Heat Lightning

I-35 north, staying in the left lane, picking up speed. Going somewhere. The shooter settled in one lane to Wigge’s right, and fell back until he could see only the top of Wigge’s truck, and let the ex-cop pull him up the highway.
    And they kept going, out of the metro. The shooter got on the phone, said, “He’s past 694, still going north,” and the scout came back: “I’m coming up behind you. I’ll take it for a while.”
    The scout was in a new rented Audi A6, gave the shooter a wave as he went past. A minute later on the phone: “Okay, I’ve got him.”
    They rolled in the loose formation, through the night, then the scout came up again, “He’s slowing down, he may be looking—I’m going on past.”
    The shooter slowed, slowed. The scout called, “I’m past him, still going away. He’s definitely looking, he’s going maybe fifty.”
    The shooter slowed to fifty, wondered briefly if Wigge had a trailing car. Well, if he had, there was nothing to be done.
    The scout: “I’m off. I’ll let him get past me. . . . Okay. He’s still up ahead, still slower than anything else on the road. Look for a trailing car ...”
    The shooter couldn’t see a trailing car. Couldn’t see Wigge, either.
    The scout: “I’m back on. I can see him, way up ahead. . . . I’m gaining on him, again.” Then: “Okay, he’s picking it up. He’s picking it up. Really picking it up . . .”
    They played tag, letting Wigge out of sight between exits, a delicate task made easier by the GPS video/map screens in the Audi. Thirty miles out of St. Paul; forty miles; coming up to fifty. The scout: “He’s getting off. He’s getting off at the rest stop. I have to go by, it’s over to you. I’ll come back quick as I can.”
    The shooter slowed again, back to fifty, and then moved onto the shoulder of the highway and stopped. He didn’t want to pull into the parking lot, then have to sit in the truck without getting out. Wigge would be watching the vehicles coming in from behind, which was why the scout kept going. If the shooter waited, he might lose him, but he had to take the chance.
    He made himself wait three minutes, then pulled back onto the highway. Another minute to the rest stop, two lanes, one for eighteen-wheelers, one for cars. The rest stop pavilion was a round brick building, sitting in a puddle of light, with a bunch of newspaper stands out front. A couple of kids were wandering around, and a couple of adults, killing time while somebody peed.
    And there was Wigge, out of his truck, walking down the sidewalk, away from the pavilion, under a row of dim ball lights. Farther on, sitting on a picnic table, was the Indian, Bunton.
    Jackpot.
     
THE SHOOTER called the scout: “We’ve got Bunton.”
    His mind was racing. There were a number of techniques for capturing two men, but the conditions here were difficult. He would need to run a dialogue on them; he would need to convince them that they might save their lives with cooperation. . . .
    As he watched, looking at Wigge’s back as Wigge strolled down the sidewalk, Bunton got up, stretched, and wandered away from him. The land east of the rest stop fell off into a ravine, and the edges were heavily wooded, oaks and a few maples. The two men moved at a leisurely pace toward the tree line, and Bunton turned his head, looked back, and disappeared into what must have been a trail.
    A moment later, Wigge went in after him. The shooter waited, fifteen seconds, thirty seconds, then climbed out of the van. Behind the cover of the door, he tucked his pistol into the waistband of his pants, pulled on a University of Iowa baseball hat, and started after them, ambling along as easily as Wigge had.
    Fifteen cars were spotted up and down the rest area, people coming and going, one whining kid, overtired, his parents urging him back to the car: “Only an hour to go,” the father said as the shooter passed them.
    The shooter walked past the point where Wigge had left the sidewalk, continuing all the way to the end of the parking area. He wasn’t sure, but there appeared to be another pavilion back in the trees; not sure, but then a cigarette lighter flared. That’s where they were. The shooter stepped into the trees, paused, watched, then began moving, quiet as a mink. Four steps, stop. A dozen more, always with a tree between himself and the targets. He heard voices then, two men talking, the sound low and urgent. He could take them both, right here. Have to