He discarded the notion almost as soon as it formed. Wohl was a good guy, and so, even if he wouldn’t want her to hear him say it, was Amy.
He started up the stairs to Wohl’s door, intending to slip the envelope under the door. Maybe, later, he would zing Amy with it. That might be fun.
He stopped halfway up the stairs.
I saw movement inside that van.
That makes two things wrong with that van: the grill was damaged. On the right side? Shit, I don’t know!
His heart actually jumped, and he felt a little faint.
Oh, bullshit. Your fevered imagination is running away with you. The van probably belongs to the superintendent here. Wohl certainly knows about it, and has checked it out even before we knew we were looking for a maroon Ford.
He stopped for a moment, and then he heard the whine of a starter.
If he’s been in there all this time, why is he just starting the engine now?
Matt turned and ran down the stairs, fishing in his pocket for his badge.
What do I say to this character?
“Excuse me, sir. I’m a Police Officer. We’re looking for a murderer-rapist. Is there any chance that might be you, sir?”
No. What I am going to wind up saying is, “I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir. We’ve been having a little trouble around here, and we’re checking, just to make sure. Thank you for your cooperation.”
He didn’t get a chance to say anything. As he got between the Porsche and the van, the van headlights suddenly came on and it came toward him.
Bile filled Matt’s mouth as he understood that the man was trying to run him down. He backed up, encountered the rear of the Porsche and scurried up it like a crab, terrified that his leg would be in the way when the van hit the Porsche.
The impact knocked him off the Porsche. He fell to the right, between the car and the garage doors, landing painfully on his rear end, the breath mostly knocked out of him.
He thought: I’m alive.
He thought: Why the hell didn’t I wake up Wohl? He would know what to do.
The van made a sweeping turn, didn’t make it, backed up ten feet, and started out the drive.
He thought: Thank God, he’s going and is not going to try to kill me again.
He thought: I’m a cop.
He thought: I’m scared.
He pulled the Chief’s Special from the ankle holster and got to his feet and ran to the end of the garage building. His leg hurt; he had injured it somehow.
The van was almost up the driveway.
He became aware that he was standing with his feet spread apart, holding the Chief’s Special in both hands, pulling the trigger and pulling it again, and that the hammer was falling on the primers of cartridges that had already been fired.
The van was at the main house, seeming to be gathering speed.
Jason told me, “If you can’t belt them in the head with a snub-nose, they’re out of range.”
Shit, shit, shit, shit, I fucked this up, too!
The van reached Norwood Street, crossed the sidewalk, entered the street, kept going, and slammed into a chestnut tree.
A woman began to scream, bloodcurdlingly.