They landed in a grassy area about a hundred yards from the pumps. Rain was still coming down in sheets.
No sign of Kepler.
His Porsche was parked at pump 19, the driver’s-side door left open, keys in the ignition. No sign of Trooper Winkler either. His patrol car was parked behind the empty Porsche, lights flashing.
Dobbs pointed toward the interstate. “We need to lock this place down before he gets out. If we stop the first vehicle in each lane, everyone else will be stuck behind them.”
“You get eastbound, I’ll get west,” Gimble said, taking off at a run.
Dobbs sprinted across the muddy field. He pushed until his leg muscles burned. Icy rain stung his face. Cars, trucks, RVs, and tractor trailers were all lined up in the exit lane, slowly feeding back onto the highway. He pulled his badge out as he ran and held it out toward the vehicles. A pudgy little kid with freckles sitting in a station wagon stared at Dobbs as he bolted past, the kid’s face pressed to steamed glass.
At least six eighteen-wheelers got back on the highway before Dobbs neared the front of the line. One driver looked down, saw the badge, and quickly turned away, pretending he hadn’t seen him. He shot out onto the highway. When the next one tried to rush past him, Dobbs stepped out in front of the large truck. The wheels locked, screamed in protest, as the semi lurched to a stop.
The driver leaned out his window. “You crazy shit!”
A white panel van peeled away from the row of cars, pulled onto the shoulder, and accelerated. Dobbs stepped out in front of that one too, but it didn’t slow down. “Stop!”
The van swerved.
Dobbs dived to the side.
A blur of white rushed past him and got back on I-40.
He fumbled with his phone, dialed Marshal Tanner. When the man picked up, he shouted, “White van, eastbound, just got back on the interstate!”
“On it,” Tanner replied.
The driver of the semi hit his horn, three loud blasts.
In the muddy bank on the side of the road, Dobbs shook his head and held his badge up in the air.