Free Deadly Pursuit by Michael Prescott Page B
Authors: Michael Prescott
could execute the final stages of his plan.
It had worked beautifully so far.
In Encino, about midway between his home and office, he kept a storage locker, which he’d visited after getting off the bus. He removed two shopping bags, then shut himself in a men’s room stall at Burger King. The first bag contained blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a knapsack; he changed clothes, placing his folded suit in the pack.
The second bag held eyeglasses, a can of mousse, and a thick envelope. He donned the glasses, slicked back his hair, and distributed the envelope’s contents among his wallet and various pockets: ten thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
When he emerged from the rest room, he was no longer an executive in a business suit; he was a bespectacled youngish man in blue denim, toting a backpack.
A cab took him to LAX, where he bought a one-way coach ticket at the American Airlines counter, paying cash.
His flight was uneventful. The plane touched down at Miami International at 9:47 p.m. Eastern time. He roamed the long-term parking area until he found a Pontiac Sunbird hardtop sedan with an unlocked rear door. Somebody in a hurry had gotten careless.
His Swiss Army knife came in handy when he slipped behind the wheel. An amusingly boyish possession, a relic of his days of camping out on Pelican Key with Steve Gardner, yet practical, too. The knife was innocuous enough to get through airport security, yet potentially useful should one of his victims ward off the needle jab. He had practiced extracting the two-inch spear blade with his thumbnail until he could release it switchblade-fast.
He didn’t need the blade now. Instead he used the built-in screwdriver to pry off the ignition switch, then hot-wired the ignition.
In Florida City, he stopped at a supermarket. His purchases totaled $128. Canned goods predominated: vegetables, fruit, tuna, sardines. Bread, peanut butter, honey. Chocolate chip cookies. Bottled water. No booze—he needed to keep his head clear—and nothing perishable.
The housewares aisle provided him with rubber gloves, paper towels, plastic utensils, and a manual can opener. In the hardware section he picked up wire cutters, a flashlight, and batteries.
After leaving the supermarket he prowled the streets of Florida City in search of a late-model Pontiac Sunbird parked outside. On Tower Road he found one. He removed the vehicle’s front license plate and placed it on the rear of his stolen Sunbird, discarding the hot car’s two original plates.
Then he headed south on U.S. 1, driving just under the speed limit. The highway took him through a few miles of flat, dreary land at the edge of the Everglades, then out over the water and into the Florida Keys.
Now it was shortly past midnight; he’d been on the road a little more than an hour.
A new mile marker expanded in his headlights. 98.
Restless, he turned on the radio. He dialed past melancholy country songs and twittering chamber music till he found some raucous rock ‘n’ roll. The lightning chord changes and racing drums acted on his system like a shot of caffeine. He laid his foot on the gas pedal, then remembered the danger of being stopped by the highway patrol and hastily applied the brakes.
The song ended in a cacophony of percussive clatter and synthesized wails. He left the radio tuned to that station as a news update came on.
A fire in Fort Lauderdale. Multiple-vehicle collision on Route 95. New developments in the investigation of a scandal involving the state legislature. Nationally, a manhunt was under way for John Edward Dance ...
“Jesus,” Jack whispered, and turned up the volume.
“ ... evaded arrest in Los Angeles and is now believed to be on the run. Dance, thirty-five, is described by authorities as a slick and experienced con artist who once served time for fraud. He is now wanted on charges of multiple homicide—”
All the breath went out of him. He was cold everywhere. A high, tuneless
It had worked beautifully so far.
In Encino, about midway between his home and office, he kept a storage locker, which he’d visited after getting off the bus. He removed two shopping bags, then shut himself in a men’s room stall at Burger King. The first bag contained blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a knapsack; he changed clothes, placing his folded suit in the pack.
The second bag held eyeglasses, a can of mousse, and a thick envelope. He donned the glasses, slicked back his hair, and distributed the envelope’s contents among his wallet and various pockets: ten thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
When he emerged from the rest room, he was no longer an executive in a business suit; he was a bespectacled youngish man in blue denim, toting a backpack.
A cab took him to LAX, where he bought a one-way coach ticket at the American Airlines counter, paying cash.
His flight was uneventful. The plane touched down at Miami International at 9:47 p.m. Eastern time. He roamed the long-term parking area until he found a Pontiac Sunbird hardtop sedan with an unlocked rear door. Somebody in a hurry had gotten careless.
His Swiss Army knife came in handy when he slipped behind the wheel. An amusingly boyish possession, a relic of his days of camping out on Pelican Key with Steve Gardner, yet practical, too. The knife was innocuous enough to get through airport security, yet potentially useful should one of his victims ward off the needle jab. He had practiced extracting the two-inch spear blade with his thumbnail until he could release it switchblade-fast.
He didn’t need the blade now. Instead he used the built-in screwdriver to pry off the ignition switch, then hot-wired the ignition.
In Florida City, he stopped at a supermarket. His purchases totaled $128. Canned goods predominated: vegetables, fruit, tuna, sardines. Bread, peanut butter, honey. Chocolate chip cookies. Bottled water. No booze—he needed to keep his head clear—and nothing perishable.
The housewares aisle provided him with rubber gloves, paper towels, plastic utensils, and a manual can opener. In the hardware section he picked up wire cutters, a flashlight, and batteries.
After leaving the supermarket he prowled the streets of Florida City in search of a late-model Pontiac Sunbird parked outside. On Tower Road he found one. He removed the vehicle’s front license plate and placed it on the rear of his stolen Sunbird, discarding the hot car’s two original plates.
Then he headed south on U.S. 1, driving just under the speed limit. The highway took him through a few miles of flat, dreary land at the edge of the Everglades, then out over the water and into the Florida Keys.
Now it was shortly past midnight; he’d been on the road a little more than an hour.
A new mile marker expanded in his headlights. 98.
Restless, he turned on the radio. He dialed past melancholy country songs and twittering chamber music till he found some raucous rock ‘n’ roll. The lightning chord changes and racing drums acted on his system like a shot of caffeine. He laid his foot on the gas pedal, then remembered the danger of being stopped by the highway patrol and hastily applied the brakes.
The song ended in a cacophony of percussive clatter and synthesized wails. He left the radio tuned to that station as a news update came on.
A fire in Fort Lauderdale. Multiple-vehicle collision on Route 95. New developments in the investigation of a scandal involving the state legislature. Nationally, a manhunt was under way for John Edward Dance ...
“Jesus,” Jack whispered, and turned up the volume.
“ ... evaded arrest in Los Angeles and is now believed to be on the run. Dance, thirty-five, is described by authorities as a slick and experienced con artist who once served time for fraud. He is now wanted on charges of multiple homicide—”
All the breath went out of him. He was cold everywhere. A high, tuneless