Bicycle Shop Murder 34

The Bonneville had been scraped and dented all along the passenger side, although not enough to keep the door from functioning properly. The condition of his car, however, was the least of Greg’s worries.

He and Cynthia were in panic mode, after learning they were wanted for murder. They were on FM-182, headed toward Quitman, on their way back to Coreyville. But now the idea of going home, and getting police protection sounded a lot less attractive. The police would protect them, all right—by putting them behind bars.

Greg said, “Maybe we should hide out for a few days.”

“But wouldn’t we be safe from the killer if we were in jail?”

“I guess so. Of course, we don’t even know if he’s still alive. But if he is, he could be waiting for us in Coreyville. And this time, he might shoot us. We don’t want to walk right into a trap.”

“What I don’t understand is why he didn’t shoot us back there on the highway, instead of trying to run us into that 18-wheeler? Was he trying to make it look like an accident?”

“Probably so. Like with Arabeth Albertson.”

“Hiding out for a while might be a good idea,” said Cyn­thia. “But where?”

“I don’t know. But we can’t pay with plastic—that’s for sure.”

“Hey—I know a place.” She opened the glove box. “You got a Texas map in here?”

“Yeah.”

She unfolded the map and searched. “Yeah. There’s a place not too far from here. They have cabins for fishermen.”

“But don’t they book those places way ahead of time?”

“Yeah. But we might get lucky. If they don’t have any vacan­cies, we can look for a hotel. But this would be perfect, if we can get one. We’d be off in the woods—a lot harder to find. I think we should try. And don’t worry—I have cash.”

“Okay. Let’s give it a shot. Where are these cabins located?”

“On Lake Fork. Troy and I took a vacation there last sum­mer. I hated it.”

“Then why do you want to go back there?

“No—the cabin was fine. But I went there to spend time with Troy—as a last ditch effort to fix our marriage. But he spent every day fishing and drinking—and ignoring me. At least he didn’t hit me while we were there. But I was bored and miserable the whole time.”

She pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s right in here some­where. We need to go north to 515. We should make it in twenty minutes or so.”

**********

Greg and Cynthia were nearly to FM-515, when Greg said, “Cynthia, how did the killer figure out where we were? We took back roads, but he still managed to find us.”

“I don’t know. I guess he followed us all the way from Buford’s office.”

“But I never saw his pickup behind us until a few minutes before he tried to kill us. How could he follow us if he couldn’t see us?”

“What are saying? You think he put a bug or some kind of tracking device on the car?”

They looked at each other, and made an unspoken agree­ment. They would not talk until they had checked the car for surveillance devices. Greg pulled into the next gas station, parking away from the pumps. He got out, and began to look under the car. Cynthia searched under the dashboard, and under the seats.

Greg slid out from under the car, stood up, and showed Cynthia what he had found. It was some type of electronic box. And although neither of them had ever seen one before, except on TV, they knew it had to be a tracking device.

Without saying a word, Greg walked to a minivan that was parked at a pump. Its driver and passengers were apparently inside the store. He squatted to tie his shoe, and to attach the device to the underside of the vehicle.

**********

It was about 2:30 PM when Greg and Cynthia finally saw the billboard for Johnson’s Cabins on Lake Fork. They turned onto the small paved road, and drove for three or four miles at 30 mph.

Greg was not encouraged by the sign in front of the office. “It says they only have seventeen cabins. What are the chances one is available?”

“All we can do is try.”

The young lady at the desk didn’t seem to notice or care that Greg and Cynthia were not wearing wedding rings. “What can I do for you?”

“I know this is a crazy question, but—do you have a cabin available for tonight?” Greg felt ridiculous. It was the middle of summer. This was a great place for fishing. How could they pos­sibly have any vacancies?

“As a matter of fact—you’re in luck.”

Greg and Cynthia looked at each other. They had driven all the way to Buford’s office, only to be added to his hit list. They were nearly killed on the highway. And now the D.A. wanted them for murder. They were due for some good luck.

The young lady explained, “Some folks were staying in Cabin 17. They had it booked through next Friday. But they got a call a couple of hours ago about a death in the family, so they went home. In fact, they just drove off, five minutes ago.”

Cynthia said, “Then we’d like to take their place, and rent that cabin through next Friday. How much is it?”

“Sixty dollars a night, plus tax.”

Cynthia reached into her purse, pulled out her wallet and retrieved five $100 bills.

Greg’s eyes widened. Then he tried to act as though it was no big deal. Cynthia signed some papers, took the change and keys, and they were off to their cabin.

The cabins were lined up along a dirt road. Greg wished the houses on his street in Coreyville had this much space between them. Cabin 17 was at the far end. It was the size of a small hotel room. Two double beds, two chairs, a small table, a TV, a little closet, and a bathroom. Greg carried their bags inside.

Cynthia turned on the TV and found the Tyler station.

They watched for any news about themselves.

**********

Andrea Newly was not in her office, so Angela Hammerly walked down the hall to the kitchenette. She found Andrea there, getting a cup of coffee.

“Just a got a call from the Sheriff. They got a hit on Greg Tenorly’s bankcard. He used it to buy gas over on the other side of Quitman.”

“Sounds like they’re headed back here.”

“Yeah. They’re taking the long way around. But it’s only a matter of time now. We’ve got ‘em.”

**********

John X had been driving the Mustang hard, trying to catch up with that red behemoth-of-a-car that had nearly defeated him. But it had not. He would win the war. He had monitored the path of the Bonneville on his PDA. When it had reversed course, backtracking over the same roads, he knew Greg had discovered the device, and put it on another vehicle. John X was not easily fooled.

He continued in the direction they had been traveling—north on FM-154. He stopped at every gas station and conven­ience store to ask if anyone had seen a red 1965 Pontiac Bon­neville convertible.

The middle-aged men were the most helpful. They recog­nized the old makes and models. And they had observed Greg’s car with particular envy—especially the one who had appar­ently not seen the roughed-up passenger side. If Greg and Cynthia had stopped for the night, John X would locate them before morning.

But he was so busy tracking and scheming, he didn’t notice the black Camry that had been following him. The man in the Camry knew how to follow without being seen. He had been watching as John X stopped numerous times to ask about the big convertible. He had seen him try to run the Bonneville into the tractor-trailer. And he had watched him steal the Silverado from the parking garage at Buford’s office.

John X was on a mission.

So was the man in the black Camry.