In the rearview the Mercedes glided through the gap in the fencing he’d made.
The land now rose in a gentle incline. Ahead of him he could see a large, heavily trafficked road, two lanes divided by a thick no-man’s-land of construction.
On the road, traffic hummed at a fifty-mile-per-hour clip. He laid on the horn, tried to time the cut across the highway. He swerved a bit to the right, trying to give a minivan room to get ahead of him and open a small break in the traffic.
He nearly made it.
The Explorer exploded across the two westbound lanes, aiming for the no-man’s-land, just ahead of a Lexus SUV. But Ben didn’t see the pickup truck powering past the Lexus on the outside lane, and as he made it across, the pickup clipped the Explorer’s back right bumper.
The Explorer spun; Ben fought for control to keep from spinning back out onto the highway, back into the path of traffic. He wrenched the wheel with both hands, his wounded arm lighting up in agony despite the adrenaline, and managed to right his track, barrel forward. His heart jammed in his mouth; he looked back, saw the pickup complete its own spin, traffic slowing, cars braking. The pickup driver was a fortyish guy and Ben could see his face, frightened but unhurt.
He glanced behind him again. Jackie’s Mercedes had dodged the traffic- well, most of it, he spotted a bad dent on the passenger rear side-and the German sedan tried to regain its speed.
The Explorer rattled like it was shaking apart as he hurtled past the construction markers and barriers. The land here lay rougher and not planed smooth. The rearview showed him the Mercedes wasn’t chasing him in a straight line; Jackie bulleted along the road’s shoulder, then cut across at an angle. Drawing closer, cutting off Ben’s options. Now Ben could only go to the right.
Half a mile shot by, then another mile. He wheeled past idle cranes and two men on a pickup truck bed, staring up from construction plans, at an interloper in their space. He saw a large mall to his right, on the other side of three lanes of traffic.
The construction zone was coming to an end, nothing but turned earth and huge concrete cylinders, machinery jammed into parking slots. Nowhere to run.
The mall was his last hope.
The Mercedes, moving like an express train now, surged toward him.
He veered out onto the road, narrowly missing an Escalade with a silver-haired lady driving-she shot him a diamond-studded finger. He straightened the car, could see the Mercedes swerving, looking for an opening, a few car lengths behind him. He punched the accelerator and the worn, beaten Explorer tried to respond, but the car began to grind and jerk, like a runner hobbling from injuries.
Now the entrance for the malclass="underline" a Nordstrom, a twenty-screen movie theater, a massive bookstore chain, a Macy’s, a Home Depot, a couple of other department stores-all the features of the comfortable marketplace of suburbia. Ben shoved his way onto the shoulder, honking a clear path to the right, seeing the Mercedes trying to cut over to nail him, two cars behind the Mercedes colliding and sliding into each other.
He saw Jackie’s face, etched with fury, hatred, determination.
Ben wrenched a right into the mall’s road system and Jackie overshot the turn, standing on brakes, then powering the car into reverse on the shoulder. The Explorer limped up an incline and Ben zoomed through a stop sign, drove over a curb divider. He jetted up a parking row for the front entrance. Suddenly a front tire gave, the rim started to work toward the pavement, and he urged another thirty feet out of the crippled car.
He’d have to lose Jackie in the mall. He nosed into a vacant slot and got out of the car, scanning the lot for a sign of Jackie’s Mercedes. He saw Jackie, four rows over. Driving toward the mall entrance. Hunting him.
Ben stayed low to the ground, wrapping the jacket around his bullet wound. Blood dotted his shirt, the top of his pants, but he thought he could hide most of the stains and damage by holding the jacket close to him. He spotted the Mercedes hovering near the entrance, then turning, three rows over. Jackie would spot the shot-out windows of the Explorer within seconds.
Ben ran, bent close to the ground, ignoring the curious stares of shoppers. He reached the end of the row and then bolted across the open pavement toward the entrance. Down the row he saw the battered Mercedes cruise to a stop, Jackie abandoning the car in the middle of the right-of-way.
Ben stumbled inside the mall. The new mall was high-end. Ornately tiled floors, leather chairs and couches artfully arranged so people could relax and sip lattes and wait for shopping relatives in comfort. Friday afternoon had brought a good-sized crowd, mostly teenagers and young mothers.
Ben walked fast, trying not to draw attention to himself. He risked a look back to see if he was leaving a trail of blood. He wasn’t, but he saw Jackie, following with purpose, not running.
And Jackie smiled. The cat closing in on the mouse. Hand in his jacket pocket. That would be where the gun was. Jackie’s gaze locked on Ben’s.
Ben reached an intersection in the promenade, a left and right that each led to an anchor store. Across from him was a home electronics store and suddenly a dozen images of his own face looked back at him from the displayed TVs, tuned to CNN.
He stumbled away, wedged his hand into his hair as though lost in thought, shaded his face with his palm. Think. He realized that he needed a big store, a place with short sight lines where he could lose Jackie. He hurried through the thickening crowds-a pair of jugglers performed in one of the intersections, and people stopped to watch-and veered toward one of the less expensive department stores. He had a sudden hope that the store would be more crowded, both with shoppers and merchandise, than the pricier options. More places to hide.
“Mister, you’re bleeding,” an older woman said to Ben. She carried Pottery Barn and Macy’s bags and she gestured at his bloodied shirt. Then at his face. Her mouth pursed. He gave her a half smile and a nod. He hurried past her.
“Mister? Hey, wait,” the woman called.
She might be grabbing a security guard. Ben risked a backward look. Jackie kept pace, not closing in on him in front of witnesses but keeping a constant distance. He couldn’t see where the woman had gone.
Ben went into the department store, past a young woman handing out perfume samples, past silver-draped tables covered with brightly boxed gifts, past red-inked banners announcing 15 percent discounts. He dodged mothers pushing strollers, couples walking hand-in-hand, a trio of women hunting for the bridal department.
Mistake. Too many people, and if Jackie started shooting… Ben got on the escalator. He hurried past the standing riders. He turned, saw Jackie in unhurried pursuit, and he had a horrible sense that the boy would simply pull his gun, fire a head shot at Ben, and take his chances with escaping from the crowd. Second mistake, Ben thought. If he made another error an innocent bystander might get killed, and the thought burnt his chest.
Jackie boarded the escalator behind him.
Ben stepped off and around, taking the next escalator to the third floor, where he booked a hard left through housewares and furniture.
Here the merchandise stood closer together, with false walls creating bedrooms, living rooms, and dens, fewer open lines for Jackie to catch sight of him. A labyrinth of staged decor. Fewer customers; he thought more furniture might move at night or on weekends, families and couples browsing together. But not on a Friday afternoon.
One of the alcoves was a den, done in an Asian motif: a low-standing teak coffee table, a minimalist sofa with red silk pillows, Chinese characters sewn on them in black thread, a jade sculpture, a large vase with cranes and flowers painted on its surface. He grabbed the vase with both hands. His arm cramped in agony. The vase was heavy and reached from his waist to his head.