Bobby watched him bound past the dump truck, up the shallow steps, and push open the front door. “We’ll be in touch, Tillman.”
The ex-con shouted over his shoulder. “Next time call my lawyer. She’s in the book. Meredith Unger.”
Bobby’s heart jolted.
“What are the odds?” Val said under her breath. “You want to find out where he got the lawyer recommendation?”
“I want to find out more than that.”
He and Val headed for the house. The dump truck roared in his ears. As he climbed the steps, he glanced back for Diana.
She stood next to the car, door open.
He motioned her to stay put, then took the steps two at a time to catch up to Val. Behind him the dump truck roared, seemingly growing louder… closer… as if—
Bobby spun around.
The truck’s massive grill rushed toward him. It surged through dirt and up the steps.
Holy shit!
Bobby plunged forward. He threw out his hands, shoving Val in the back, pushing her through the door.
Wood splintered behind them. Metal crumpled. Brick crashed and debris spewed. He hurtled forward, vaulting over Val, trying to break his fall with his outstretched hands.
Diana
“Bobby!”
Diana raced for the house, her feet stumbling over rocks and dirt before she’d consciously made the decision to move. The last she’d seen him, he’d been climbing the steps—steps now under the truck’s wide tires.
Please, let him be okay.
Ahead, the truck’s wheels quit spinning. The driver’s door opened and a man dressed in a navy mechanic’s jumpsuit leaped out. A ski mask covered his head, leaving only small openings for his eyes and mouth. He circled the truck.
And headed straight for her.
Bobby
Bobby’s head clanged, the sensation more a feeling than a sound. He had to pull himself together. He had to think.
How long had he been lying here?
He lifted his head, then let it fall throbbing back to the floor. He recognized the house. The marble floor cool and gritty under his cheek. He remembered talking to Tillman. He remembered the ex-con’s comment about his attorney. Meredith Unger. And then…
…the truck.
Bobby jolted upright. His head spun. His stomach lurched. Dust hung in the air, making it hard to see.
He couldn’t have been out long. The dust would have cleared. Help would have come.
A groan stirred from somewhere near his knees.
He clawed through debris. His hand touched tangled hair. “Val?”
Another groan. Then Val’s voice. “I think I broke my arm.”
Footsteps clattered down steps.
Three construction workers thundered down the stairs, gaping at the truck’s nose protruding through the crumbling doorway.
“What the hell?” someone said.
“Are you okay?” another asked.
Bobby pulled himself into a sitting position.
Val did the same, arm cradled in front of her. Her hair was stiff with sheetrock dusk, her face pasty white. “Did you get him?”
Him. The truckdriver.
Bobby forced himself to his feet. His legs and neck ached to high heaven. He shook his head, only increasing the pounding in his brain. He had to make his mind work. He had to clear the confusion. The truck driver was still out there.
And so was Diana.
A construction worker reached out a steadying hand. “You don’t look so good. You better sit down.”
Bobby shrugged the guy off. He didn’t have time to sit. He didn’t have time to think. He had to find Diana. He couldn’t leave her to face the driver of the truck alone.
The driver who must be the Copycat Killer.
Diana
For a moment, Diana couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t move.
She watched the man bear down on her. Knew he was coming for her. And yet, her mind groped, trying to make sense of it, trying to believe this was really happening, trying to—
She spun around, focused on the car.
The car.
Right.
Dodging construction equipment, Diana raced back to the street. Shouting erupted behind her, but she didn’t dare turn around. She groped in her pocket, pulled out the keys, reached the car. Fingers shaking, she pressed the unlock button, opened the door, and scrambled behind the wheel.
She’d expected the masked man to be on her heels, but he wasn’t. Then she spotted him. Halfway down the block, he ducked into a white service van. It pulled onto the road and started toward her.
Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
Diana jammed the key in the ignition, started the car…
Shifted into gear, hit the gas…
The engine revved.
Neutral.
Shit.
She shifted again and the car lurched backwards. Diana punched it. Tires spun on gravel. Caught. She bulleted in reverse, craning to see over her shoulder.
At sixteen, her adopted father had drilled her on backing and parallel parking before he’d allowed her to take her behind-the-wheel test. He’d insisted on slow and careful and perfect. He’d be rolling over in his grave if he saw this.
Bobby, on the other hand, would be impressed.
Please don’t let me crash.
The van kept coming, gaining.
Diana couldn’t keep this up. She had to turn the car around and fast, before the van caught up or she smashed into something.
She spotted an intersection behind her coming up fast. That was her chance.
Wait for it. Wait for it.
She yanked her foot off the gas. As the backward momentum died, she spun the wheel hard to the left. The car spun, tires sliding, gravel flying. Halfway through the spin, she shifted into neutral. And when the nose of the car faced the turn she wanted, she plunged it into drive, hit the gas, and shot ahead.
The van followed her around the turn, back end fishtailing, not even slowing down.
Now what?
Diana couldn’t go back. She wasn’t sure if Bobby and Val had even survived the dump truck. And if they had, there wasn’t a chance she was going to lead the copycat killer back to finish the job.
She had to lead him away.
She had to get help.
Diana took another turn, way too fast, the van on her bumper. Then fingers shaking, she reached for the button on the radio. “Dispatch? Dispatch? Hello?”
A backhoe jutted out into the street in front of her.
She swerved, gravel skidding under her, then muscled the car back onto the road before she landed in the ditch.
Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
Diana stole a glance into the rearview mirror. The van had made it around the backhoe and was back on her tail.
“Is anyone out there? Come in!” The street came to a T, and Diana took a right.
Here, only skeletons of houses dotted one side of the street. Less equipment to dodge. Fewer people. And yet, she was also more alone. “Hello? Hello? Please!”
“Who is this?” A woman’s voice finally answered, the sound turned low.
“Diana Gale.”
“Who? This is a police channel.”
Diana gasped for breath. Of course the woman wouldn’t know who she was. “I’m Bobby Vaughan’s fiancé… well, ex-fiancé, really.”