The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,61
mad. “No, I didn’t. I was meeting with the landscaping guy all day Friday. He verified it, ask the cops. Does that satisfy you?”
He wasn’t looking at me when he said this—his eyes were focused just above my shoulder. Trey moved into my peripheral vision.
“I’m satisfied,” he said. “You’re not lying.”
Whitaker took the comment in stride. “Nice to know I’m not a liar.”
Trey shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”
***
By now, the rain had intensified, and the breeze cut with a cold edge. We walked back to Trey’s car, sharing his umbrella.
“Well,” I said, “that wasn’t helpful at all. I guess I thought he would let something slip, so we could call him on it and then he’d confess everything.”
“Everything?”
“Hypothetical everything. Like in the movies.” I sighed. “But if you say he wasn’t lying…”
“He wasn’t. But he was being evasive.”
I stopped walking. “About what, which part?”
Trey shook his head. “Just generally evasive. Technically true—”
“—but deliberately evasive, yeah yeah, I know the drill. Do you think—”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop talking.”
He moved in face-to-face, inches between us. And the rain was pattering on the umbrella above us, and we were all alone beside the car, and I thought, omigod, he’s gonna kiss me, right here, right now, and I couldn’t decide whether or not to close my eyes.
“We’re being watched,” he said. “Don’t look.”
“Don’t look where?”
“At the stand of trees by the mailboxes, a hundred feet behind you. There’s a maroon Buick LeSabre with the engine running and a man in a gray sweatshirt standing beside it. It’s William Perkins.”
“Bulldog! But he’s dead!”
“No, he’s not.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The urge to look was almost irresistible. “What do we do?”
“You get in the car and lock it.” He pressed the Ferrari keys into my hand. “Do you have your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Call 911—tell them what’s happening.” He handed me the umbrella. “Stay on the line. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”
I started toward the Ferrari. But I couldn’t help it—I looked—and when I did, the guy was staring right at me. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down around his face, but he was Bulldog, without a doubt. Same small eyes, same round mouth, same little goatee. I froze, he froze, and then in a burst of motion, he made a mad dash for the maroon car.
Trey sprinted around to the driver’s side of the Ferrari. He already had the engine running by the time I scrambled in.
“Give me the phone,” he said.
I yanked at my seatbelt. “Screw the phone, just go!”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s Bulldog, Trey!”
“But—”
“Presumed dead, wanted killer—”
“I just—”
“Wanted killer, Trey!”
He slammed the car into first and accelerated with stunning velocity. Up ahead, Bulldog reached the Beau Elan exit. He plowed over the speedbumps and burst through the lowered arm of the security gate without hesitation. The Ferrari took the speedbumps painfully, then screamed onto the street, cutting off a pick-up and swinging into the far left lane.
I clutched the seat. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I assure you, I’m well-qualified—”
“Shit! Red light!” I closed my eyes and we slid through it. Horns honked behind us, brakes squealed. I opened my eyes. “That was not cool!”
Trey didn’t reply, just kept his eyes straight ahead, his jaw set. He pressed a button on the console.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Garrity.”
Up ahead, the Buick did a shimmy at the next intersection and made a sudden left across traffic. Trey followed. In abrupt horror, I saw movement at the corner and realized that someone was about to step into the crosswalk.
I waved frantically. “Watch out! Old lady!”
We rocketed through the light, and I whirled to look behind us. “Shit! You hit an old lady!”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. “I did not. She just fainted.”
The Buick tore up the street, the Ferrari right on its tail. Bulldog had no chance of outrunning us. His only hope was to lose us, and he seemed to think that lots of impulsive, dangerous turns across several lanes might be the key.
I caught the reading on the speedometer. “Omigod, slow down!”
“I could concentrate a lot better if you’d—”
“He’s headed for the interstate!”
Trey yanked the wheel. I screamed again. I wanted to watch the road, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. He kept his shoulders down, his hands easy at the wheel, but his eyes were narrowed and focused, like a wolf. I recognized the look.