The Lonely Mile (3 page)

At least for a while.

Then, time would go by, Martin would lie low, and the coverage would die down as other stories moved into the news cycle, picking up again only after Martin plucked another victim out from under the not-so-watchful gaze of her parents or friends.

Martin strolled past the pizza counter, moving behind the lines of people. He passed the line for the pizza and burger joints, taking his place in the crowd of people waiting to buy a cup of coffee. His heart hammered wildly in his chest and he practically quivered with anticipation. This was the hardest part: the knowledge that he was so close to his next plaything but would have to wait to enjoy her, but he forced himself to slow down and proceed with caution.

This sense of caution was exactly why he would never be caught. Others of his kind rushed in with little or no regard for the potential consequences of their rash actions. Or they were careful in the beginning but became sloppy after a few successes, leaving themselves open to committing the kind of mistakes that resulted in capture, humiliation, and, eventually, life in prison or even the death penalty.

Not Martin Krall. Martin Krall was too smart for that kind of carelessness. He knew when to take bold, decisive action and when to hang back and observe, and this was the time to hang back and observe. Scan and plan before leaping into action.

The line at the coffee counter moved slowly. Its length surprised Martin because of the stifling heat outside. Of course, like most coffee franchises, this one offered the thirsty patron all sorts of fancy iced drinks and frothy ten-thousand-calorie concoctions composed mostly of water and sugar, and Martin figured the majority of the sheep were probably purchasing those. He waited patiently, eyes continually scanning the crowd behind his mirrored sunglasses, keeping tabs on the pair of girls he had determined were the most promising targets.

Finally, he reached the front of the line. A tall, skinny kid in his late teens with serious acne issues and long, greasy, blond hair looked down at him through bored, blue eyes. Pinned at a careless angle onto his shirt was a nametag that read “Jamie.” The shirt was wrinkled and partially untucked. “Help you?” he asked.

Martin was immediately turned off. He was no neat freak, not by any stretch of the imagination, but this kid reeked of grime and germs. It was disgusting. Martin’s first instinct was to turn away. He certainly didn’t want to drink anything “Jamie” had put his dirty paws all over. But then he stopped himself. Waiting all that time in line and then leaving without buying anything just as he got to the counter would be noteworthy. It would make him stick out. It would make people remember him.

That kind of reaction was unacceptable, especially considering what would soon take place here today. He reluctantly forced a smile onto his face, wondering whether it looked as insincere as it felt, and said, “Small coffee, please.”

The kid stared at him without moving, as if Martin had spoken in some foreign language. For a second, Martin wondered if maybe he didn’t speak English, but of course, that was absurd. He had been waiting behind a whole group of people, most of whom must have been speaking English, and no one else seemed to have had any trouble. What was this moron’s problem?

Finally, the kid asked, “Hot?”

Now it was Martin’s turn to stare uncomprehendingly. Of course it was hot; it was at least ninety degrees outside, for crying out loud!

Suddenly, he realized what the kid was asking. His earlier supposition that most of the people in line were buying those iced drinks was right on target, and this idiot wanted to be sure he understood Martin’s order correctly. “Yes, hot,” Martin said, trying and mostly succeeding in keeping the sneer he felt out of his voice. “I’d like hot coffee.” He said it slowly and deliberately.

The kid drew the brew out of a huge stainless steel urn set up on a counter behind him, then handed the cup to Martin and received payment without another word. Martin wanted nothing more than to stiff this loser out of a tip—his service was poor and his personal hygiene nonexistent—but of course that might draw the attention of some of the sheep, too, so he reluctantly dropped a quarter into the plastic tip jar, strategically placed next to the cash register, and moved away, grabbing a table near the front of the room where he would have a decent view of the entire place.

No sooner had he sat down, than he spotted, “the one.” There was no doubt about it. She was perhaps seventeen, tall and athletic, willowy, all coltish legs and youthful energy, with long, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She was perfect—just what Martin liked, and just what the others would like as well. The girl was entering the plaza, traveling with a man and a woman, presumably her parents. She was not one of the likely targets he had been monitoring, and he congratulated himself on his patience.

The family moved into the plaza and immediately split up, the girl turning right toward the restrooms and Mommy and Daddy staking out a spot at the end of the line for the burger joint all the way across the room. There were so many people milling about at the moment that Martin figured there was no way they could even see the restrooms from where they were standing. Perfect.

Martin left his coffee untouched on the table—just as well, he thought; he didn’t really want to drink it after that greaseball behind the counter had touched it—and meandered slowly toward the restrooms. The men’s and women’s rooms were adjacent to each other and featured open doorways with interior walls preventing anyone from seeing in.

He took his time, moving slowly. The plaza was busy and there was a pretty decent chance the girl would have to wait for a stall inside the restroom. Even if she didn’t, it would take at least a couple of minutes to do her business and wash her hands.

Stopping at a t-shirt stand a few feet from the rest rooms, Martin pretended to check out the cheap wares while he waited for the girl. Shirts with silly puns on them competed for attention with other shirts featuring scenic views of the Adirondack Mountains or one of the thousands of lakes dotting the region. The only thing they had in common was that they were all poorly made and overpriced.

Martin watched the restrooms surreptitiously, knowing he would get only one chance to do this right. Hopefully, the girl would exit the ladies’ room alone, but even if she didn’t, it would pose no more than a minor problem. The girl’s parents were still cooling their heels in line at the hamburger joint across the plaza, and anyone who happened to walk out of the ladies’ room at the same time as the target would undoubtedly be in a hurry to get her food and drink and head out, and so would be paying scant attention to the pretty blonde girl.

Martin Krall patted the Glock 9mm, jammed into the waistband of his jeans and covered with a long t-shirt, and waited. The girl would walk out of the ladies room any second now. He could feel it. He didn’t know how he could tell, but he could. He had done this many times before.

He stood at the display stand surrounded by the cheap t-shirts and all of the unsuspecting people and waited, unnoticed, a predator stalking its prey.

CHAPTER 5

BILL APPROACHED THE ENTRANCE to the restrooms, dodging left and right, avoiding masses of people, all seemingly oblivious to everyone and everything around them. A fat, middle-aged woman with thinning brown hair waddled straight at him, staring through him as she careened toward the food counters like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. He stepped nimbly aside and let her pass, shaking his head, half in frustration and half in amusement when it became clear she had had absolutely no intention of altering her course. The woman shot past, trailing a wake behind her like a big rig blowing by an economy car out on the interstate.

As he sidestepped the overweight woman hell-bent on her next meal, Bill bumped into a thin, wiry man in a billowing t-shirt who was apparently headed toward the restrooms as well, rocking him onto his heels. The man glared at Bill, who smiled and offered an apology.

“No problem,” the stranger mumbled unconvincingly, and turned away as if anxious to end the brief encounter. Bill stared in surprise at the man’s back for a moment before shrugging and turning again toward the restrooms. He advanced three steps before being forced to step aside again, this time to dodge a young woman exiting the ladies’ room. She was a teenager, tall and blonde, with hair streaming behind her in a ponytail protruding from the back of a New York Yankees baseball cap. Her head was raised and her searching eyes bypassed Bill. It was clear she was looking for someone.

Two more steps brought Bill to the men’s room entrance, a feeling of ill-defined unease nagging at him. He had served two terms on the ground in Iraq half a lifetime ago and learned very quickly that the fastest way to an early, sandy grave was to ignore what your senses were telling you, even if you couldn’t quite decipher the message.

Something was wrong.

He stopped and turned. A man bumped into him from behind and muttered, “Jerk,” then kept walking into the men’s room. Bill ignored him. The wiry guy he had nearly deposited on his butt over by the rack of t-shirts a moment ago was no longer there. Bill watched as that man walked away quickly, now approaching the blonde girl from behind.

When the man reached the girl, he moved to her right and raised his left arm as if to drape it over her shoulder. Bill’s first thought was that the man must be the girl’s father, but that didn’t make any sense. He was too young, and there was no way she could have missed seeing him as she came out of the ladies’ room if they were acquainted; they had to have passed within a foot of each other. The man was obviously unknown to her.

Bill’s internal alarm bells were jangling now, his sense of vague unease morphing quickly into full-blown dread. What happened next caused all the other people milling about to melt away from his consciousness until only the blonde girl and the strange, wiry man existed. The man continued to raise his arm, hooking it over her shoulder as if preparing to settle her neck into the crook of his elbow. With his right hand, he pulled a handgun out from under the back of his shirt and pressed it discreetly against her ribs while bending down and whispering in her ear, clearly warning her not to scream. Then, the man lead her rapidly toward the double doors and the intense heat of the parking lot. And a certain escape.

Bill did a double take, not sure his brain was correctly processing the information his eyes were sending it. He glanced quickly around the plaza. Everyone was still milling about, oblivious to the drama unfolding in their midst. He shifted his attention back toward the man and the girl. The man was hustling the girl out. They had nearly reached the exterior doors.

In a precious, few seconds they would be out of the building and crossing the parking lot to some waiting vehicle where he would spirit the young girl away. Bill made a snap decision, one which he would later question, and, in some ways, come to regret.

Bill Ferguson sprinted forward, dodging passers-by, closing the distance on the still-unsuspecting man and the teenage girl, unsnapping his Browning from its holster as he moved. He held it like a football, cradled in his arms against his chest, hopefully out of sight, but readily accessible. He would approach the kidnapper from behind, use the butt of the pistol to club him in the head, and pull the girl to safety. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it would work, because the man still didn’t see him, and—

—A kid holding a gigantic iced coffee in his hands backed directly into him. The kid was having an animated conversation with his buddies in a booth, backing away from them, his attention diverted. The drink flew out of his hands and crashed to the floor, and a tidal wave of iced coffee splashed around his feet. The kidnapper turned for a split-second to see what was causing the commotion, and just like that, the advantage of surprise was lost.

Bill changed the plan on the fly, dropping into a shooter’s crouch and taking dead aim at the center of the man’s back. The guy’s head was turned but his body continued to face the door. Bill still had a clear, unobstructed shot.

He held the Browning in two hands, making a conscious effort to keep his grip loose and relaxed, and screamed, “Freeze!” at the top of his lungs. The man stopped instantly and stood stock-still. His gun remained firmly planted into the girl’s side, but at least he hadn’t pulled the trigger. Yet.

One full second of utter, monastic silence fell over the inside of the rest stop. No one spoke. No one moved. The clatter of plates and silverware stopped. Cash registers fell silent.

Then, all hell broke loose.

CHAPTER 6

MARTIN FROZE, INSTANTLY AWARE the shouted warning was meant for him. For perhaps two seconds, nothing happened—the silence was all-encompassing and unnerving—and then, like a dam bursting, chaos erupted in the plaza. A shrill, high-pitched scream echoed off the ceramic tiles in the big, open room. Trays filled with dishes fell to the floor, glasses shattering and dishes breaking as their owners spotted the guns and dove for cover. Tables crashed onto their sides, and the more physically gifted among the travelers vaulted the counters, thudding to the floor on the other side. Those lucky few near the plaza entrance simply ran out the door.

And still Martin did not move. He hugged the girl tightly, frantically calculating the possibilities. It could not have been a cop who shouted the warning—they were required to identify themselves. So it had to have been a citizen; an ordinary Joe who had seen the kidnapping go down and decided to play hero. That was good; he might still be able to get out of this.

Martin turned slowly and carefully, avoiding any sudden or unusual movements that his attacker might interpret as threatening. He kept his handgun firmly planted in the girl’s side, shoving it hard against her ribs in an unspoken warning not to do anything stupid, like running toward her misguided—and soon-to-be dead—savior.

In front of Martin, the girl whimpered softly, breathing hard, clearly terrified, her weight heavy on his arms as he pulled her tight against his body, using her as a human shield. He completed the turn, dragging her around with him, and found himself face-to-face with the same man who had bumped him just seconds ago. The man was crouched, his weapon held in a two-handed shooter’s grip, the barrel trained steadily on the center of Martin’s body, which meant it was now also trained on the girl.