Keith knew that if he dwelled on it too much, if he let the rage and the guilt take over, he wasn't going to be able to do what he had to do. He put it out of his mind and considered his next moves. He wasn't going to get many more shots at this, if any. But all he needed was one more.

The taxi arrived at the airport, and the driver asked, "Where to?"

"Just stop over there near the USAir sign."

The driver stopped at the terminal and said, "That'll be twelve seventy-five, please."

Keith gave him a twenty, took the change, and tipped him.

He went into the terminal, turned around, and came out another door twenty feet away. He stood at the curb, looking at his watch, and seeming for all the world like a businessman who just got off a morning flight. He'd been to this airport many times over the years, and he knew the ropes. He ignored the line of taxis and said to a skycap, "Anyone around who wants to take a long ride?"

"Sure. Where you headed?"

"Lima."

"Okay." The skycap signaled to a customized van parked in the lot across the ramp. The skycap asked Keith, "Luggage?"

"No." Keith gave the skycap two dollars as the van pulled up. A skinny kid of about twenty jumped out and asked, "Where you headin'?"

"Lima. How much?"

"Oh... let's say... that's about two hours, so we got gas and the return... is fifty too much?"

"Sounds okay." Keith opened the passenger door, and the driver got in the van, and they were off. As they drove out of the airport, the young man stuck out his hand. "Name's Chuck."

Keith shook his hand. "John."

"Good to know you."

"Nice van."

"Ain't she, though? Did it all myself." Chuck gave Keith a complete rundown of the customizing done on the van, a late-model Dodge. Chuck was currently unemployed and supported his expensive chroming habit by undercutting the fixed taxi rates at the airport. By the time Chuck was finished with his monologue, they were on Interstate 75, heading south.

Keith was going to tell Chuck to step on it, that he was late, but Chuck already had the van cranked up to seventy-five. Chuck saw him looking at the speedometer, laughed, and said, "Route 75, I do seventy-five. Lucky we ain't on 106." He added, "Hey, if this is too fast for you, let me know."

"It's fine."

"Yeah? Good. I got the best fuzz-buster made — right here." He tapped the radar detector on the dashboard. "Fuck them."

"Right."

He nudged it up to eighty and asked, "Where you from?"

"New York."

"Yeah? You like it?"

"It's okay."

"Never been there myself."

Keith felt a headache coming on, and his stomach heaved. He didn't know if it was because of the ride, or the beating he'd taken. Maybe it was Chuck.

Chuck glanced at him and said, "Don't mean to be personal, but it looks like somebody whooped you upside the head real good."

Keith hadn't seen himself in a mirror, which was just as well, but he put down the visor, and there was a vanity mirror on it, surrounded by pink lights. He looked at himself. His left temple was black-and-blue and slightly swollen, and he had a cut under his right eye that was smeared with iodine, but not sutured. He also looked very pale, and there were dark circles around his eyes.

"You get mugged?"

"No, had a car accident."

"Jeez. Hey, you here on business?"

"Yes."

"No luggage?"

"No. Going back tonight."

"Thought so. You want me to wait for you? Five bucks an hour to wait."

"Maybe."

"Want to listen to the radio? Tapes?"

"Radio."

Chuck turned on the radio, a hard-rock station.

Keith hit the scan button, and a succession of stations came on for about ten seconds each, then Keith locked in an all-news station from Toledo and listened to the world news, which interested him about as much as it interested Chuck. Finally, the local news came on.

The newscaster said, "The state police announced this morning that they expect to question Keith Landry, the suspect in the Spencerville kidnapping case. Landry, of Spencerville, is currently in Lucas County Hospital suffering from head injuries resulting from an assault committed by an unknown assailant or assailants in an airport highway motel. Landry was the subject of a statewide manhunt Sunday night and early Monday morning, after the Spencerville police charged that he kidnapped Annie Baxter, the wife of the Spencerville police chief. Mrs. Baxter was not found at the motel, but the state police have been informed by the Spencerville police that Mrs. Baxter is safe and is now back with her family. The investigation will continue, according to authorities who hope to discover the identity of the assailant or assailants, and to determine what charges will be filed against Landry."

Keith hit a button, and a country-western station came on.

Chuck said, "That's something, ain't it?"

"What?"

"That kidnapping. They found the guy right near the airport back there." Chuck gave his opinion of the incident. "Like, they got all kinds of stuff on the radio, on TV, and all, and I'm thinkin', hell, if that was my girlfriend or something, the cops wouldn't go jumpin' through their asses like that. But it's another cop, you know, and this woman was like an upstanding member of the community and all, two kids, and the husband is a police chief. So, anyway, they find them... well, like they said, they never found her, which is weird, but the state police get to this motel and all, like some kind of hourly place, you know, and so they find the guy who kidnapped her, and he's all beat to shit, but nobody knows where the wife got to — when the cops got to the motel, everybody who was checked in are long gone, you know, because they don't belong there in the first place, and the only witness is this motel manager or something, and the cops ain't saying what he said. Now, I think there was two of them, two guys, Landry and another guy, and they get into an argument about who's gonna fuck her first and all that, and one of them slam-dunks the other guy, then cuts out with the wife. And they was all white people. Can you believe that shit?"

"Incredible story."

"You said it. And now they're sayin' the wife is back with her family. And the state police says the husband, the chief, is in... some word..."

"Shock?"

"Yeah, that, but... seclusion. In seclusion. Like layin' low. You know?"

"Yeah."

"What do you think? Two guys, right? That explains it. Cops say they don't know what happened. Big mystery. Hell, they got the motel guy, and they got the guy who got the shit beat out of him. They know, but they're not letting on. They do that sometimes. Something weird here. How did the wife get away? You know what I think? The husband paid a ransom. The cops don't want to say that another cop paid a ransom. Right?"

"Could be."

"I should be a cop. Hey, you want coffee? There's a stop up ahead."

Yes, he wanted coffee, he wanted food, he wanted to get rid of a three-day stubble and brush his teeth and wash the stench off him, but he said, "No, I'm in a hurry."

"Sure thing."

About a half hour after they started, Keith saw the exit for Route 15, westbound. He said, "Let's get off here."

"Here?"

"I have to pick up some papers at a lawyer's house."

"Okay... where's that?"

"Not sure. I have directions. If it takes a long time, I'll give you a few bucks extra."

"No problem."

They traveled west on Route 15, and Keith directed Chuck onto a series of roads that he figured the man wouldn't recall later if it ever came up.

Chuck said, "Hey, you got all this memorized, right?"

"Sure do."

"What town is it?"

"It's a farm. Lawyer lives in a farmhouse."

"Okay."

They got onto County Road 22, and as they approached his farm, Keith realized there was something wrong. What was wrong was the skyline — there was no house there.