‘So, Mike,’ said the driver. ‘What do you do for a living?’
‘It’s Mark,’ said Pope. Had the man been testing the cover name deliberately? But why would he? ‘I’m in insurance.’
‘Yeah? No kidding.’ Joel barked a laugh. ‘My first wife ran off with one of you guys.’
Pope said nothing.
‘You want to watch this guy, honey,’ Joel went on. ‘Always on the road. No telling what he gets up to.’ He gave Pope a leering wink.
Two more attempts at starting conversation followed before Joel gave up with an invisible shrug.
For ten minutes the only sounds were the rumble of the truck’s engine, the hissing of the tyres on the wet road and the tinny music from the radio, accompanied now and again by Joel’s off-key humming. Pope glanced at Nina. Yes, there was definite eye contact, if not yet a smile.
At two fifteen — Pope noted the time on the digital dashboard clock — the report came, cutting through the muzak. Joel reached across and turned up the volume.
‘- Issued a missing person’s report on a Ms Nina Ramirez, age twenty-six, height five two, weight one hundred and fifteen pounds, dark hair, eyes brown. Ms Ramirez is believed to be suffering from mental health problems and was last seen in Charlottesville, Virginia, at nine p.m. yesterday evening. Police believe she may have been heading in the direction of Washington D.C. and may pose a risk to herself.’
Pope listened hard. There was no mention of anybody of his description, nor of anyone else who might be with her.
The report ended with a telephone number and the music faded back in.
Nina stared up at Pope. Over her head he saw Joel’s profile, the jaw muscles bunched.
*
At two twenty-one — again by the dashboard clock — Joel said: ‘I got to call this in, man.’
Pope stared at him, saying nothing.
As though he’d been asked a question Joel said, ‘You both look like adults. But if she’s mentally sick… ah, man. I got to do the right thing.’
Nina blinked, glanced up at Pope again, looking confused.
Pope said, ‘It’s not her. My wife’s name is Carmela. She’s not missing. She’s right here.’
Joel shook his head. ‘I saw the way she reacted. It was her name they mentioned in the broadcast.’ He whistled thinly through his teeth. ‘Can’t ignore a missing person report when the person’s sat right up here beside me.’ As though addressing a child he said to Nina, ‘What’s your name, honey?’
She didn’t reply.
Pope said, ‘Look, Joel. Just keep on driving. Get us to New York. I’ll pay you, like I offered before.’
Another shake of the head.
‘Two hundred dollars.’
A pause; then the driver said, ‘Sorry. Can’t.’
There’ll be a bigger reward for turning her in, Pope thought.
Pope drew the Heckler amp; Koch from his pocket and transferred it to his left hand. Stretching his arm across the back of the seat behind Nina, he levelled the muzzle at Joel’s head.
‘Drive.’
*
Nina recoiled when she saw the gun and it was all Pope could do to keep it trained on the driver. She twisted round and away from his arm, straining against her seatbelt.
Joel didn’t jerk away, didn’t spin the wheel in fright. He simply muttered, ‘Holy shit,’ drawing out the first syllable.
‘He’s going to turn you in to your father’s people,’ said Pope, keeping his voice low and matter-of-fact. ‘That message on the radio didn’t originate with the police. How would they know you were headed for Washington? It’s the CIA. They must have found the men I killed by the side of the road.’
At the mention of CIA Joel’s eyes widened a fraction. Pope thought the driver realised he was dealing with two crazies here, not just one.
‘Get us to New York,’ Pope said in the same voice, to Joel this time. ‘No tricks. No attempts to alert anybody to the situation. Then I’ll let you go, unharmed.’ He’d dropped the American accent.
In the dim light of the cab’s interior, Pope saw sweat sheen the man’s forehead under the peak of his cap.
Nina hunched forward, avoiding contact with Pope’s outstretched arm behind her as though it was a python trying to drape itself across her neck. Pope kept his gaze fixed on the driver’s face. The man was scared, but he was keeping his cool. It might mean he was planning something stupid.
After ten minutes Joel said, ‘Shit.’
‘What?’
‘Got to stop for gas.’
Pope leaned forward slightly and darted a look at the fuel gauge. The needle was touching the red and a light had come on.
‘Why didn’t you fill up back at the truck stop?’
‘Too expensive. My employers won’t pay up if I bring them receipts from that place.’ Joel nodded at the windscreen. ‘There’s a gas station five miles ahead. I always fill up there when I’m doing a night run to the city. Grab a last cup of coffee.’
Pope thought about it. There didn’t seem to be anything he could do. The last thing they needed was to run out of fuel in the middle of the Interstate.
The red and white lights of the service station came into view while they were still a mile or so away. Joel hauled the truck into the forecourt. Pope watched for a telltale flick of the headlights, perhaps a prearranged distress signal to be used in case of carjacking, but there was none.
The truck hissed to a stop beside a diesel pump. Pope said, ‘We’re all getting out. I’m putting the gun in my pocket, but it’s there and I’ve got my hand on it. I will use it if I have to.’
‘Yeah.’ The driver opened his door, looked across to see if it was all right for him to climb down. Pope jumped down himself and helped Nina to the ground, making no comment when she brought the violin with her. Quickly Pope led her round to the other side of the truck, where Joel had the nozzle in his grip and was already feeding fuel into the tank.
Pope watched the road as the flow continued. Vehicles were sweeping by mostly singly now, many of them delivery trucks like this one. There were no other cars in the service station forecourt. Pope had seen a clerk seated behind a counter inside the shop.
Pope looked at the digital display on the pump. The amount of fuel delivered was advancing in drips.
‘That’s enough,’ he said to Joel. The driver withdrew the nozzle, taking his time, and replaced the cap.
Pope nodded and Joel began walking towards the building. Pope kept a few feet behind, Nina at his side, the violin clasped in front of her.
The shop was like a small supermarket, its brightly lit aisles stocked with foods, pharmaceuticals and household products. Behind the counter perched another college boy like the one at the first station Pope and Nina had stopped at. This one looked fresher, as though he’d started his shift recently after a night’s worth of sleep. He watched them with mild curiosity. Pope supposed they made an odd trio, and they’d certainly be remembered later. That didn’t matter.
Above the counter a closed-circuit television monitor was split into four screens, showing various areas of the forecourt, the interior of the shop and the three of them plus the clerk. Pope watched Joel on the monitor handing across a credit card. The resolution wasn’t great but he could see nothing in the man’s eyes to suggest he was signalling the clerk in any way.
Pope kept his hand around the butt of the Heckler amp; Koch in his jacket pocket.
The clerk tore off a receipt and handed it to Joel. Joel turned and muttered to Pope, ‘I have to use the john.’
‘No.’ Pope inclined his head towards the exit.
‘Jeez, man. I always do here. I’m busting.’
‘Too bad.’
Behind Joel the clerk was frowning a little. It was time to go.
As Pope stepped aside to let the truck driver go ahead of him he noticed something about the clerk’s frown. It was no longer directed at him. He looked at the boy’s face, followed his line of sight through the glass.