Without a word, he returned to the Cherokee. He put her in four-wheel drive and slowly eased to the right. The Cadillac responded, moving right to block him. Matt edged further onto the slope, and the Cadillac mimicked him, matching Matt's every rightward move.
When he was sure all four of the Caddy's tires were on the slope, Matt pulled sharply to his left, darting back uphill. The heavier car tried to respond but its rear wheels spun uselessly on the snow. It began to fishtail as it slipped further down the slope, swerving ninety degrees until it was sliding back-end first, its rear wheels spinning madly. It stopped with a jolt in the gully at the bottom, its headlights pointing skyward.
Back on the shoulder again, Matt gave two quick toots on his horn and drove away.
"All I wanted to do was get by," Matt said softly.
No one bothered him the rest of the way to the service area.
"What's the problem up ahead?" he asked as the attendant filled the Cherokee's tank. He had stringy blond hair and was maybe nineteen. "It can't be just snow."
"It ain't. Scanner says a tractor trailer jack-knifed coming down the Exit 6 on-ramp."
"Six? That's where I get off. Damn, I'll be here forever."
"Maybe longer. We heard that four cars piled into the truck. There was a fire and everything. A real mess. If I was you I'd find a parking spot, get a comfortable seat in Roy's or Big Boy's, and figure on spending the rest of the night there."
Uh-uh, Matt thought. He saw a set of headlights glide across the overpass just south of the service area.
"Will that road take me to the Pennsylvania Turnpike?"
The attendant followed Matt's pointing arm and nodded.
"Yeah. Eventually. If you could get on it. But there's no off-ramp to that road. Like the man says: You can't get there from here."
"Suppose I make my own ramp?"
The attendant looked at the Cherokee, then back at Matt.
"There's a corn field back of the service area here. With four-wheel drive you just might be home free."
"I'm not heading home, but at least I'll be free of the Turnpike."
"Hope it's real important to get where you're goin'. You bust an axle or blow a tire out in that field you'll have a lotta explaining to do in the morning."
"I've got a friend in need," Matt said.
The attendant grinned. "And you're the friend indeed, right?"
"You might say that."
"I got my break in a couple of minutes. I'll show you a way out the back."
Matt shoved a twenty into his hand.
"Show me now."
*
Quinn sat cross-legged on the bed in her darkened room and watched the snowflakes tumble through the bright cones from the dorm's exterior floodlights. She wished she could glide out the window like one of the kids in Peter Pan and get lost in the storm.
Then she wouldn't have to think about that patient in Ward C, and the hand signal he'd made for her.
It was Tim.
As crazy as it sounded, it had to be Tim. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became.
He was Tim's height, had Tim's build, and he'd given her the signal, the Hawaiian hang loose that only Tim would have known to give.
Quinn's first impulse had been to run to the police, to call Deputy Southworth and demand that he charge into Ward C and save Tim from whoever had imprisoned him there for whatever reason.
She'd made it as far as her door before having second thoughts. And third thoughts.
She imagined the conversation with the sheriff's department:
"Who do you think kidnapped your boyfriend and imprisoned him in the burn ward, Miss Cleary?"
"Dr. Alston, I guess. He's in charge of Ward C."
"Why would The Ingraham's Dean of Medical Education want to do something like that?"
"I don't know. Maybe because Tim discovered the place was bugged."
"But his own father brought in an expert who couldn't find a shred of evidence of electronic surveillance."
"He's there in Ward C. I know he's there."
"How do you know that, Miss Cleary?"
"I was watching one of the Ward C patients when he gave me a secret hand signal Tim and I used in Atlantic City."
"A secret hand signal. I see. Did you get close to him? Did you see his face?"
'No, but—"
"Why were you watching this particular patient?"
"He's built like Tim. He reminded me of Tim."
"You really miss your buyfriend, don't you. You really wish he was back."
"Yes, but—"
"We understand, Miss Cleary. We'll be sure to look into this matter very soon. But don't call us. We'll call you when we find something. Good night."
So now Quinn was back on her bed, staring into the swirling wilderness and racking her brain for a way to convince the police that Tim was in Ward C.
If indeed he was in Ward C.
Sometimes you see what you want to see.
What if she did manage to convince Deputy Southworth to barge into the Science Center and they found out the new Ward C patient was a farm boy from West Virginia who'd been riding a tractor when the fuel tank exploded under him? What would happen then?
The Ingraham would probably kick her out.
And then where would she be? She'd still be without Tim, but she'd be without a medical education as well.
Quinn could come up with only one solution: She had to be able to go to the sheriff's office and say she had looked into the patient's face and it was Timothy Brown.
And that was just what she was going to do. Tonight. After the change of shift.
It was the only way.
She shivered. It wasn't cold in the room. She was terrified.
*
Matt rubbed his burning eyes. His arms were leaden, his fingers cramped from gripping the steering wheel, and his right leg throbbed from incessant switching between the gas and brake pedals. He glanced at the dashboard clock.
I don't believe this, he thought. After midnight and I haven't hit Gettysburg yet. And it's still snowing like crazy.
After getting lost twice in the rural backroads of western New Jersey, he'd finally made it to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. That, too, had been slow going, with accidents eastbound and westbound, but it least it had been moving—a big improvement over the Jersey Pike.
But he'd made his big mistake around Harrisburg when he got off the Pennsy Pike and headed south toward Maryland. He'd had three choices: Route 83, Route 81, or Route 15. The first two were major roads, but 83 would swing him too far back east, and 81 would take him too far west; Route 15 ran right between the other two and offered to bring him closest to The Ingraham in the fewest miles.
But Route 15 was only two lanes, lined with dark, sleeping houses and snow-coated trees bending their laden branches low over the road. Matt had been crawling for miles, with hours more to go, most likely.
This is crazy, he thought.
The best thing to do would be find a motel and spend the night. Forget about The Ingraham for tonight and get some sleep. The roads would be clearer in the morning.
He pulled onto the shoulder and yanked the cellular phone from its cradle between the bucket seats. He fished out a slip of paper with Quinn's number and punched it in.
If he wasn't getting there till tomorrow, he wanted to make sure she didn't zip off to Baltimore or the like for the day.
The signal was shaky but he recognized her hello.
"Hey, Quinn, it's Matt."
"Oh, Matt. Thank God you called. It's Tim! I think he's here!"
"What? He came back?"