Fugitive Father Page 6

  There was only one way Ellie could alert Joel’s guardian. She had to reach a phone, or at least pass a message to someone who would help her. But how could she manage such a thing when Noah was vigilant every second?

  Wait. Hadn’t he already taught her the answer to that one himself? He’d tried to weaken her defenses with his sensual tactics. She wasn’t about to employ the same method on him in order to build a window of escape, but there were other ways to catch him off guard. Like pretending to care, to sympathize.

  However, this was a long way from being the right moment for that. He was bound to be suspicious of anything too sudden or extreme. Her softening had to occur under believable circumstances, even appear to be reluctant. She needed to be patient. She needed to wait for the opportunity that would—

  “Hey, stop dreaming and slow down. You’re gonna miss the turnoff.”

  They were approaching the fast-food restaurant they had passed last night. Obeying his command, she eased the van into the lane for the drive-up window.

  “All right, Ellie,” he instructed her as they reached the speaker, “just our carryout order. No cute signals with it Understand?”

  She nodded as the server inside the building asked for their order.

  “Same goes for the window,” he added when the order had been placed and they’d joined the line of cars inching toward the glass bay.

  Another vehicle closed up behind them. Ellie glanced at it in the rearview mirror. The breath stuck in her throat. It was a highway patrol, a uniformed officer at the wheel. Her gaze slewed in the direction of her companion.

  He, too, was aware of the car behind them. He was watching it in the outside mirror on his side.

  “Don’t turn around and look,” he muttered to her. “You just stay put until we get to the window. Then I hand you the money. You pass it over, get the order, and take us out of here. All nice and easy, Ellie.”

  He was casual about it, but she could read the tension in him. He had her purse at his side. She knew that he had the gun somewhere down there, too.

  The restaurant was very busy. It seemed to take forever to crawl up to the window, an eternity in which over and over she uttered a silent prayer for release.

  But the trooper behind them apparently had no reason to be suspicious, and Ellie could think of no way to alert him. Not without risking lives, probably her own to begin with.

  She was almost sick with anxiety by the time they reached the bay and received their order. All hope for rescue died as they pulled away from the restaurant, losing themselves in the traffic. There was no sign now of the highway patrol.

  They were a mile down the road and nearing the access lane, which would put them back onto the interstate, when she had the satisfaction of spoiling Noah’s relief.

  “We have to fill up. We’re practically running on fumes.”

  He swore angrily, slopping coffee on himself.

  “It’s your own fault,” she accused him. “I told you when we left the picnic grove we needed gas, but all you could think about was breakfast.”

  Not trusting her, he leaned over to check the gauge for himself. “All right, pull into that station up there. It’s a brand you’ve got a credit card for.”

  He had missed nothing in her purse, Ellie thought sourly as she swung off the highway and rolled up to the pumps. Switching off the engine, she started to reach for her purse, but he held it away from her.

  “Uh-uh. All you get is the credit card, and I keep the rest. Insurance, Ellie, remember?”

  Taking possession of the keys, he slid from the van. She wasn’t permitted to join him until he was on her side of the car.

  “No need to go inside,” he said, handing her the credit card. “Pay for it here at the pump. You handle the fill-up.”

  As usual, he was taking no chances. Making her do all the work while he watched. “Would you like me to wash the windows while I’m at it? Maybe check the oil and the tires?”

  “Keep that up, Ellie, and I won’t share any of the breakfast goodies with you. Gas,” he ordered.

  She was fitting the nozzle into the tank when another car whipped into the station, stopping near the building’s front entrance. It was the same highway patrol car they had encountered back at the restaurant. With the possibility of rescue surging inside her again, she gazed at the vehicle with yearning, then slid a swift glance in Noah’s direction.

  He leaned against the hood of the van, looking relaxed and bored. She knew he was neither. He eyed the highway patrol car, then shot her a look of warning. He still had her purse. He was hugging it against his waist. She guessed that its bulk probably concealed the revolver in his hand.

  It would be suicidal of her to cry out any appeal, but she kept casting hopeful glances in the direction of the trooper. He had emerged from his cruiser and was fitting coins into a newspaper machine. The officer was in no way interested in them.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Noah growled at her.

  “The automatic lever keeps clicking off.”

  “Then feed it manually.”

  The trooper looked up from the newspaper he’d removed from the machine. His gaze shifted to the pump where the van was parked. He stood there for long seconds watching them. There was a slight frown on his face, an expression of sudden discovery. Had something in the newspaper aroused his suspicion? Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he sauntered toward them. Ellie stopped breathing.

  The officer, looking like he meant business now, went straight for Noah. Noah didn’t move from his negligent position against the hood, but she sensed how every muscle in him tightened and that he gripped her purse with a grim readiness. Her own hold on the gas nozzle was painful.

  The trooper stopped in front of Noah. “You know, fellow,” he said gruffly, “it’s just an observation, but in this part of the world we don’t let our ladies pump gas while we stand by and watch.”

  “Uh, sorry, officer. I’ve got a bad back. It just kills me if I try to bend forward.”

  The trooper grunted something, nodded at both of them, and then turned away, wishing them the familiar, “Have a good day,” as he started back to the cruiser.

  Ellie, unable to bear the loss of what might be her only chance for help, opened her mouth with the reckless intention of calling out to him. The words never formed. Noah was already at her side, nudging her with her purse. Reminding her of what would happen if she tried anything so foolish. She had no choice but to stand there and despondently watch the highway patrol pull away from the service station.

  Minutes later the van was back on the interstate and speeding south. Noah munched on a cheese-and-egg concoction as he consulted a map he’d fished out of the glove compartment.

  “That was too close for comfort,” he said. “There’s too much traffic connected with the interstates, including cops. We’re getting off. This exit down here. We’ll take the back highways from then on. It’ll mean a longer trip, but it ought to be a lot less risky.”

  Ellie had no response.

  “Hey, don’t you want your Danish?” he asked her with an exasperating cheerfulness.

  She shook her head. The prospect of prolonging their journey robbed her of what little appetite remained after the episode at the service station. Would this nightmare never end?

  LEW WAS WAITING for her when she got home from the all-night joint down near the river where she waited tables. And hustled the customers, when she could get away with it.

  Her apartment was in a crummy building in a section of St. Louis known as Dogtown. But then Ginger Zukawski had never been very particular, either about her habits or her men.

  She was wearing a smile when Lew climbed from his car outside her building, but she wasn’t pleased to see him.

  “Hey, Detective Ferguson, I’m real hurt. You ain’t run me in lately.”

  Her bleached hair looked harsh in the early morning light, and her makeup couldn’t hide the bags that were beginning to form under her eyes. What
did Peaches see in her? Lew wondered. Hell, his ex-partner had never had any taste in women, but he hadn’t bothered to be serious about any of them either. Not until Ginger. She’d been in Peaches’s blood ever since he left the force to take that job with Brett Buchanan.

  “You worried about that, Ginger?” Lew asked, crushing his cigar underfoot on the sidewalk.

  “I got no reason to be.”

  “We can keep it that way.”

  “All right, what do you want?”

  “Nothing much. I just want to know where Peaches is.”

  She shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “Because he tells you everything.”

  “Well, he didn’t tell me that. All I know is he left town with his boss. Said he’d be away for a while, and he’d see me when he got back. Period.”

  “Come on, Ginger, let’s have the address.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for this, Ferguson.” She glanced longingly at the door to her building. “It’s been a long night, and I’m beat. I need some sleep.”

  “Keep on lying to me, and you’ll get it in a lockup I’ve got a couple of charges I could make stick. Like extortion, for instance. Or are you forgetting that last complaint I was willing to overlook?”

  She glared at him. “Peaches ain’t gonna appreciate you hassling me.”

  “The address, Ginger, and I’m out of here.”

  “I’m not supposed to tell. He said it was strictly confidential.”

  “Hey, I’m a friend. How’s he gonna mind you sharing it with his friend? But if you go on holding out on me…”

  “Okay, okay, you win. But I never told you. Understand?”

  Nor did she tell him. Instead, she opened her purse and produced a slip of paper, showing it to him. North Carolina. Buchanan had taken the Rhyder kid to North Carolina. Lew copied the address in his notebook. Ginger was staring at him shrewdly when he returned the slip to her.

  “This is about the guy that got away yesterday, isn’t it? The kid’s father, Noah Rhyder. You still got it in for him. Peaches told me how—”

  “Be smart, Ginger, and shut your mouth.”

  “Hey, it’s no skin off my nose. Can I go now?”

  “Just as soon as I get your promise that we never had this little meeting.”

  “Suits me.”

  Lew watched her turn away with relief. When she’d vanished inside her building, he returned to his car and sat there behind the wheel, examining possibilities as he smoked another of his perpetual cigars.

  Yeah, North Carolina. Had to be where Rhyder and the Matheson woman were headed. So, without involving the department, which he still had no intention of doing, what were his choices? He could try to hunt for Rhyder on the road, but on his own that would be about as smart as looking for a lost hubcap in rush hour. They could be anywhere out there.

  He had a much better idea. He would fly to North Carolina, be waiting there to grab Rhyder when he showed. Lew’s supervisor would stop him if he knew, but no reason why the old man should hear anything until it was all over. Then Lew would say that, being off duty for a couple of days, he’d flown east to visit his old buddy, Peaches, and just happened to be on the spot when Rhyder turned up.

  The department would never be able to prove otherwise. And if they did, so what? Taking Noah Rhyder was worth any risk. He was excited about it, consumed with the need to personally send the bastard to Boonville where he belonged. Or maybe, if Rhyder gave him any serious trouble, straight to hell.

  WITH HER SITUATION as fearful as it was, nature should have been the last thing on Ellie’s mind. But it was impossible not to be captivated by the rural landscape rolling past the windows of the van.

  They were in Tennessee now and headed east again, pursuing the long, winding highway that Noah had selected from the map, which unlike the interstate was almost empty of traffic. She could drive and still admire the countryside with its October hues of russet and gold.

  It was all out there to be savored by her eager artist’s eyes. A haze on the wooded ridges. Beef cattle browsing in stony pastures. Yellowing bracken on the steep banks of the roadside and in the ditches thickets of sumac so violently red that no palette could compete with them.

  But Ellie longed to try. Wanted to be out there with her paints and brushes, putting on canvas a tangle of muscadine sprawling over a weathered fence while a turkey vulture circled in a mellow sky. Instead, she was trapped here with—

  “So, Ellie, what kind of painting is it you do?”

  Uncanny. Had he read her mind? Impossible. He had probably made the connection because of the scenery, just as she had. Even a lout like him couldn’t be immune to its appeal on a morning like this. Well, fine. He could enjoy it in silence. She had no intention of making friendly conversation with a man who was holding her at gunpoint. Of discussing a subject that was sacrosanct to her just because he was bored. Or, worse, because he was making another effort to soften her.

  But her refusal to respond didn’t stop him. He was arrogant enough to ask and answer his own questions and be fascinated with his dialogue while he did it.

  “With all that gear back there, it ought to be impressive. So what medium are we talking about? Oils, watercolor? Maybe both, huh? Watch the truck, Ellie.”

  He didn’t have to tell her. She had already slowed for the pickup that pulled out in front of them from a farm lane. There was a yellow dog in the back.

  Noah lounged on the seat and continued his discourse. “But that’s not the interesting question here. The interesting question is, are you traditional or modern when you slap on whatever paint it is you use? Bet I know. You know how I know? Your house back in St. Louis. Says it all, Ellie. Sweet and sentimental. And that’s how you’d treat that creek out there.”

  They were in a deep hollow, crossing a stream thickly bordered by willows.

  “If you were to paint that creek, Ellie, you’d faithfully put in every leaf and rock. Maybe add a cute little puppy on the bank.”

  She said nothing, but her hands tightened on the wheel.

  “You don’t mind my observations, do you? I mean, it’s not like I don’t know something about it. I am a trained architect, after all. And a damn good one at that,” he boasted. “Art and architecture. Yeah, it’s all the same. Just line and color when you come down to it.”

  They passed a field of sorghum, a hedgerow, and then another field where wild turkeys were fattening themselves on fallen grain.

  “Yep, you’re into traditional art for sure.” He nodded, smiled, then said, “I hate traditional art. Know why I hate it, Ellie?”

  She was smoking mad by now, but she held her silence.

  “It’s because of the clients I had. Well, some of them. I’d give them contemporary buildings. That’s what they asked for. Contemporary buildings with lines that were pure and clean. And you know what they went and did? Garbaged up the walls with all this junk. Calendar art. Look out for the pickup. He’s making a left. What is it with these people? They don’t have turn signals?”

  Ellie slowed again for the truck. Her jaw was aching from the effort of keeping her mouth shut.

  “These walls,” he continued. “These walls I designed cried out for modern art. Simple paintings with bold splashes of color. But they ruined them with covered bridges and lighthouses and quaint farms.”

  You know what he’s doing, don’t you? Deliberately provoking you. Trying to take advantage of you again. He can’t wait for you to lose your temper. Don’t fall for it. Hold your tongue.

  “Nothing emotional about a covered bridge. I mean, hey, it’s a covered bridge. But an abstract painting…you can always find new things in it, new feelings, right?”

  You will be quiet. You will say nothing.

  “You know the way I figure it? If you want a nice little picture, go out and buy a camera. Why are we stopping? I didn’t tell you to stop.”

  She brought the van to a halt on the shoulder of the road, lifted the gear into park, and sw
ung around in her seat to face him. She was livid.

  “You’ve barked orders at me since last night. You’ve held a gun on me. You’ve tied me up. And I took it. I took it all, because I had no choice. But what I will not take, refuse to take, is another word of this rubbish about a subject that’s sacred to me.”

  “It’s just an opinion, Ellie.”

  “It’s not an opinion, it’s an indictment from a smug idiot who knows nothing about it. Because if you did know anything about traditional art, you’d respect it, like all forms of honest expression should be respected. You’d realize that traditional art is something most people can relate to since they can easily recognize its forms, which is not a bad thing even if certain snobs keep trying to tell us it is. You’d understand that the best of it demands talent and technique that can’t be disguised, and when it’s sincere it deserves to be celebrated.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s about it. What about you, Ellie? You finished?”

  “Yes. No. If you don’t like the way I’m driving, then you take the wheel.”

  “Can’t. No license.”

  She didn’t care if he had the revolver. She’d didn’t care if he shot her. She wanted to smack him. Instead, she shoved the gear into drive and pulled back onto the highway.

  He was silent now as the van gathered speed. She didn’t trust that silence. She waited until they were a mile or so down the road, and then she sneaked a glance at him. He was wearing a complacent little smile. Its meaning was as plain as if he had leaned over and whispered to her, “Gotcha.”

  He had done it again, managed to turn her own emotions against her. Why? Because on some perverse level it satisfied him to keep her in a turmoil? Or was it a kind of weapon to control her?

  Either way, she had made another mistake. She had passionately defended her beloved art and in the process revealed more about herself than she’d intended. Would he use that against her?

  She didn’t know. He was an enigma. Except for one thing. She was beginning to understand that, whatever his origins, Noah Rhyder was not the uninformed ape he pretended to be. He couldn’t have been a successful architect otherwise. She should have remembered that.