He felt his stomach tighten and gurgle, not with hunger, but with fear and anxiety.
He pushed his way into the small office. A young girl, who couldn’t be more than sixteen, was behind the counter.
“Hey, my car won’t start. Is there anyone here who can maybe give me a jump?”
She looked at him blankly.
“You know, jumper cables?”
The steady stare, followed by a shrug.
Scott blew out a breath of frustration, then asked, “Can you at least tell me where the closest pay phone is? I left my keys to the room on the table and locked my door already.”
She could have given him another key to get back into his room to use the phone, but she also could have answered his question about a jump. Instead, she pointed to her left. “Gas station next door.”
Scott considered a few zingers about customer service, but he felt the pressure of a running clock in his head.
He hurried to the payphone and pulled the Eastside phone book up and spread it open. His first instinct was to call a garage, but common sense told him that no garage was open. Instead, he dialed a taxi and asked for a pickup at the motel.
He hurried back to the Valiant. He slammed his hand on the trunk in frustration, but that did nothing but hurt himself. The car remained unmoved.
He tried to start it again, but the result was the same.
Scott dumped his clothes and bathroom stuff out onto the seat, then placed the karambit and baton inside. He slung the pack over his arm, grabbed his jo and sat on the back bumper to wait.
Forty-five minutes later, he was still waiting. He was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of his room, then walking out to the street, looking for an approaching Yellow Cab.
After an hour, he wished he had walked there.
It’s only about five miles from here, right? I coulda almost been there by now.
Finally, at 9:15, the cab pulled into the parking lot. The driver rolled his window down. “You call for a cab?”
Scott didn’t answer, but jumped inside. “Lake Sammamish State Park, please, as fast as you can get me there.”
The cabbie flipped his flag up, which put a .75 charge on the meter. “Sure, no problem. Don’t worry, the park, the sunshine, and the pretty girls in cutoffs will still be there when you get there.”
Scott gave him an insincere smile and sat back, willing the driver to move faster. It’s a well-known universal law that the greater the hurry you are in, the more your chances of missing every red light increases. Scott was almost in a panic, in a true race against life and death. That meant that they did indeed miss every light possible as they drove through Issaquah.
Finally, almost two hours after he had wanted to be there, the cab pulled up to the entrance to the park. The cabbie flipped the flag back down and said, “Five twenty-five.”
Scott pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket, said, “Keep it.” He clambered out of the backseat with his pack slung over his shoulder and his jo in his right hand. He hurried through the park gate and cast his eye along the cars that were parked along the left side of the lot. Scott scanned where the cars butted right up against some trees and undergrowth.
It was early, but it was a beautiful day, and the park was filling up quickly.
Oh, shit. Unbelievable!
Sitting a few parking spots from each other were two tan Volkswagen Beetles.
I have no idea which one is his, but one of those has to be it. He’s here. He’s already here and hunting. Everything depended on catching him when he first got here and was getting out of the car.
Leaning on his jo, Scott stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck. Wavy lines of heat were already shimmering off the parking lot, which was momentarily empty of other people. He saw a couple walking up the path toward him. The man was wearing a tennis outfit—white shorts and shirt. The woman was pushing a yellow ten-speed bike. Scott took a few steps toward them, then stopped cold.
It was not just a couple. Walking toward him was a pretty young blonde woman and Theodore Robert Bundy.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bundy had wavy dark hair that went over his ears and collar. His open, boyish face was split into a grin as he said something to the young woman beside him. A clean-looking cast and sling was on his left arm. He was pointing at the VW Beetle that was just ahead. The man who would come to be recognized as one of America’s great boogey men today looked like nothing less than an all-American man.
Scott had an unexpected, visceral reaction at the sight of Bundy. His nostrils flared, his fingers curled and uncurled against his jo, and he unconsciously spread his feet, settling into a fighting stance.
Bundy and the woman approached close and were about to walk right by Scott, when he stepped in front of the woman. The two of them stopped in surprise.
“Listen,” Scott said, and he could hear the anger and breathiness in his voice. “You need to get out of here. You don’t know this man, but he is planning to rape and kill you today.”
The woman’s eyes flew wide and she took a step back from both Bundy and Scott, dragging her bicycle with her.
Bundy himself twisted his head to the side with a shocked, quizzical look.
“I know he asked you to help him get his sailboat, but look at what he’s driving. It’s a Beetle, with no roof rack on it. Think. How is he going get a sailboat on there?”
Bundy reached out a hand toward Scott. Anger flashed in his eyes and he raised his voice. “Wait a minute, what are you going on about?” Scott saw his cunning mind at work, already running scenarios.
The woman looked at Scott, then back at Ted. Any trace of her smile long gone. “I don’t know if this is some kind of a joke you two cooked up, but it’s not funny.” She spit the words at them, then picked up her bike, turned it around and peddled back toward the lake.
Bundy’s eyes narrowed as he tried to process this unusual set of circumstances. He was an intelligent man, but he had been convinced he was anonymous here.
“Who are you?”
“I am the last person on earth you wanted to meet today.”
A car drove past them and parked further down toward the lake. Scott glanced at it.
How the hell did he manage to get these girls out of here without being seen? There’s people everywhere.
An idea flashed through Scott’s mind.
“Screw you, Ted Bundy. I know exactly who you are and what you’ve been doing. I know about every girl you’ve already killed. I know your every damn move before you make it. That’s how I knew you were going to be here today. My next stop will be the cops. You may not know it, but you left a fingerprint on the bed of the girl you attacked in the U-District. Once I tip them off about you, they’ll put you away for life.”
The color drained from Bundy’s face and he took one dangerous step toward Scott.
Scott turned and strode quickly toward the Beetle that he had seen Ted point at. He raised his jo and slammed it down on the driver’s side mirror, snapping it off.
Bundy ran toward him, arms out, flailing, murder in his eyes. Scott turned to face him, waited until he was nearly on top of him, then turned sideways with his left leg stuck out. Bundy stumbled over it and splayed onto the ground between the two cars. He cursed and got on all fours to stand, but was hindered by the sling on his left arm, which had wrapped around itself.
Scott put his foot against the butt of Bundy’s white shorts and shoved as hard as he could. Bundy pitched forward, landing face first out of the parking lot and in the surrounding greenbelt. His face dug up a channel of dirt and pine needles.