They went another half a mile and the truck stayed on his ass, and Mark began to understand the situation. He’d been right in his assessment that Ridley wasn’t going to call the police to deal with Mark. That didn’t mean he hadn’t picked up the phone, though.
The snow was blowing harder, and the powder was coating the road quickly. Every now and then, a gust of wind strong enough to buffet the car came across the fields. Up ahead, where the fields ended, trees loomed, rows of tall hardwoods with bare canopies shifting in the wind.
A stop sign came up, surprising him, not just because he’d been distracted by the truck but because visibility was so poor. When he hit the brakes, the Ford fishtailed. The stop was a four-way intersection, but Mark saw no reason to divert from his plan to return to town, so he drove on. Within a few seconds, something felt wrong. There’d been a change in sound. The growl of the Silverado had faded. For an instant he thought perhaps he’d been mistaken, that maybe the truck’s driver had no interest in him at all and had turned in another direction. Then he looked in the mirror again and what he saw almost made him press the brake. The truck was in the middle of the intersection, the driver executing an awkward three-point turn.
Called off? Satisfied that I’m headed back to town?
The truck didn’t finish the turn, though. Once it was broadside in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes, motion stopped, the brake lights went off, and the hazard lights went on.
What in the hell was this about?
Mark kept driving, but the mirror had his attention. The truck remained in place, hazards blinking, as if there had been an accident that forced it to stop there in the road. There’d been nothing of the sort, though. The driver had come to a stop and then carefully turned the truck into that position, which achieved nothing except to...
Block the road.
You didn’t block the road behind someone because you wanted to see where he was going. You blocked the road behind him so somebody else ahead of him would have time with him.
Through the blowing snow, another vehicle appeared. This one was headed east, toward Mark, driving with the wind, seeming to be pushed by the snow. A white panel van. The van slowed and pulled sideways, cutting off the road in front of Mark in an identical fashion to the truck behind him, which was no longer visible in the mirror. The road was completely blocked now, eastbound and westbound, and Mark was alone in the middle.
Mark brought the Ford to a stop. The van doors opened on both sides and two men climbed out. Both wore jeans and hooded sweatshirts and black masks. Both carried shotguns. Behind Mark there was the sound of another door. The truck’s driver was out. He also wore a mask and carried a shotgun.
My guess is that you don’t have too many friends, Mark had told Ridley Barnes.
He had at least three.
The men walked toward Mark, shotguns pointed down, closing the gap fast. Then they fanned out, leaving the road so they were protected by the trees, their guns raised in shooter’s stances.
Mark had nothing approaching a weapon in the rental car. There was an empty Styrofoam cup that had once held coffee; a file folder of old case notes. He wasn’t going to take these three down with paper cuts. The only weapon was the car itself, and given the way they were flanking him, even the car wouldn’t be much use. He’d force them to open fire if he drove at them, and right now there remained at least a chance that they didn’t intend to shoot.
Lauren was found outside of her vehicle on a rural road, Mr. Novak. She’d been shot.
He wanted to reach into his pocket, wanted suddenly — desperately — to feel that worn diving-permit tag that had traveled all these years with him, but reaching for anything was potentially deadly. Instead, he put both hands on the wheel and waited. It wasn’t long — the men on the flanking sides closed quickly and simultaneously through the snow, like wolves. The one from the truck walked past them and then turned to face the car.
Nobody spoke. The guy on the passenger’s side was small, maybe five six, and he seemed to like holding the shotgun, had a more aggressive posture than the others. A bantam, a little guy eager for a fight. On the driver’s side was a bigger guy, over six feet, forced to stoop to have a clear visual on Mark. Wide through the shoulders, hands so big they curled around the stock of the shotgun as if it were a handgun grip. As long as he didn’t have to catch someone, the advantage would usually be his, and he didn’t have to catch Mark. Their gray sweatshirts were identical, no brand name apparent. Just generic hooded sweatshirts. Generic black knit masks. No telling features. The black pump shotguns were probably twelve-gauges, nothing fancy or expensive. Like the sweatshirts and the masks, the shotguns matched. Nobody was allowed to be an individual in this group, and that was troubling, because it was smart.
The man from the Silverado stood directly in front of the Ford, feet spread wide to give him a good base, his shotgun held at belt level, pointed at the windshield. His finger on the trigger. The wind raised the snow from the road and swirled it around him like a protective force.
It’s his show, Mark thought. Whatever happens from here, it’s his decision.
“Get him out.”
When the command came, the big man on the driver’s side cradled the shotgun against his shoulder and held it in one hand so he could free up the other to grab the door handle. That would have been Mark’s best chance, nine out of ten times — when the attacker had one hand off the gun and was opening a door toward himself. Mark could help the door along, kick it into his face and knock him off balance, or at least knock the gun out of his control long enough for Mark to get his hands on him, but this wasn’t nine out of ten times. This was the tenth, when you had shooters on every side.
The big one pulled the door open only to have the wind try to push it shut again. He wrestled it back and got one leg inside, trapping it open.
“Step out.” He had a voice that suited his frame. Loud and deep and commanding.
“I’m unarmed,” Mark said. “And you can see my hands on the wheel, can’t you?”
“Don’t care.”
“I’m just saying that if we’re talking, we can do that here.”
“We’re not talking.”
Mark nodded. “You mind if I turn the engine off? This is hell on my fuel economy.”
The big man shoved the shotgun muzzle into the car and smacked it against Mark’s forehead.
“You know what,” Mark said, “I think I’ll just get out and worry about the gas later.”
Mark released the seat belt and stepped out of the car and into the snow.
“Hands in air or hands on the back of my head?” Mark said. “What’s your preference?”
The big guy regarded Mark as if he distrusted the questions. “Back of the head. Then walk toward the van.”
Mark laced his fingers together behind his head. The gesture pulled his coat open, and the big guy took advantage of that to frisk him. The wind rose to a scream, and Mark shivered involuntarily.
“Cold,” he said. “Wouldn’t mind having one of those masks myself. Maybe you could take yours off and let me borrow it? Would be thoughtful, considering you’d still have your hood.”
A shotgun-muzzle jab to the forehead again. He heard his teeth click together as he fell back against the car, and he bit his tongue and tasted blood. He sucked the blood to the front of his mouth and then spit it into the snow. Looked like a small thing, but it wasn’t. That copper-flavored spit held his DNA signature, and there was a chance some detective might appreciate his leaving it behind. Dark thoughts, yes, but this was how it ended for some people. Places like this, moments like this. Men with guns on lonely roads. Sometimes this was exactly where it ended.