When they drive out there’s a highway patrol car at the curb and she sees a khaki-uniformed trooper in the phone booth. It isn’t clear whether he’s watching the truck depart.
She sleeps soundly in the bunk behind the seats, lying on her side with the baby in a gentle one-arm cradle. She’s used to the growl and shudder of the truck now.
Somewhere around dawn they cross the border into Utah. The baby has decided to cry for a while, probably in general protest—going on strike as it were. The racket is piercing and she tries to quiet Ellen but the kid isn’t having a bottle or a pacifier or any gentling at all. Her arms and legs keep windmilling petulantly.
Doug keeps looking in the big mirror outside his window.
The baby’s caterwauling subsides at last. Grudgingly the little mouth agrees to pout around the pacifer.
“Is there something in the mirror?”
“Came out of an airport road back there. Been behind us half an hour.”
She leans forward until she can see alongside the trailer through the mirror on her side. As they go into a bend it comes in sight back there—a big station wagon a little way behind, keeping pace.
“It looks like just one person in it—the driver.”
“Probably using us for a pace car,” Doug says. “Sometimes they do that. Keeps them awake or keeps them from speeding, I don’t know. Maybe some people just get nervous blazing their own trail. Hell, if it was trouble he’d have caught up by now, I guess.”
He doesn’t sound confident.
The station wagon is still dogging them an hour later when they pull off the Interstate for fuel and breakfast. The station wagon doesn’t take the same exit. It goes on down the freeway. From the angle of the truck’s cab it’s impossible to see the driver’s face but that doesn’t matter now.
She picks up the pad of waybill forms from the jumble of oddments in the open dashboard compartment and finds the stub of a pencil. “Doug—I want you to do me a favor.”
“To wit?”
“Give me your address. I want to send you something when the baby and I get home. And I want us to keep in touch.”
“Sure, you bet. To the latter. But no to the former. I’ll make my profit from Willie Nelson. Don’t send me anything. It’d just cheapen the satisfaction I get from being a good Samaritan.”
“You’re a silly son of a bitch.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Back on the road before eight o’clock they are barreling west with Salt Lake City another hour or two ahead of them when they come past an entrance ramp in light traffic and Doug, glancing in the mirror, stiffens.
He glances at her: his expression renders speech unnecessary.
She studies it in the mirror. It’s three or four cars back. “That’s either the same station wagon again or a twin for it.”
“I’ll slow down a little. See if it’s the same license plate.”
“I didn’t think, before.…”
“I did.”
He drops the speed and the other cars pull out and overtake the rig but the station wagon hangs back, keeping its distance. “I can’t see the license plate. Too much vibration in the mirror. But then I don’t need to,” he says bleakly. “He’s shadowing us all right.”
“Could it be an unmarked police car?”
“Maybe. I doubt it. Whatever that is, it’s not a Utah plate. Wrong color.”
“Can we lose him?”
“In this freight train? Not a prayer. You want a wild guess, I’d say it’s one of those shortwave jokers with a police band radio in his car, maybe picked up that twenty-five thousand dollar reward broadcast, saw you and the baby in the truck here and thinks maybe he can earn big money by playing amateur detective. Tell you what—I think I know a way to get rid of him.”
“How?”
“Talk to him. Scare him off.” He grins into the mirror. “I can look real mean when I set my mind to it. Here we go.”
She hasn’t time to protest: he’s already swinging off the highway into the roadside rest area. Picnic tables and trash bins and the middle-high sun blasting all of it.
Sure enough. Back there the station wagon follows.
Doug sets the brake. “Man, you ain’t never seen mean yet.”
“Doug, for Pete’s sake don’t do anything foolish. He may be a trooper. Look—maybe we ought to …”
“You just leave everything to the iron duke here, lady.”
Setting his jaw, he punches the door open and jumps down and trots around the nose of the rig and then pauses, hooks his thumbs in his belt, and swaggers toward the station wagon as it pulls in forty feet away. The sun throws reflective shafts painfully from its chrome and glass; she still can’t see the driver.
There’s one other vehicle in the parking area—a dark blue Mustang, one of the original ones. A very thin old man, having emerged from the restroom, slides into the car. She hears the door chunk shut.
She has the baby in her arms; she thrusts the door open with her foot, climbs down into the shade and peers toward the station wagon, curious to see what sort of creature would have followed them this many hours.
Doug marches toward the station wagon with the plunging no-nonsense stride of a man who’s had enough and now intends for the guy to come out of the car and explain himself.
The Mustang backs up out of its slot and goes away up the ramp toward the Interstate.
Now the station wagon door opens, fanning a bright swath of sunlight across the pavement, and the driver comes straight out as if on wheels.
He doesn’t even look at Doug. He’s looking straight at her and the baby.
He has a rifle in his hand.
Doug begins to speak. The rifle lifts and turns and, with hardly an effort to take aim, barks once.
Doug spins around and falls.
The muzzle of the rifle turns toward her.
It’s Bert.
71 With the baby in her arms she stares at him in utter disbelief. He’s shot Doug. Just there. Like—like that. Like a paper target …
She wants to scream. Nothing comes from her throat but a hot gust of silent pain.
There is an onrushing blast of sound: an approaching bus on the Interstate.
She sees its reflection in the window of the station wagon’s open door. The sound makes Bert hesitate and for a little while they both stand frozen as if in some crazy tableau.
Running through her mind is the most ridiculously unimportant question:
How the hell did he find us?
God knows. What does it matter? Could have been anything.
That fat cop with the mustache, or maybe the trooper in khaki—phoning in a report, looking to collect $25,000; the report relayed to Bert; a fix on the truck, its license plate numbers, the highway it was traveling; a quick charter jet flight to that airport they passed early this morning—then just wait by the side of the road in the rented station wagon until the truck came along …
The bus slams by with a heavy whoosh. Bert is holding the rifle straight down alongside his leg so the people on the bus won’t see it.
Now he lifts the weapon into sight and begins to walk forward. Not hurrying.
“All right now Madeleine. Give me the child. That’s a good girl. Just take it easy and everything’s going to be fine.”
He talks to her the way you might talk to an insane person; he contrives to sound quietly confident and calm but the extra edge on the rasp of his voice betrays the throbbing depth of his rage.
She feels her eyelids flicker. Sensations carom through her flesh, contradicting one another. This is like one of those suffocating dreams in which you try to run but your muscles are imprisoned and nothing will move.