three hours ago. If he is caught in the act of stealing an unattended
car, or if he encounters resistance when trying to kill another motorist
such as the one whose raincoat he wears and who is temporarily entombed
in the Buick’s trunk, he is likely to be apprehended or more seriously
wounded.
Driving north and west from Mission Viejo, he quickly crosses the city
line into El Toro. Though in a new community, he does not feel safe.
If there is an APB out on the Buick, it will probably be county-wide.
The greatest danger arises from staying on the move, increasing the risk
of being seen by the cops. If he can find a secluded place to park the
Buick, where it will be safe from discovery at least until tomorrow, he
can curl up on the back seat and rest.
He needs to sleep and give his body a chance to mend. He has gone two
nights without rest since leaving Kansas City. Ordinarily he could
remain alert and active for a third night, possibly a fourth, with no
diminution of his faculties. But the toll of his injuries, combined
with lost sleep and tremendous physical exertion, requires time out for
convalescence.
Tomorrow he will get his family back, reclaim his destiny. He has
wandered alone and in darkness for so long. One more day will make
little difference.
He was so close to success. For a brief time his daughters be longed to
him again. His Charlotte. His Emily.
He recalls the joy he felt in the foyer of the Delorio house, holding
the girls’ small bodies against him. They were so sweet.
Butterfly-soft kisses on his cheeks. Their musical voices–“Daddy,
Daddy”–so full of love for him.
Remembering how close he was to taking permanent possession of them, he
is on the brink of tears. He must not cry. The convulsion of the
muscles in his damaged eye will amplify his pain unbearably, and tears
in his right eye will reduce him to virtual blindness.
Instead, as he cruises residential neighborhoods from El Toro into
Laguna Hills, where house lights glow warmly in the rain and taunt him
with images of domestic bliss, he thinks about how those same children
ultimately defied and abandoned him, for this subject leads him away
from tears and toward anger. He does not understand why his sweet
little girls would choose the charlatan over their real father, when
minutes previously they had showered him with thrilling kisses and
adoration. Their betrayal disturbs him. Gnaws at him.
While Marty drove, Paige sat in the back seat with Charlotte and Emily,
holding their hands. She was emotionally incapable of letting go of
them just yet.
Marty followed an indirect route across Mission Viejo, initially stayed
off main streets as much as possible, and successfully avoided the
police. Block after block, Paige continued to study the traffic around
them, expecting the battered Buick to appear and try to force them off
the pavement. Twice she turned to look out the rear window, certain
that the Buick was following them, but her fears were – never realized.
‘- When Marty picked up the Marguerite Parkway and headed south, Paige
finally asked, “Where are we going?”
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know. Just away
from here. I’m still thinking about where.”
“Maybe they would’ve believed you this time.”
“Not a chance.”
“People back there must’ve seen the Buick.”
“Maybe. But they didn’t see the man driving it. None of them can back
up my story.”
“Vic and Kathy must’ve seen him.”
“And thought he was me.”
“But now they’ll realize he wasn’t.”
“They didn’t see us together, Paige. That’s what matters, damn it!
Someone seeing us together, an independent witness.”
She said, “Charlotte and Emily. They saw him and you at the same time.”
Marty shook his head. “Doesn’t count. I wish it did. But Lowbock
won’t put any stock in the testimony of little kids.”
“Not so little,” Emily piped up from beside Paige, sounding even younger
and tinier than she actually was.
Charlotte remained uncharacteristically quiet. Both girls were still
shivering, but Charlotte had a worse case of the shakes than did Emily.