She sat up and kissed him. You remember that, too.
I will.
She put her head on his chest. I feel like a kid again, like it hasn't been twenty-five years, but twenty-five hours, and everything that happened between that morning you left in Columbus and now, didn't happen.
That's a nice thought.
Good. Let's pretend. There's no world outside that door, it's just us again, like it used to be.
How in the name of God did I let you go?
Shhh. You didn't. I'm here. I've always been here— She patted his heart. Here, where it counts. I never left your heart, you never left my heart.
Keith nodded and started to reply, but couldn't find his voice, then, for the first time in over two decades, a tear formed in his eye and ran down his cheek.
Cliff Baxter sat in the front seat of the two-car convoy. Sergeant Blake drove. In the car behind them were Officer Ward and Officer Krug.
Sitting on the dashboard in front of Cliff Baxter was the location finder. It wasn't a state-of-the-art device—the city council hadn't liked the price of the big model that had to be mounted in a van with a big rotating thing on the roof and all kinds of screens and gadgets. This was a simple line-of-sight, VHP radio receiver that just beeped within a mile or so of the planted transmitter and got louder as you got closer. Still, it worked for what he bought it for—keeping track of his wife. The unit came with two small transmitters, and he'd used the second one a few times as sort of a fun thing to keep track of other people, but mostly the spare sat in his desk until he got the idea of putting it in Landry's car on Friday.
Of course, he'd cruised past the Landry farm early in his search for the Lincoln, and since each transmitter had a different channel, he knew long before he pulled into Landry's driveway that the Lincoln was there and the Blazer was not. At that point, he knew exactly what had happened.
They drove into Toledo Airport. This was the logical place to start, he thought, and they cruised the parking lots, but they didn't need the location finder because the place was nearly empty. They drove to the rental lot and cruised up and down the rows of parked cars.
Blake said to him, I don't see his car.
Nope. Okay, we go out on the highway and turn right, toward Toledo.
Right.
The two Spencerville police cars headed east on the airport highway.
Cliff Baxter picked up his mobile phone and called headquarters. Officer Schenley was acting desk sergeant, and Baxter said to him, Hear anything?
No, sir. I would've called—
Yeah. You would've called. I'm making a goddamned communications check.
Yes, sir.
And like I told you, if anybody calls from the state police, or anyplace, you don't mention where I am.
Yes, sir.
Just call me, and I'll get back to them. Don't bullshit with them.
Yes, sir.
Stay awake. He hung up and said to Blake, Hey, pull into that Sheraton.
Blake pulled into the Sheraton parking lot and commented, We're not getting a sounding here, Chief.
Shit, I don't trust this thing. I trust my eyes and my ears. Pull up to the lobby and let me off, then cruise the lot.
Yes, sir.
Baxter got out and went into the lobby. He approached the desk clerk, an attractive young woman, and said, How're you tonight, darlin'?
She smiled. Pretty good. Yourself?
Could be better. Lookin' for a bad guy, ran off with a woman. You know about that?
Sure do. Seen it on TV.
That's good. I hope you seen it come across your fax, too.
I did. She rummaged around and found a piece of paper behind the counter. Got the descriptions here, names, make and model of the car—
And you ain't seen them.
No, I told the state trooper that about an hour ago. I'll keep an eye out.
You do that, sweetheart.
She looked at his uniform and asked, Spencerville? Isn't that—?
Sure is. That's where the kidnapping took place. Hey, if you ever get down there, you look me up.
You're . . . you're the Chief Baxter whose wife—
That's right.
Hey, I'm real sorry. I hope she's all right—I know she's going to be okay—
She'll be fine as soon as I find her. She'll be real fine. See ya.
Baxter went outside and met the cars. He got in, and Blake said, Negative here.
Negative there. Let's roll.
They continued on down the highway, passing several motels. Blake asked, Want me to stop?
No, we're gonna cruise right into Toledo and see if that damned noisemaker goes off. If it don't, we'll double back and start checking motels. Jesus Christ, I never seen so many motels.
You think they're here?
Don't know. But if I was him, and I just missed a flight, I might hole up in the area, especially if I was listenin' to the radio and found out there was a bulletin out on me. And if he don't know that, then he'll find out when he gets pulled over. He ain't gettin' too far either way.
Right. Blake thought a moment, then said, I don't understand how he thought he could get on a plane with her, without somebody noticing that she was being held against her will.
Why don't you just fucking drive?
Yes, sir.
He had a gun on her. That's how. And probably got her drugged up.
Yeah, that's it.
That wasn't it, and just about every cop in the state knew that by now, Baxter thought. The truth was, he didn't see a real good future for himself or his career after this. But for the time being, he had the power, he had the law on his side, and he had the balls to do what he had to do as a man. By morning, it would start to come apart, so he had to find them before then. And because he was finished as a cop, he could do whatever he wanted to do to them when he found them.
They continued on another few miles and saw the high-rise buildings of downtown Toledo in the distance.
The receiver on the dashboard beeped, a faint sound, followed by silence.
Blake and Baxter glanced at each other but said nothing. False readings, especially in built-up areas, were common. A minute later, the receiver beeped again, then again, then got louder and more continuous, until the beeps ran into one another and made a continuous electronic squeal. Pull over.
Blake pulled onto the shoulder, and the police car behind them did the same.
Blake and Baxter sat listening to the electronic noise. Baxter looked around outside, then said, Go ahead. Slow, on the shoulder.
Blake drove slowly on the inside shoulder. The intervals between the beeps decreased, then the sound itself grew fainter.
Baxter said, Make a U-turn and go back.
Right.
They swung onto the highway, then turned at a break in the median. The beeping got louder and steadier.
Baxter looked up ahead and saw it. Well, I'll be . . . hey, Blake, where do you hide a needle?
In a haystack.
No, in a box of needles. Pull in there.
It took them a few minutes to locate the dark green Blazer, and even then they couldn't be sure it was the right one because it had no license plates. Baxter reached under the right rear fender and pulled off the magnetic transmitter. He looked at the rectangular device, about the size of a pack of cigarettes with a short antenna projecting from it, and smiled. Well, well, well . . . He shut it off, and the beeping from the car's receiver stopped. How about that?
Blake was beaming, and Krug and Ward stood looking at their chief with admiration. Everyone would have been a lot happier, of course, if the Blazer had been found at a motel, a rooming house, or a restaurant. Obviously, Keith Landry and Annie Baxter were not at the Chevy dealership. Blake was the first one to point this out and asked his chief, Where do you think they went?
Baxter looked around, up and down the highway, and said, Not far.
Blake pointed out, They could have stolen a car here, Chief.
/> They could have . . . but they took the plates off this one. Now, why'd they do that if they was in another car hightailing it to Cleveland or someplace? No . . . I think they're close by, walking distance, and they didn't want this car connected to them. He looked at his three men. Anybody got any other ideas?
Krug said, They could've gotten a taxi or bus from here, Chief. Could be in Toledo.
Baxter nodded. Could be. He looked around again at the immediate area. Taxi or bus. Could be. But I don't think so. I think they got a motel, one of them fuck places, dumped their shit, then went out to dump the car. The guy got lucky and smart when he saw this Chevy place. Yeah. They're a little walk from here. Maybe campin' out, but most likely a fuck place, or a roomin' house, where they don't need to use a credit card. Yeah. Okay, Krug, you and Ward take this side of the highway and start checkin' the motels back toward the airport. Blake and I'll start back near the airport and do the eastbound side of the highway. If you get anything, you call me and nobody else. Use the mobile phone. Let's roll.
Blake and Baxter began at the airport, drove past the Sheraton, and approached a Holiday Inn. Baxter said, Keep goin'. We're only gonna stop at the small ram-it-inns.
Right.
They continued on.
Baxter thought about things. Keith Landry was an asshole, but a lot smarter asshole than Baxter had figured. But maybe not smart enough. Baxter realized that he'd been out of touch with real police work for too long, but after almost three decades on the force, he'd learned a lot, remembered some, and recognized, grudgingly, that he was dealing with a pro. He wondered what Landry had done for the government and decided that it had nothing to do with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. But what Landry hadn't reckoned with was Chief Baxter's innate predatory instincts. What Baxter lacked in formal training, he made up for in intuition. Out in the woods of Michigan, Cliff Baxter was the best hunter of any of his friends. He had a sixth sense for locating an animal, for smelling its blood and reading its mind, for guessing if it was going to break and run, go to ground, turn and fight, or simply stand frozen, waiting for its fate. Humans, he'd decided, were not much different.
He thought next about his wife, and tried to figure out how she'd pulled this off without him really knowing about it. He had suspicions, but he always had suspicions. Somehow, she'd completely outfoxed the fox. And he knew, deep down inside, that she had an understanding of him, a result of twenty years of living with him and having to survive on her wits. When he complained about her to other women, one of the things he never said was, My wife doesn't understand me.
He didn't want to think about his wife and Keith Landry, but in a way, he did. He sometimes pictured Annie—Miss Perfect, Miss Choir Lady, Miss Goody-Goody—having sex with another man. This had always been his worst nightmare, and it was happening now— Landry and his wife were somewhere close by, naked, in bed, laughing, having sex. Landry was on top of her, and she had her legs wrapped around him. It made him crazy to think about it. It also made him hard.
They cruised past the dark sign of the Westway Motel, still traveling east, then Baxter said, Wait! Slow down. Pull onto the shoulder.
Blake pulled over.
Baxter sat a moment. Something had registered in his mind, but he didn't know what it was. He said, Back up.
Blake put the cruiser in reverse, and when they came abreast of the dark signboard, Baxter said, Stop.
Cliff Baxter got out of the car and walked over to the plastic sign with the red plastic letters and read, Westway Motel—$29. He got closer to the sign and saw that the battery plug was disconnected. He plugged it in, and the lights went on. He pulled the plug out, leaving the sign in darkness again.
Baxter got back into the car and said, Back up to that side road and turn in.
Right. Blake got onto the narrow lane, and the Spencerville police cruiser pulled up to the Westway Motel at five minutes past midnight.
Baxter said, Wait here. He took a cardboard file case with him and went into the small lobby.
The young man behind the desk stood. Yes, sir?
Lookin' for somebody, son. He put the file case on the counter. You hear about an all-points bulletin tonight?
No, I didn't.
What the hell you watchin' on TV?
A videotape.
Yeah? Okay, how long you been on tonight?
Since four. Waiting for my relief—
Okay, you're my man. Now listen good. I'm lookin' for a guy drivin' a dark green Blazer. He had a woman with him, but I don't reckon she'd come in here. They would've checked in about nine, nine-thirty, maybe later. He's about mid-forties, tall, medium build, light brown hair, kinda gray-green eyes . . . and I guess not too bad-lookin'. You seen him, didn't you?
Well . . .
Come on, son. Man's wanted for kidnapping, and I ain't got all night, and I got fifty bucks for your time.
Well, I had a guy in here . . . did this guy have glasses and a mustache?
Not the last time I saw him. Give me the registration card.
The clerk flipped through a stack of cards and found the one he thought the police officer wanted. Here. This guy came in about—
Let me read, son. Baxter read the card. John Westermann of Cincinnati, driving a Ford Escort. You seen his car?
Well, after he checked in, I poked my head out the door and there was a Ford Escort there, but that one had been there for a few hours. I'm supposed to take the license numbers—
I know how you run a fuck place. Did you see a green Blazer?
Don't know . . . I saw a dark four-wheel-drive outside, but it was hard to see, and it wasn't in front of the room I gave this guy Westermann. I hadn't seen it before, and I was going to go out later and get the license number, but when I went out about ten minutes later, it was gone.
Baxter nodded. Okay, what room did you give this guy?
Room seven.
He still there?
I guess. He took it for the night. I just checked the key drop, and it isn't there.
Okay . . . Baxter rubbed his chin. Okay . . . and you never saw a woman?
No. Never do.
Baxter opened his file case and took out a book. It was his wife's high school yearbook, one of the few things he'd allowed her to keep, mostly because it had a picture of him in it, in his junior year, at a dance. He turned to the graduation photos and said, Flip through this, son, and keep in mind it's over twenty years old, and imagine a mustache and glasses on the guys who don't have any. Take your time, but be quick.
The young man flipped through the pages of the small graduating class, then stopped.
You see him?
I . . .
Baxter took a pen out of his pocket and gave it to the man. Draw the glasses and the mustache you saw.
The man took the pen and drew glasses and a mustache on the photograph of Keith Landry. The clerk said, Yes . . . that's the guy . . . I think that's the guy . . .
I think you're right, son. Give me the key.
The clerk hesitated, and Baxter leaned over the counter. The fucking key.
The clerk gave him the key to room 7.
Baxter said, You just sit tight and everything's gonna be fine. Be outa here before you know it.
Yes, sir . . . uh, you mentioned—
Check's in the mail.
Baxter went outside to the patrol car and leaned into the window. He said to Blake, Call the boys. We got him.
Jesus . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Keith Landry and Annie Baxter lay in each other's arms. They were half-asleep, but every now and then she'd say something to him, and he replied.
He was fighting off sleep, and he suspected she was doing the same. Finally, she turned on the lamp and rolled over on top of him, nestling her head beside his neck, and bit his ear. She said, Am I getting on your nerves?
No. I like that. He put his hands on her buttocks and massaged.
Feels good. After a minute, she said, Keith, I can't slee
p.
Try.
I can't. She reached between them and fondled him until he got hard, then put it inside her. That's my pacifier. Can you keep it hard until I fall asleep?
He smiled. I guess. Never tried it before.
I love you.
I adore you.
I snore.
Me, too.
I drool. I absolutely drool all over everything. I'm going to drool on you.
You're funny.
I eat barbecued chicken and potato chips in bed, and I wipe my mouth on the sheets, and I burp.
He laughed. Stop it.
I have wet dreams and screaming orgasms all night.
Good—
She moved her hips up and down. I'm about to have one now.
Oh, that feels— He heard something at the door, then, before he could react, he heard the door crashing in, the bolt splintering through the wood.
A second later, Cliff Baxter was charging into the room with a shotgun in his hands.
Annie screamed as Keith pushed her off him. He jumped out of bed and, at the same time, grabbed his K-bar knife, which was lying under the phone book on the nightstand.
Baxter rammed the rubber-padded butt of the shotgun toward Keith's face, and Keith deflected it with his forearm, but it grazed his forehead and left him momentarily stunned. Baxter raised the stock of the shotgun again and brought it down hard on Keith's shoulder, paralyzing his arm and causing him to drop the knife. Baxter was about to swing again when Annie sprang from the bed and landed on Baxter, her arms and legs encircling him and causing him to stagger backward.
Keith, still dazed, his right arm hanging limp at his side, retrieved the knife with his left hand. His vision was blurred from the blow to his head, but he could see Annie hanging onto Baxter while Baxter tried to break her loose. Keith lunged along the floor and plunged the knife upward at Baxter's femoral artery, but the man was still staggering around, with Annie hanging onto him, and Keith didn't see the gush of arterial blood where the knife penetrated.
Baxter bellowed in pain, Annie was screaming, and before Keith could plunge the knife again, two other men were in the room, guns drawn. Freeze! Freeze!
Keith stood unsteadily, the knife still in his hand, and one of the cops—Keith thought it was Ward—swung his nightstick, catching Keith's wrist, and the knife flew out of his hand.