Spencerville

street from a window in a safe house that wasn’t so safe.
    So far, he thought, he’d done the best he could. Even picking Toledo because it was closer was the right decision, notwithstanding the small problem of having missed the last flight. The only thing he’d done wrong, his only true mistake, was his spontaneous decision to run off; to act on his emotions instead of his intellect. But maybe that’s what the entire last two months were about. To let go, to lose control, to want someone so badly that a quarter century of doing things by the book—what they called the right combination of D&D, discipline and daring—was suddenly transformed into desire and daring, just like that. It felt good. But there was a price to pay. After his first impulsive act, all his cleverness—all of Plan B—was just damage control. He looked out into the parking lot again. “It
looks
okay. It
is
okay…”
    There were no chairs in the room, so he sat on the bed and pulled off his shoes. He let himself think about the morning. There was no way they were going to Toledo Airport, of course, or any other airport. An all-points bulletin for kidnapping a police chief’s wife, mother of two, and so forth was sufficiently serious to keep every cop in the state and surrounding states on full alert, unless, of course, as he’d suggested to Annie, the state police got onto Baxter. But Keith wouldn’t know that immediately.
    His best bet, the thing that appealed to him most, was to just get out of the state. And the best way to do that would be to wait until about seven or eight A.M. , a normal, busy workday, then take a taxi into Toledo, which was a big enough city to blend in. He couldn’t rent a car, as he knew, and he didn’t want to steal one and compound his problems.
    Trains and buses were not an option, but he had several other options—hire a limousine, charter a plane, or charter a boat to take them to a Great Lakes port someplace out of state. Charter and hire places were cash up front, didn’t require identification, were not normally watched or even notified by the police, and the only question a charter or hire service usually asked was, “Where do you want to go?”
    He had three other options—call the police, as Annie suggested, call the Porters, or call Charlie Adair. But none of those options seemed palatable at the moment. He might call the police in the morning, but the Porters didn’t need any more problems at any hour, and lastly, Charlie Adair had a string attached to everything. Nevertheless, these were options, too, and Keith would decide in the morning.
    Annie came out of the bathroom, and he stood. He said to her, “Is it your birthday?”
    “No. Why?”
    “You’re wearing your birthday suit.”
    “Oh! I forgot to put on my pajamas. I’m so embarrassed. Don’t look.”
    He smiled, and they walked to each other, embracing and kissing.
    She said, “Keith, no matter what happens tonight or tomorrow, we’re going to have this time now.”
    “We have all the time in the world.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
    C liff Baxter sat alone in his office at Spencerville police headquarters. The entire fifteen-man force was on duty, some at headquarters, the rest on the road.
    He drank a Coke, staring off at the opposite wall. He took some perverse satisfaction in the knowledge that he’d been right. His wife was a liar and a whore, Keith Landry was a low-life, wife-fucking prick. “I knew it.”
    What bothered him was the fact that they’d somehow gotten together over the past weeks, right under the noses of his stupid men, and had made their plans and gotten away. He couldn’t blame himself; he’d been right on top of this from day one.
    It had been relatively easy to find Annie’s car. One of the options she didn’t know the car had was a radio transmitter, a homing device bought by the Spencerville police for its high-tech fight against crime, and in Baxter’s car was the radio receiver.
    Baxter remembered walking into the Landry barn, seeing the white, gleaming Lincoln sitting there beside the tractor, and opening the car door.
Cliff, Fuck you,
signed Keith Landry. “No, fuck
you,
asshole.”
    He’d pocketed the note before his men could see it—not out of embarrassment, he told himself, but because it was a purely personal note and wasn’t a clue to the kidnapping.
    Of course, it wasn’t a kidnapping, and he guessed his men knew that, but no other cop in the state knew it.
    The intercom