so long. “Dad?” He pressed his forehead to the cool metal of the stall door and asked, “Do you hate me-because I lived-and Ariel died?”

There was a moment of silence, and then he heard his father crying.

Barry Allen ran past the startled agent guarding the entrance to the men’s room. He was heading for the other facility. All that Riker had said was, “Get to Nahlman now!”

As he rounded the side of the building, he saw Dale Berman in the far-off parking lot. Who was watching Nahlman’s back?

No one, fool.

The young agent entered the ladies’ room at a dead run and went flying, skidding on the slick floor-falling and landing on Nahlman’s body- his face pressed to hers. He screamed, but not out of fear. It was a high keen of anguish that brought other agents running into the tiled room. Shoes were all around him now, and above him were voices all taking at once. “Jesus Christ,” said one. And another agent, the son of a doctor, knelt beside the body. This young man never tried to find a pulse; he was informed by the gaping wound that had opened Nahlman’s throat; the blood had ceased to flow-no living heart to pump it. He shook his head-no beat, no life, no use. “I’m sorry, Barry.”

A voice was yelling from Barry Allen’s cell phone. Another agent picked it up from the floor and made her short report to Detective Riker. “She’s gone, sir.”

The state trooper concluded his radio request for backup and roadblocks at exits east and west of the rest stop. He was behind the wheel of his cruiser when he leaned out the window with a few final words for Special Agent Berman. “Don’t touch anything. There’s a crime-scene unit on the way. I’m going after that tow truck.”

“I’m in charge of this investigation,” said Berman, raising his voice to be heard above the revving of the other man’s engine.

“Yeah, sure you are,” yelled the trooper as he peeled out of the parking lot, siren screaming.

Berman turned to see a gang of agents converging upon him. “Spread out!” he yelled. “I want this whole place-”

Oh, shit!

Joe Finn was muscling the others aside, and the man’s eyes were crazed.

Agent Allen was younger and faster than Finn, running, flying, aiming himself like a cannonball. In the next second, Berman was flat on his back with the younger man on top him. Allen, handicapped by eyes full of tears, only got in two good punches to the face before he was pulled off. As he was being dragged back by other agents, Barry Allen screamed, “You stupid, incompetent son of a bitch!”

No man or woman in his company had any disagreement with this assessment of the special agent in charge. Cell phones were appearing in every pair of hands.

Dale Berman looked up at the sky, listening to beeps of incoming calls drowned out by the boxer’s s c reams of “Dodie! My baby!”

They were close to the reststop where Agent Christine Nahlman had died.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” said Charles Butler. “I’ll drive if you like. I think I’ve got the hang of speeding now.”

Riker shook his head, only glancing at the exit sign in passing. He would deal with Nahlman’s death tomorrow. A child was missing. Seconds counted. Yet miles farther on, he left the interstate for a segment of the older, slower road.

“Good thinking,” said Kronewald after fifteen miles of dark highway. “That’s gotta be it.” He was staring at the abandoned tow truck parked on a side road. “I knew he wouldn’t keep it long.” The Chicago detective scrambled out of the car to train a light on the dirt road that joined the paved one. “Yeah, he had a car stashed here.” The beam of his flashlight followed the other route. “Looks like our man’s heading north.”

“Not for long,” said Riker. “This was just too easy, but get the troopers on it. We’re going back on the interstate. We’re going west.”

“What the hell for?”

“That’s the way Mallory went,” said Charles Butler, and when this did not enlighten the man from Chicago, he added. “It’s about the old phone.”

“I wanted the Alan Ladd room,” wrote Peyton Hale. “He was the star of my favorite western. But tonight, the William Bendix room was the only one they had left.”

All that remained of his stay in this place was the window view of a backstreet in Gallup, New Mexico. Mallory sat on the hotel bed amid her father’s scattered letters, looking for more clues to the man, but all she found was a dated love affair with his road. The pages of creased paper fell from her hands as she wrapped herself in her own arms for comfort.

Time-how much time had passed before she began to rock back and forth-just like Dodie Finn?

Crazy Dodie.

Is this how it ends?

Mallory sat very still-hyper alert. Dr Magritte’s cell phone was beeping. She plunged one hand into the knapsack, wrenched out the phone and raised its antenna, saying, “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“You’re sure about this?” asked Riker.

“Absolutely,” said Charles. “The El Rancho Hotel was on her list of landmarks.” And now he had made a connection via an information operator. He spoke to a man on the hotel’s night desk, then concluded his call. “She’s there. They’ve gotten to know her quite well. But she’s not taking any calls.”

“What else is new,” said Kronewald.

“And,” said Charles, “they don’t plan to push any notes under her door, nothing like that.”

“Dodie’s running out of time,” said Riker.

“What?” Kronewald leaned over the front seat to grip the other detective’s shoulder. “You know that little girl’s d e ad, right? That’s a big part of this perp’s signature. He kills ’em quick.”

An old pickup truck drove west on the interstate, heading toward the Arizona border, and the driver was abiding by the posted speed limit.

In the bed of the truck, sat a large green plastic trashcan with a lid battened down by rope. It rocked. It hummed.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Kronewald sounded less than enthusiastic as he spoke on the cell phone to the liaison from the state police. “This guy’s a great car thief.”

“He only takes junkers,” said Riker, interrupting. “Tell them that. No alarms, no LoJack.”

Kronewald relayed this to the liaison, adding, “That should narrow it down.” He covered the phone as he called out to Riker in the front seat. “You’re dead sure about the direction?” With the nod of the other man’s head, he said to the liaison. “We figure the perp stole a car with Arizona plates. He’ll wanna blend in when he crosses the state line.” Kronewald pocketed his phone. “They’re checking stolen car reports from Arizona.”

Riker sent his passengers lurching forward when he slammed on the brakes in the parking lot of the El Rancho Hotel. “There she is.” The detective left the Mercedes and ran toward her.