Before long, Martin would arrive at his exit. He was anxious to get home where he could relax and begin deciphering what had gone wrong and, more importantly, how he could ensure nothing like this ever happened again. Thinking of home reminded him that, for the first time ever, he was returning from a hunting expedition empty-handed and alone, and Martin felt a seething rage bubbling inside him. It lurked just below the surface, hidden beneath his carefully constructed veneer of quiet control, but it was very much present and anxious to break loose. He was once again that helpless high school freshman, the geek with no friends, the skinny kid stuffed into a locker, and he felt the helpless fury he had experienced so often growing up and thought he would never have to suffer through again.
Just who the hell did that self-righteous, interfering busybody think he was, anyway? Why couldn’t he play by the same rules as everyone else and just mind his own business, walk around in a daze staring straight ahead like all the other sheep? Why did he have to pick that exact moment to stop at the rest area for gas or coffee or a burger or to take a crap, anyway? Life was so unfair sometimes, it was ridiculous.
Martin felt a familiar blackness settling over him. He now had no girl, no one to keep him company and allow him to release his stress over the next seven days, and after this monumental goat-rope, he knew he would have to lay low for a long time. The media would be all over this screw up; it would probably get even more coverage than it would have if he been successful today. The coverage also meant people would be much more careful for a while until they eventually crawled back into their default modes of unseeing and uncaring bliss.
Martin knew he would have to alter his routine if he wanted to find a playmate and satisfy his contact before the fuss and furor died down; that would take a couple of months and there was no way in the world his contact would be willing to wait that long. Taking a girl from a highway rest stop was going to be practically impossible for a while, and waiting two to three months because of that interfering busybody was simply an unacceptable alternative.
This will not stand, he vowed to himself through teeth clenched so tightly shut, it made his jaw ache. It most certainly will not.
The seeds of an alternative plan began growing in Martin Krall’s head, and he smiled and nodded, all alone inside his box truck. He would have to spend more time fully developing the idea he was considering, fleshing it out, so to speak, but for the first time since hearing that guy yell “Freeze!” behind him and ruining everything, he thought things might work out okay, after all.
CHAPTER 11
BILL TOOK THREE, WOBBLY, running steps toward his vehicle, a dark blue Ford Econoline van with “Ferguson Hardware” stenciled on each side, parked a couple of hundred yards away in the ocean-sized lot. He could chase down the kidnapper. It would be a race of turtles, sure, and the scumbag had gotten a pretty sizeable head start, but that piece of crap truck Bill had seen was certainly not built for speed. It might take a few miles, but he could catch the guy, assuming he was still on the highway.
After those three steps, though, Bill slowed and then stopped in his tracks. Sure, he could run the kidnapper down. Maybe. But there was another consideration. Leaving the scene of an attempted kidnapping where handguns had been brandished about like swords was not something that would sit well with the cops, who were, undoubtedly, just moments away. If he were to leap into his vehicle and careen down the highway in search of a little vigilante justice—Clint Eastwood in a hardware store van—there was a very strong possibility it would not end well. If he didn’t end up dead at the hands of the I-90 Killer, the police might just put him down, not realizing he was one of the good guys.
Bill cursed again, slapping his hands together as he had done just seconds before. The adrenaline was still coursing through his body, and the thought of just sitting and waiting for help was frustrating in the extreme, especially since he had practically had the man in his grasp and then lost him. A young couple strolling toward the plaza gave him a wary glance and a wide berth, just as the elderly couple had done.
He turned and followed them back into the plaza, smiling a little at their reaction when they opened the doors and came face-to-face with the devastation inside the building. It looked like a twister had touched down in this one spot and then disappeared, leaving the exterior of the building untouched. Overturned tables were everywhere, and smashed glasses and dishes littered the floor. People milled about, uncertain of exactly what to do until the authorities arrived and took control. The buzz of excited voices was chaotic.
The young girl Bill had saved was on her feet, still in the exact spot where she had become tangled up with Bill and fallen to the floor. Her mother and father fussed over her, ringed by a crowd of strangers who wanted to help but didn’t know how. Bill hoped more than one ambulance was on the way, because the girl’s parents looked like they might need medical attention as much as their daughter did.
He moved, unnoticed, across the floor toward the counter where he had purchased his coffee a few minutes ago, stepping around, over, and through plastic serving trays and shattered glasses and dishes. He walked past the strange little family reunion and into the throngs of people, the majority of whom were still congregated on the northern end of the room, away from the exterior doors, as if maybe the guy with the gun was going to come back and try again.