Sooner or later, one of the people with whom he’d crossed paths since Tuesday would connect the hitchhiking burnout to Josh Bennett, accused felon, turned informant, turned fugitive.

If the cashier or the blowhard in the convenience store IDed him, the authorities would know he was back in the state. But from that Hicksville store, he’d covered his tracks well.

Beneath the huge oak tree in the woods, he’d made slight alterations in his appearance. From there, it was a three-mile walk to a public storage facility where he’d left a car six months ago. He’d waited until no one was around, then had opened his storage unit and reconnected the car’s battery cables, and with minor encouragement, the engine had kicked on.

Sure, there were security cameras all over the place, but he’d taken measures to prevent them from being a problem. If by some miracle, he was identified entering the place on foot and leaving in a vehicle, he had switched license plates twice on the way here, so he was confident they would never find him.

There wasn’t a person alive who would think to look for him here, not even Jordie. The nearest occupied property was over two miles away. As long as he kept to the ground floor, and used only a minimum of light each night, he should be okay here indefinitely.

Jordie’s kidnapping was an unexpected snag, but he couldn’t let it unravel him. He wouldn’t let it unravel him. He only had to hang in there until he could implement the last step of his plan. Then he would be clear and worry free forever.

However, the context of Joe Wiley’s sound bite was spoiling his optimism. What did the FBI know that he didn’t?

Something about Panella that would trigger another avenue of investigation?

Something about Jordie’s abduction that they weren’t sharing with the media?

The TV had a DVR. He had recorded the newscast. He watched it again now.

And then again, and once more, becoming a little more paranoid and panicked each time Joe Wiley said, “the potential consequences of his flight…”

Chapter 16

After what Shaw had said, Jordie had difficulty looking him in the eye. In her peripheral vision, she saw him pull the familiar knife from his pocket. Then he stood there, waiting.

She wished she could muster the obstinance to make him wait, to make him order her, but she was too anxious to have her hands freed, so like an obedient and well-trained pet, she turned around. With an efficient snap, he cut through the cuff.

When she came back around, he was rummaging inside the trunk of the car. He returned to her carrying several things, including one of the unused camouflage-print bandanas.

“How many are you down to?”

“I have a few more.”

She wondered which would run out first, the bandanas or her time.

He passed her the bandana and a small bar of soap, the kind furnished in an inexpensive hotel, no larger than a wafer and still wrapped in glossy white paper. He then handed her a bottle of water. “Be frugal with it.”

When she realized that he was suggesting she wash, the idea of it was so appealing, she wanted to weep with gratitude. On the other hand, the extended kindness made her wary, and her expression must have conveyed that.

He motioned behind him. “As long as you behave yourself, you can have that half of the building, and I promise to keep my distance and my back turned.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t.”

She looked past him into the gathering gloom at the back of the building. Although the early dusk would partially conceal her, the deeply shadowed space wasn’t inviting. Being clean, however, was.

She stepped around him and walked into an area of the cavernous building where the darkness was deepest. At eye level on the rough wall, a two-by-four ran horizontally to form a narrow ledge. She unwrapped the soap bar and placed it there along with the bottle of water.

She glanced over her shoulder. Shaw was folding up the tarp, which she took as a good sign. He wouldn’t be doing that if he planned on needing it soon. Nor would he be enabling her to wash. In any case, he wasn’t looking her way.

Holding the corner of the bandana between her teeth, she pulled her top over her head, and, before she could talk herself out of it, peeled off her jeans. She had difficulty getting them past her sandals, but she wasn’t going to put her bare feet on the floor if she could avoid it.

Really there was no difference between being in a bra and panties and wearing a bikini. But feeling exposed and vulnerable, she hastily poured a palmful of water and worked up a lather with the soap between her hands.

When she’d washed every place she could reach, she soaked the bandana and used it to wipe away the soap. With the last of the water she wet the cloth again, then went over herself a second time.

“Time’s up.”

She froze and gave him another glance. His back was to her. He was pulling on his shirt. She called to him that she was almost finished.

“I’m counting down from sixty,” he said.

“That’s not enough time for me to air-dry. The humidity—”

“Fifty-seven.”

She cursed under her breath and hurriedly pulled on her jeans. Her skin and underwear were damp. Even so, she felt considerably better. Trying not to dwell on the dried bloodstains on her top, she pulled it on and pushed her arms through the armholes. She scooped her hair from the neckline and gathered it into a ponytail, tying it with the wet bandana.

“Thirty-four.”

She reached for the bar of soap and, in her haste, dropped it to the floor. “Damn!”

“Twenty-two. Twenty-one.”

She crouched and groped along the floor looking for the soap.

But she discovered something else. Something completely unexpected.

Immediately, she recognized it for what it was, but if she hadn’t been this close to it, it would have gone unnoticed, because it was stuck between the bottom of one of the vertical slats and another two-by-four that ran along the floor like a baseboard.

She took hold, but it was tightly wedged in the crack between the two pieces of lumber, which, despite their age, were unforgiving. She applied herself to pulling it free, but if she managed to, where could she hide it until she had an opportunity to use it? The timing had to be perfect. She would have to be close to him, and lightning quick, because she wouldn’t get a second chance, so the jab would have to count and be—