Six Years - Harlan Coben Page 0,59
If I used a credit card, the cops would see it and pick me up right away. Well, not right away. They’d have to see the charge come in and then dispatch a squad car or whatever. I don’t know how long that took but I doubt it would be instantaneous. Cops are good. They aren’t omnipotent.
No choice really. I had to take a calculated risk. Interstate 91, the main highway in this area, was just up ahead. I took it to the first rest area and parked near the back in the least-lit spot I could find. I actually cinched up my collar, as if that would disguise me, and headed inside. When I walked past the small rest-stop convenience store, something snagged my gaze.
They sold pens and markers. Not a lot of them, but maybe . . .
I thought about it for a second, maybe two, and then I headed into the shop. When I checked the small selection of writing utensils, the disappointment hit me harder than I expected.
“Can I help you?”
The girl behind the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty. She had blond hair with streaks of pink in it. Yep, pink.
“I like your hair,” I said, ever the charmer.
“The pink?” She pointed at the streaks. “It’s for breast cancer awareness. Say, are you okay?”
“Sure, why?”
“You got a big bump on your head. I think it’s bleeding.”
“Oh, that. Right. I’m fine.”
“We sell a first aid kit, if you think that’ll help.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I turned back to the pens and markers. “I’m looking for a red marker, but I don’t see any here.”
“We don’t carry any. Just black.”
“Oh.”
She studied my face. “I got one here though.” She reached into a drawer and picked out a red Sharpie marker. “We use it for inventory, to cross out stuff.”
I tried not to show how anxious I was. “Is there any way I can purchase it from you?”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.”
“Please,” I said. “It is really important.”
She thought about it. “Tell you what. You buy the first aid kit and promise to take care of that bump, and I’ll throw in the pen.”
I made the deal and hurried into the men’s room. The clock had to be ticking. A police car would eventually drive by major rest stops and check cars, right? Or wrong? I didn’t have a clue. I tried to keep my breathing even and smooth. I checked my face in the mirror. Ugh. There was swelling on my forehead, and an open gash above my eye. I cleaned it out as much as I could, but a big bandage would make me stick out like a sore thumb.
The ATM was next to the vending machines, but that would have to wait a few more minutes.
I rushed out to my car. My car license plate read “704 LI6.” The lettering in Massachusetts is red. Using the marker I turned the 0 into an 8, the L into an E, the I into a T, the 6 into an 8. I took a step back. It would never stand up to close inspection, but from any sort of distance, the plate did read “784 ET8.”
I would have smiled at my ingenuity, but there was no time. I headed back toward the ATM and debated how to approach the machine. I knew that all ATMs had cameras—who didn’t?—but even if I avoided being seen, the authorities would know it was my credit card.
Speed seemed more important here. If they had a picture of me, they had a picture of me.
I have two credit cards. I took out the max on both and hurried back to my car. I got off the highway at the next exit and started taking side roads. When I reached Greenfield, I parked the car on a side street in the center of town. I considered taking the nearest bus, but that would be too obvious. I found a taxi and took it to Springfield. Naturally I paid cash. I took the Peter Pan bus from there to New York City. Throughout all of this travel, my eyes kept shifting all over the place, waiting for—I don’t know—a cop or a bad guy to spot and nab me.
Paranoid much?
Once in Manhattan I hired another taxi to take me out to Ramsey, New Jersey, where I knew Julie Pottham, Natalie’s sister, lived.
When we reached Ramsey, the driver said, “Okay, bud, where to?”
It was four in the morning—clearly too late (or, depending on