Smoke, Mirrors, and Murder

safe and Anderson was angry when there were only a few hundred dollars in it. Assuming that Parry was lying to him, he struck the assistant manager on the back of the head with the gun butt.
    “I’ll kill them,” he said, pointing to the clerk and the stock boy, “if you don’t come up with more money.”
    Ignoring his injuries, Parry put the cash in a brown paper bag. Anderson stuck his head in the safe and spotted an inner safe.
    “What’s inside that one?” he asked.
    “More money,” Parry replied. But he pointed out that the key to the inner safe was located in the pharmacy department. He said he wasn’t sure if he could find it. Undeterred, Anderson marched his three hostages back to the drugstore portion of the store. Parry couldn’t stall any longer, and he fished the key out of its hiding place.
    Now, Anderson locked the clerk and stock boy in the pharmacy and returned with Parry to the safe. The inner safe held close to $6,000 and Anderson was finally satisfied that he had enough money.
    “Okay. Now, you go with me,” he told Parry.
    He walked Doug Parry to the Carellis’ car. Parry was shocked to see the injured woman who emerged when the trunk lid was opened. Blood had dried and coagulated on her face, which was swollen and bruised.
    Anderson told them that they were going to change cars and the trio moved to Parry’s new Volare station wagon.
    “You drive,” the escapee told Parry. “And she sits beside you. I’ll be in the back with the gun cocked.”
    Martha Carelli, who had now been held hostage for five hours, began to cry softly. Anderson responded by hitting her in the head several times with the gun butt to shut her up.
    Doug Parry felt great compassion for her, but he knew the only way he could hope to save her life—and his own—was to obey Anderson until he saw a chance for them to make a break. He looked at his gas gauge—less than half a tank left.
    “You know the way to Seattle?” Anderson asked.
    Parry nodded. “But I’ll have to get gas. It’s over two hundred miles to Seattle, and once we’re on the pass, there won’t be any stations open.”
    Anderson was angry, but he grudgingly allowed Parry to pull into a service station. While they were getting gas, a carload of Parry’s friends pulled in and tried to make conversation with him. He deliberately cut them off short and called to the attendant to keep the change from the $10 bill. He pulled out, leaving his friends perplexed at the usually congenial store manager’s attitude.
    It was 10 P.M.
    Half an hour later, a Kennewick patrolman spotted the Carellis’ car in the Giant T parking lot. He asked the Kennewick police dispatcher to send several backup cars. When the officers entered the store, they found the two badly frightened employees still locked in the pharmacy. They said they believed Parry had been taken hostage after their store was robbed, and gave the police a description of Parry’s yellow Volare station wagon.
    When it hadn’t been sighted by midnight, the local area “want” on the car was widened to include an all-points bulletin to the seventeen Western states.
    The Kennewick Police had found so much blood in the trunk of the Carelli car that they feared Martha Carelli might already be dead. No one in or around the Giant T could recall seeing her. She certainly hadn’t been with Mike Anderson when he robbed the store.
     
    Many miles away, the yellow Volare headed west toward Seattle. Doug Parry drove, and Martha sat quietly beside him. His medical training told him that the woman was in deep shock, yet she was making a valiant effort to be alert. He didn’t dare ask her any questions, and he had no idea who she was or where she had come from. He hoped that she could keep from crying, because this seemed to provoke their captor into violence.
    Doug Parry had already made up his mind that he wouldn’t leave her—even if he had a chance to escape himself. He was convinced that if he left her alone with Anderson, she would be killed.
    Anderson was jumpy, apparently unsure of what to do next, and ready to kill anyone who got in his way.
    Parry headed northwest toward Yakima, the first city of any size. From there they would go to Ellensburg, where they would merge onto Interstate 90, the freeway that climbed steadily to the summit of Snoqualmie Pass and then plunged down to Mercer Island and Seattle.
    A white Washington State Patrol cruiser was gaining on them, and Parry’s hopes rose