His eyes darted to the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights gleamed in the distance, maybe a hundred feet behind him. High off the ground, too—probably a pickup or a van. Not that close; actually, he’d be happier if it was closer. Then he wouldn’t have this uncomfortable feeling that whoever was driving the thing didn’t want to be spotted.
Those headlights had been with him since he’d left the club. And he didn’t like that at all.
He leaned forward, squinting slightly, trying to see the car behind the headlights. He couldn’t make out any details, couldn’t get the color or the make. But it wasn’t long enough to be a pickup. It had a different shape, a wider, roomier look.
It was a van. Had to be.
He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, creeping steadily over the speed limit. The van fell back at first, as if taken by surprise, but soon accelerated to keep pace. No closer, no farther. It just maintained the same distance behind.
The driver couldn’t really do anything to him while he was driving, Tyrone reasoned. But as soon as he stopped somewhere …
Tyrone made an abrupt right turn, careening off the main road and tearing down a residential street at a speed much too fast for the narrow, pothole-pocked road. He bumped and rattled, scraping his muffler on the concrete.
The turn had been quick, but not quick enough. The headlights followed.
As his pursuer rounded the corner, Tyrone got a good broadside view.
It was a van, all right. Definitely a van. And who did he know that drove a van?
Well, Kincaid, for one.
And the man in the disguise who delivered the rug. The man who probably killed Lily Campbell.
Tyrone made another sudden right turn, then another at his first opportunity. He didn’t have any illusions that he was going to lose this van, but he suddenly had a desperate desire to get back to the main road. If something did happen, he didn’t want it to happen here in the shadows, off the beaten track. Most of these houses were empty, and of the few that weren’t, there was no chance the residents would be opening their doors this late at night.
On a sudden hunch, Tyrone slowed his car outside the last house on the block, stopped, and laid on the horn. In his rearview, he saw the van slow and stop just before it made the last turn. It was waiting for him to move, not getting too close, just in case someone responded to the horn.
He honked again, several times rapidly, as if trying to get someone’s attention. With luck, the driver of the van would get the mistaken impression that he was waiting for someone, expecting to pick someone up. Or to put it another way, that he had made this detour through the residential section for a reason other than losing his tail. Tyrone thought it best that the driver not realize he had been spotted, or at the least, that he not be sure.
After a few more honks, Tyrone made a big show of shrugging his shoulders, then put the car back into drive. He returned to the main road and started cruising, just a few notches beneath the speed limit. Sure enough, the van followed him onto the road and assumed its former near-invisible position about a hundred feet behind.
Who the hell was it? Tyrone pounded on the steering column. He could feel sweat trickling down the side of his face—for the second time tonight—and he didn’t like it. Damn. He thought he’d left all this crap behind, all this cloak-and-dagger, macho, crimes-and-misdemeanors BS. He didn’t want this in his life!
Especially when he didn’t know who was after him. That was what bothered him most. It wasn’t Momo back there. It wasn’t Bulldog and it wasn’t the cops. It was some unknown asshole in a van. Tyrone didn’t know who he was. And he had a distinct feeling he didn’t want to find out. Or that if he did, it would be the last thing he ever did.
He was getting close to Rockwood now. In a few minutes, he would return to where he had left his car earlier that evening. Then he would have to get out and thread his way through the back alleys to Momo’s hideout. And he didn’t particularly want to be doing it with Mr. Rug Delivery breathing down his neck. If that guy got his hands on him, Tyrone felt certain he’d never make it to his meeting.
He eased off the gas pedal, slowing the car. Nothing sudden, nothing that would raise immediate suspicion. Forty-five, forty, thirty. As before, the car behind him was initially surprised, then adjusted its speed to compensate. As soon as the van was back in its respectfully distant place, Tyrone slowed the car even more. Thirty, twenty-five, twenty.
Just as he reached the point where he would’ve parked anyway, he brought the car to a sudden stop. He was going slow enough that he could do it quickly, without tipping off the van driver until it was too late for him to do anything about it. The van passed Tyrone, still cruising, then rounded the curve in the road ahead, brakes squealing.
Tyrone knew he didn’t have much time. He scrambled out of his car and made a beeline for the safety of Rockwood. If he could immerse himself in that labyrinth of ruins and rubble, the van driver would never be able to find him. And he could still get to Momo before Momo was even madder at him than he already was.
Doing his best impression of an Olympic sprinter, Tyrone bolted across the highway and made for the nearest building. The ABC Cab Company—at least that’s what it used to be. It was nothing now, rusted old cab frames hoisted onto cinder blocks and forgotten.
He plunged into the dark alleyway and pressed up against the side of a building to listen. He didn’t hear anything, thank God. The Rug Man was not in pursuit. Tyrone actually managed to give him the slip.
Tyrone found a fire escape ladder on the north side and scaled it till he found a safe perch on the roof. He stepped cautiously; he knew this roof was probably far from safe. Crouching on all fours, he crawled across till he got a view of the street below.
He could see his car, even in the darkness of these unlit streets. And from his high perch, he could see the van, around the bend and perhaps four or five hundred feet ahead. He had expected the driver to turn around and double back. That would be the logical thing to do.
Unless the driver was smarter than that.
He peered down at the van, dark and motionless. There were no lights on. Although he couldn’t be certain, he saw no indication that anyone was sitting inside.
The driver had abandoned his car, just as Tyrone had abandoned his. Neither of them could use them, or would need them, on this particular battlefield.
The driver was on foot.
He could be anywhere now. Anywhere at all.
Ben checked his watch, checked his speedometer, then pressed the pedal all the harder. He’d been late for Earl’s appointment with Tyrone even before he knew there was an appointment, and he knew Tyrone wouldn’t hang around forever. If he didn’t get to talk to him now, there was no telling when or if he would. Tyrone might do a bolt, might decide to forget what he saw. Anything could happen, none of it good. He needed to talk to the kid.
He crossed over Archer and headed into North Tulsa. He was coming up on what was left of the old Rockwood development. He hated this part of town; it reminded him of the profound disparity that still existed, too often along racial lines, between the haves and the have-nots in this city. Worse, it reminded him of a harrowing chase he and Mike had made through this part of town after a little boy who had been abducted. Just driving down the road gave him the shivers.
A few minutes before he would have reached the club, he noticed a car on the side of the road; he was traveling so fast he passed it before his eyes registered what it was. Some old van, probably broken down and abandoned. A second or two later, he came upon yet another car, a beat-up red Firebird.
What was the deal? Too lazy to take them to the dump? Or did they think Rockwood was close enough to being a dump? As he passed the second car, something caught in the corner of his eye. He saw the distinctive racing stripes ornamenting the hood and the sides—double bolts of jagged yellow lightning. Wait a minute …