The blondest teenager was saying, "I can't believe he put that picture of her on his MySpace page because he IM'd me and told me that he didn't like her and he was only taking her to prom because he wanted to show me-"
Sitting at the computer made Nat think. She logged onto Google and typed Anjela Reynolds and Pennsylvania, and in a nanosecond, the screen gave her the results. She clicked on the top entry. Anjela Reynolds, age 76, was crowned Mrs. Senior Golfer today…
The blond teenager was saying, "I tried to IM him and you know what? He blocked me. Can you believe it? He's such a poser. So I used my mom's screen name and saw that he was online when he told me he was gonna be at the movies with his parents and-"
Nat clicked the next entry. A headline popped on the screen. CHILD KILLED IN CROSSFIRE. She skimmed the article:
The death of little Anjela Reynolds is a classic story of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only difference is that this time, the person was four years old. Little Anjela slumbered peacefully in her blue Graco stroller when gunfire broke out between rival drug dealers in front of her mother's rowhouse in Chester. Police estimate that it was the third shot that ended Anjela's tragically brief time on this earth.
Nat skimmed the article, but it didn't tell her anything about the man whose pickup bore a memorial to Anjela. She looked at the picture on the webpage. A crestfallen family at a graveside, sitting behind a tiny white coffin. A grief-stricken woman slumped on the shoulder of a man with cornrows. Nat recognized the man instantly. The driver of the pickup. She checked the caption of the photo.
Mourning baby Anjela Reynolds are, left to right, mother Leticia Reynolds, father Mark Parrat of Chester…
Mark Parrat. He was the pickup driver. Nat's thoughts raced ahead. Had it been Parrat in the ski mask, too? Had he been the one who shot the trooper and Barb? She went back to Google, typed in Mark Parrat, Chester, PA, and read the headline.
MARK PARRAT FREE ON BAIL.
Parrat, free on bail from what? She was about to read the article when she heard a commotion behind her and peeked over the girls' heads. A security guard was talking with the librarian, who was wearing a long corduroy skirt and snow boots. Nat kept her head down, praying he wouldn't see her.
The blond teenager continued. "So then I texted him and didn't tell him I knew he was online and I asked him what restaurant was he at because me and Kimmy were-"
Out of the corner of her eye, Nat saw the security guard turn and leave. She picked up the article quickly where she'd left off:
Mark Parrat of Chester was set free on bail today, pending resolution of drug distribution charges and weapons offenses. Parrat is said to be second-in-command to alleged drug kingpin Richard Williams, who is charged with the murder of six rivals in the Bex Street massacre. Williams is being held without bail pending the resolution of drug distribution and conspiracy charges. The trial is set to start in Philadelphia this winter.
Nat blinked. Richard Williams. That's where she'd heard the name. He was the federal prisoner on courtesy hold at Chester County. He was coming up for trial on Tuesday. It all jibed with her theory. Graf and Machik must have been dealing drugs to the inmates, in league with Parrat and Williams. Saunders must have found out about it, and Graf had to kill him to silence him. Upchurch was just the cover to get Saunders into the room without the security camera. It would have worked perfectly, but for the prison riot and Nat running into the room.
The teenager was going nonstop. "So I told Courtney that we should have a pity party, and we had ice cream and made popcorn and put real butter on it and rented Miss Congeniality II, even though I saw it like forty gillion times-"
Nat rose quickly, turned without a sound, went back down the stacks, and peeked around the corner. The librarian with the long skirt was talking to another librarian in hushed tones, and they were standing too close to the door to let her pass unnoticed. She ducked back in the stacks and peeked out through the top of the books. In the next minute, the librarians walked back to the circulation desk, and she left the stacks, walked toward the door, and slipped outside.
Nat's adrenalin was pumping so much she hardly felt the frigid air. She kept her head down and scanned the parking lot for Graf or security. Nothing. Just two women with blue canvas tote bags going to the library and shoppers carrying multicolored bags from the mall. The Neon was parked on the other side of the mall. She kept up her pace, walking along the outside of the JCPenney, looking constantly for security guards, feeling exposed without the NASCAR cap. She hurried to the end of the store, turned the corner for the parking lot and mall entrance, then froze.
A black-and-white East Whiteland Township police car idled in front of Houlihan's. Its back door was open. The old woman who had complained about the keying was sitting in the backseat of the cruiser, cradling her arm. A patrol officer bent over her, talking with her. It was too far away for Nat to see what was going on, but an ambulance pulled into the parking lot and turned toward the cruiser. Nobody was looking in Nat's direction. She kept her head down and stayed on course for the Neon.
Two women passed her, talking. "Can you believe that?" the one asked the other. "That black guy knocked that old lady right over and drove away. He almost hit her with that truck."
Parrat. Nat kept walking. Graf's black Bronco was still parked in its space, which meant that he could reappear at any second. It had been only fifteen minutes since the chase through the mall. Enough time for Graf to explain to the local cops she was a fugitive. She tucked the fear away. She couldn't afford to freeze up again.
The ambulance pulled up next to the cruiser. The cop was focused on helping the old lady to the ambulance. Nat hustled across one line of parked cars and ran around a moving Lexus SUV. She kept an eye on the ambulance. Its driver was getting out and talking to the old woman and the cop, blocking their view of her.
Three lanes of parked cars lay between her and the Neon. She had to go faster. A dirty white Tahoe barreled past, and Nat hustled around it. Only two rows to go. A minivan slowed to park, and she hurried through the parked cars. One row left. She scooted up and finally reached the Neon.
Yes! She got out her key with a trembling hand and shoved it in the lock, opened the door, jumped in, and started the ignition. She hit the gas and was pulling out of the space when a black Hummer came out of nowhere and stopped just short of her front bumper with a loud scchhreech.
Nat gripped the wheel, waiting for the impact that didn't come. She must have pulled out in front of the Hummer in her panic.
HONK! HONK! The Hummer driver pounded his horn in protest. The massive chrome grille blocked Nat in. The Hummer driver started shouting at her, but she ignored him and looked at the cruiser. The noise had drawn the cop's attention, and he was looking over, shielding his eyes from the sun. The ambulance driver was supporting the old lady on his arm, and in the next minute, she started pointing at the Neon with her free hand.
Nat yanked the wheel to the left, floored the gas, and jumped the curb to get out of the lot. Cars stopped at a traffic light and clogged the exit lane. She accelerated onto the median like a stunt driver, then banged down and tore out of the entrance lane, almost sideswiping a minivan. She veered right onto Lancaster Avenue and kept the pedal down, straight ahead.