Zeb fell back as if punched.
Leopard. That’s Namir.
He stared out blindly as the cruiser sped on the quiet streets.
He must have forced Chuck to make that video. After killing Jake and the others.
Chuck’s probably dead, too.
Fed some story to Schwartz and Frazier that I killed Ashland. And made off with Sara.
Why did they buy it?
The two officers were conferring quietly in the front.
Small-town cops. Drunks, petty thefts are all they have handled.
Zeb could see how it might have gone.
Namir walks in, probably with his face bruised, signs of escape. Comes up with a story and video.
Why wouldn’t they believe him?
What’s the terrorist’s angle? He’ll know his story won’t wash. Eventually.
Another urgent thought entered his mind.
Clare needs to know.
Tires squealed as Frazier Nascar-ed the vehicle through a turn and brought it up to a shuddering stop in front of a yellow, squat building: the police station.
Schwartz stepped out and came around to Zeb’s door, which was opened by the deputy.
Zeb struck.
He kicked the door as Frazier was opening it.
Thankful that he wasn’t cuffed.
Metal crashed into the deputy.
He howled and bent over, clutching his face.
Zeb sprang out.
Schwartz swore, his hand darting to his gun.
Zeb body-shoved Frazier at him, and the two men collided.
Ample flesh met a large mass.
Someone grunted. A string of curses as both men fell.
Zeb took off.
He ran in the direction of the wilderness, the route he and the girl had taken when entering town.
Heard shouting behind him.
A wild shot that smashed into a store window.
He threw himself into an alley just as another round chipped concrete.
Need a cellphone.
The alley was a dead-end. Trash cans lining its end. A boarded wall blocking it.
He leaped on top of a can. Right leg to lever himself up, right arm grabbing the top and pulling himself over.
A small yard. Leading to a park.
He cut around the park, heading back. Toward Pete Ashland’s house.
They won’t expect me to head there.
A dog walker approached in the distance.
Won’t be good if he spots my bloodied jacket and thigh.
Zeb leaped over a fence, into a back garden, down a narrow path, over a gate and back onto a street.
This runs parallel to Main Street, he visualized.
Not far from Farloe Street.
He slowed to a walk. Head bent down. Hands in pockets.
Turned into the grandfather’s street.
There were several parked cars. But no cruiser.
The pickup was still in the driveway.
No faces at windows.
He drifted to the side of the house, ducking through a hedge that separated the property from the neighbor’s.
And came to a wooden fence that surrounded the yard.
It was as tall as he was and required a few attempts to scale.
A stone path in a green lawn, leading to a glass door.
He tried it.
It opened without a sound.
He entered the warmth of the house.
Utility room. Washer. Laundry drying.
He went to the door and entered the dining room.
Seated himself at the empty table and was pouring himself a glass of water when Sara Ashland entered the room.
‘Zeb!’