They went into the Burger King, got hamburgers, Cokes, and fries, and sat at a table. Keith asked, "Is this as romantic as you thought it would be?"

She smiled. "When I'm with you, the airport highway looks like the Via Veneto."

"I think I'm going to throw up."

She laughed, and he put his hand on hers. "It's okay now."

She nodded.

They ate, and he found he was hungry and so was she. He glanced at his watch. It was always a good idea to put in some time outside of the room you just booked. The police sometimes got sloppy about their stakeouts when they were waiting for you to return.

She said, "Don't swallow your mustache."

He smiled. "I like you."

At ten P.M., he said, "Let's walk off the fries."

They left and crossed the highway at a light. There were absolutely no other pedestrians on this highway, and in some parts of America, pedestrians were a rare enough sight to attract attention. He picked up his pace, and she kept up with him.

They approached the dark motel sign near the lane, and Keith slowed down and took her arm. There was an all-night convenience store next to the lane that led to the motel, and he directed her into the parking lot. They stood in the lot and kept watching the motel. He asked, "Do you want to go in there and get some snacks for later?"

"No. I'm not leaving your side."

"Okay. We'll wait here a few minutes."

Keith gave it five minutes, then they walked to the motel, through the parking lot, and went to the door of room 7. If the police were here, or somewhere out there, it was already too late, so he just walked in, noting the lights were still on and nothing seemed disturbed.

Annie locked and bolted the door behind them.

Keith threw the key on the nightstand and the license plates on the bureau and looked at her. "You're a real trouper."

"You're amazing." She took his glasses off, peeled off his mustache, and kissed him.

In fact, he was basically happy with his tradecraft, which was at one time second nature to him. Now he had to think about it, but at least he knew what he was supposed to be thinking about.

Annie was unpacking her overnight bag in the bathroom, and Keith parted the blackout curtains and looked out into the parking court. Everything seemed all right, but he had this sense of deja vu, like he was in East Berlin again, looking out at the street from a window in a safe house that wasn't so safe.

So far, he thought, he'd done the best he could. Even picking Toledo because it was closer was the right decision, notwithstanding the small problem of having missed the last flight. The only thing he'd done wrong, his only true mistake, was his spontaneous decision to run off; to act on his emotions instead of his intellect. But maybe that's what the entire last two months were about. To let go, to lose control, to want someone so badly that a quarter century of doing things by the book — what they called the right combination of D&D, discipline and daring — was suddenly transformed into desire and daring, just like that. It felt good. But there was a price to pay. After his first impulsive act, all his cleverness — all of Plan B — was just damage control. He looked out into the parking lot again. "It looks okay. It is okay..."

There were no chairs in the room, so he sat on the bed and pulled off his shoes. He let himself think about the morning. There was no way they were going to Toledo Airport, of course, or any other airport. An all-points bulletin for kidnapping a police chief's wife, mother of two, and so forth was sufficiently serious to keep every cop in the state and surrounding states on full alert, unless, of course, as he'd suggested to Annie, the state police got onto Baxter. But Keith wouldn't know that immediately.

His best bet, the thing that appealed to him most, was to just get out of the state. And the best way to do that would be to wait until about seven or eight A.M., a normal, busy workday, then take a taxi into Toledo, which was a big enough city to blend in. He couldn't rent a car, as he knew, and he didn't want to steal one and compound his problems.

Trains and buses were not an option, but he had several other options — hire a limousine, charter a plane, or charter a boat to take them to a Great Lakes port someplace out of state. Charter and hire places were cash up front, didn't require identification, were not normally watched or even notified by the police, and the only question a charter or hire service usually asked was, "Where do you want to go?"

He had three other options — call the police, as Annie suggested, call the Porters, or call Charlie Adair. But none of those options seemed palatable at the moment. He might call the police in the morning, but the Porters didn't need any more problems at any hour, and lastly, Charlie Adair had a string attached to everything. Nevertheless, these were options, too, and Keith would decide in the morning.

Annie came out of the bathroom, and he stood. He said to her, "Is it your birthday?"

"No. Why?"

"You're wearing your birthday suit."

"Oh! I forgot to put on my pajamas. I'm so embarrassed. Don't look."

He smiled, and they walked to each other, embracing and kissing.

She said, "Keith, no matter what happens tonight or tomorrow, we're going to have this time now."

"We have all the time in the world."

Cliff Baxter sat alone in his office at Spencerville police headquarters. The entire fifteen-man force was on duty, some at headquarters, the rest on the road.

He drank a Coke, staring off at the opposite wall. He took some perverse satisfaction in the knowledge that he'd been right. His wife was a liar and a whore, Keith Landry was a low-life, wife-fucking prick. "I knew it."

What bothered him was the fact that they'd somehow gotten together over the past weeks, right under the noses of his stupid men, and had made their plans and gotten away. He couldn't blame himself; he'd been right on top of this from day one.

It had been relatively easy to find Annie's car. One of the options she didn't know the car had was a radio transmitter, a homing device bought by the Spencerville police for its high-tech fight against crime, and in Baxter's car was the radio receiver.

Baxter remembered walking into the Landry barn, seeing the white, gleaming Lincoln sitting there beside the tractor, and opening the car door. Cliff, Fuck you, signed Keith Landry. "No, fuck you, asshole."

He'd pocketed the note before his men could see it — not out of embarrassment, he told himself, but because it was a purely personal note and wasn't a clue to the kidnapping.

Of course, it wasn't a kidnapping, and he guessed his men knew that, but no other cop in the state knew it.

The intercom buzzed, and Sergeant Blake said, "Chief, it's Captain Delson from the State."

"Okay." Cliff Baxter picked up the phone, and Captain Delson, of the Ohio state police, said, "Chief, we got something."

Baxter sat upright in his chair. "Yeah?"

"About half an hour ago, the state police were checking out Toledo Airport, and a security man there tells them he saw the subjects. Right car, right description, and he even remembered part of the license plate, which matches."

"They get on a plane?"

"No, they missed the last flight and told the guy they were going home."

"Okay, okay. Good. You got them fixed in the Toledo area, so..."

"Right... thing is, Chief, the guy said that the woman, who he identified from the photo you sent as Mrs. Baxter, didn't look like she was under duress or being forced..."

"Ah, bullshit. The son-of-a-bitch had a gun on her..."

"Well, the male suspect — Landry — was away from the Blazer for some time, and the female was sitting alone in the vehicle."