Murder on the Turnpike

Conclusion

She worked quickly to untie the knot that secured the apron about her waist. When it came free she raised herself cautiously on one elbow and looked up at the window, careful to keep her head below the top of the front seat. It wasn’t possible, she realized with despair; his big shoulder and arm completely sealed off the area between the back seat and open window. If she tried to push the apron past him, he would feel the pressure of her hand and sense that she was moving behind his back.

Bogan said, “We’re running a bit late. I’ll have to step on it. But don’t you worry. I won’t be caught speeding.”

The car swerved into the left, or passing, lane, body rocking on its springs, and she saw his head and shoulders move forward out of sight at the same time. He had hunched closer to the windshield to see more clearly while passing. Now the sway of the car told her they had cut back into the middle lane, and at the same time she saw his head and shoulders loom above her, returning to their customary position.

She breathed a soft prayer. When he moved forward, the open window was clear and unobstructed by his bulk. And if he passed another car he would be likely to push himself forward again.

She made a ball of the apron in her right hand, and raised her arm cautiously. When he passed another car she wouldn’t be able to look up to see if he had moved forward; he would be close to the rearview mirror then and apt to notice any movement behind him. She would have to gamble — her only hope — shoving the apron up and out the window without looking, and praying that her hand didn’t strike his shoulder.

They drove for several minutes in the middle lane.

“That’s enough air,” he said with a vicious snap to his voice. “When I get around this truck, the window goes up and stays up. Why should I care whether you’re comfortable? Do you have any sympathy for me? Do you care about me at all?”

The car swerved to the left and gained speed, with the tires whining on the wet pavement. She counted to three slowly, trying to control the paralyzing fear that gripped her body. Now, she thought, but couldn’t force her hand to move. The car was swerving back into the middle lane, and she bit down viciously on her trembling lip and said “Now!” in a desperate little whisper.

She thrust her hand toward the window, dreading a contact with his body; but she felt nothing but the wet wind like ice against her knuckles. A fold of the cloth made a tearing noise in the windstream. She held the apron between thumb and forefinger, felt it tug and billow against her grip, then released it; and as she snaked her hand away from the window, Bogan settled back in the seat, and her fingers made a tiny whispering sound on the fabric of his coat.

But he didn’t seem to notice. He said, “If you want to smother, go ahead,” and rolled the window up tightly. “Why should I care?” There was a dangerous, vengeful tone in his voice. “I don’t care if your face turns black and your lungs burst.” Bogan flipped on the car’s radio.

She lay completely still, exhausted by fear and tension. The back of one hand was tight to her lips to hold back a sob.

The salesman whose name was Harry Mills swore angrily and fluently as he swung his car onto the graveled roadway that flanked the turnpike. His wife, Muriel, was in tears; her voice shook as she said, “We could have been killed, Harry. You almost lost control.”

“Of course I did,” Harry Mills said furiously. “I couldn’t see the road for a full five seconds. The damn thing was plastered right over the windshield wipers. I’m going to report this.” He climbed from his car, redfaced and pugnacious, and walked around to his wife’s side. “Some cop’ll stop pretty soon,” he said, and turned his overcoat collar up against the rain. “We’re alive and kicking, hon. I guess we’re lucky at that.”

“What was it’?” she asked in the same high, frightened voice. “What did those fools throw from the window?”

“Well, it’s still tangled in the wiper,” he said, and he began to extricate the soggy piece of cloth which had blown from the car ahead of him to plaster itself across his windshield. He spread it out on the hood. “Well, how about that?” he said, and pushed his hat up on his forehead.

The flaring red light of a patrol was already bearing down on him, swerving expertly through the lanes of heavy traffic. The time was nine-thirty-five.

At headquarters Captain Royce stood with Sergeant Tonelli and Lieutenant Trask studying the large map of the turnpike on the wall of his office. There had been no trace of the killer in the last forty-five minutes. Captain Royce knew that he had left Howard Johnson’s No. 1 with the girl at approximately eight-fifty. Forty-five minutes meant forty-five miles; and in forty-five miles the killer had had opportunities of leaving the pike anywhere between Exit 12 and Exit 5. All those interchanges were under surveillance, of course; a car-to-car search wasn’t possible, but Ford, Plymouth and Chevrolet sedans were being given close attention, particularly those that were driven by large men wearing glasses. The killer might have slipped by, but Royce was reasonably certain he was still on the pike.

He glanced at the big clock on the opposite wall, and Sergeant Tonelli checked his wrist watch.

In two more minutes the presidential convoy was scheduled to enter the turnpike at Interchange 5.

Tonelli cleared his throat. “Those reporters are still outside, captain,” he said.

“Good place for ’em,” Royce said.

Newspapermen and TV and radio reporters had been streaming into headquarters in the last hour. They might give Royce and the turnpike a bad time if he didn’t brief them on what was going on and what plans had been put into effect to trap the killer; but Royce was prepared to accept this. All off-duty troopers were now back on the pike; it was a hundred-mile trap, guarded by every marked and unmarked patrol car that was certified for service. Three special riot squads were cruising at twenty-mile intervals, read to converge on any alarm with tear gas and shotguns. And Lieutenant Biersby at Communications had alerted all police within a hundred miles of the pike, and this net was being widened with every passing minute. The toll collectors, who were not police officers but unarmed civil servants, had been replaced by special details of State Police who had been transferred to Royce’s command.

If this information were phoned in by a reporter to a radio or TV station, it would be on the air in a matter of minutes. And it would sound very good, Royce thought. People listening in would nod approvingly, no doubt, and decide the cops were doing a job after all. It might even allay a bit of their indignation the next time they got a ticket for speeding. But against the advantages of a good press, Royce placed one all-important fact — the killer might have a radio in his car, and he would certainly be interested in the details of the plans being made to trap him.

A bell rang at the dispatcher’s desk, and they heard the crackle of the radio, a distant voice reporting. The dispatcher turned quickly and glanced at Captain Royce who had walked to the doorway of his office.

“Interchange Five reporting, sir,” he said. “The President is on the pike. An eight-car convoy, with our patrols at the front and back. Traveling in the right lane at about fifty-five.”

“All other patrols reported in position?” Royce said.

“Yes, sir.”

Royce nodded and rubbed a hand over his damp forehead. Then he walked back to the map. He could visualize the progress of the convoy, and he knew the density of the surrounding traffic and the weather conditions on that stretch of the pike. None of it was favorable; the highway was slick with rain, and the traffic was both sluggish and heavy.

“Captain Royce!” the dispatcher in the outer office called in a rising voice. “Would you come here, sir?”

Royce, with Tonelli and Trask at his heels, reached the dispatcher’s desk in long strides.

“Car Sixteen just reported, sir,” the dispatcher said quickly. “He’s just checked a stopped car. The driver pulled off the pike because a Howard Johnson’s apron was thrown from the car ahead of him and hit his windshield. The apron came from the driver’s window of a ‘Fifty-two Ford with New York tags. The wife got the last three license numbers: six-four-two.”

“Where was this?”

“Patrol Sixteen stopped at milepost fifty-four at—” The dispatcher checked his pad. “I got his request to pull off the pike two minutes ago.”

Royce made a swift calculation; the ‘52 Ford had those two minutes, plus the time it had taken the stopped motorist to hail a patrol. A total of five minutes, say, which would take him down to milepost fifty, at Interchange 5.

“Who’s closest to fifty?” he asked sharply.

“O’Leary, patrol Twenty-one. He’s tailing the President by a couple of hundred yards.” He added unnecessarily, “Keeping the traffic behind the convoy slow.”

“Flash him. Tell him to pick up that Ford. And alert our unmarked cars in that area.”

When O’Leary received his orders from the dispatcher at headquarters, he was traveling in the middle column of southbound traffic at milepost forty-eight. The presidential convoy a few hundred yards ahead of him rolled smoothly in the right lane; he could see the red beacon of the tail patrol car flashing in the darkness.

O’Leary sat up straighter, big hands tightening on the steering wheel. He repeated the three digits the dispatcher had given him, then said, “Check!” and replaced his receiver. His heart was pounding with hope and excitement. He had been slowly closing the distance between himself and the convoy in the last five minutes, and he was fairly certain he hadn’t passed any ‘52 Ford sedans. Which meant the killer was ahead of him, somewhere in the lines of traffic between himself and the convoy. Checking his rearview mirror, O’Leary swung into the left lane, controlling the smoothly powerful car as if it were an extension of his body. He flashed by three slower cars and, after checking their license plates, swung back into the middle lane. He remained there long enough to inspect the plates ahead of him, and to his right, then swerved back to the high-speed lane and passed the cars he had eliminated. The rain made his work difficult, but he made his moves with deliberate precision, sweeping in and out of the traffic with effortless skill.

It was at milepost forty-three that he made contact; the Ford was traveling in the middle lane, fifty yards behind the presidential convoy, but gaining slowly on it.

O’Leary dropped back discreetly and grabbed the receiver from beside tile post of the steering wheel, “O’Leary, twenty-one,” he snapped to Sergeant Tonelli. “I’ve got him. Milepost forty-three south, middle lane.”

“Hang on, here’s the captain.”

Captain Royce said sharply, “O’Leary, did you get a look at the driver?”

“No, sir. I’m three or four car lengths behind him.”

“Any sign of the girl?”

“No, sir.”

“Pull on past him. We’ll cover with unmarked cars from now on.”

“Check!” O’Leary was ready to turn, into the left lane when he saw the Ford suddenly pick up speed and pull abreast of the presidential convoy. The eight-car convoy was proceeding at fifty-five, with intervals of perhaps one hundred and fifty feet between each sedan.

“Good Lord!” O’Leary muttered softly. The Ford was moving to the extreme right of the middle lane, angling slowly toward one of the intervals that separated the cars in the convoy. He picked up his receiver and cried harshly, “Tonelli, he’s trying to get into the convoy. That’s what he’s been wailing for!” It was a wild, desperate plan, but there was a spark of brilliance to it; if the Ford sliced into the convoy ahead of a carful of Secret Service agents, it would be detected instantly. But if it moved into an interval between newspapermen or presidential aides, it might not be noticed. And once in the convoy the killer was assured of a safe exit from the pike; the President wouldn’t be stopped at a toll gate — the entire convoy would be waved on with deferential salutes.

Captain Royce was already issuing commands that cracked like pistol shots from O’Leary’s speaker. To unmarked patrols thirty and forty he gave the location and license number of the Ford and ordered them to intercept it, slow it down, keep it out of the convoy. To O’Leary he said, “Pull up beside him. He won’t try anything with you there. When patrols thirty and forty get into position, pull on ahead a few hundred yards. And for heaven’s sake, be careful. We can’t have a wreck, and we can’t have any shooting.”

“Check!” said O’Leary and swung out into the left lane. As he pulled up beside the Ford, he saw the driver hunched forward over the wheel, but the streaming rain made it impossible to single out the details of his features; he had an impression of bulk, the flash of eyeglasses, nothing else. O’Leary slowed down to pace the Ford, which was still edging toward the right side of the middle lane. In the right lane the presidential convoy rolled smoothly down the pike, stately and decorous, with patrol cars at the head and rear of the column. O’Leary noticed that the Ford was swinging back gradually to the center of its lane; the driver had obviously spotted him and was postponing his move. In his rearvision mirror O’Leary saw a pair of headlights rushing up on him through the rain that slashed vividly through the darkness.

This would be the first of the unmarked patrols. O’Leary moved a car length ahead of the Ford, then another, giving the trooper speeding up behind him room to cut into the middle lane and position his car in front of the killer’s.

Sheila must be lying on the floor of the Ford, O’Leary realized, and the thought was a maddening one; he hated to leave now, but there was no place for impulsive heroics in the business of policing the turnpike. And his years of training and discipline were strong enough to counterbalance any temptation toward individual action. If she was in the car, her best chances of safety lay in police teamwork. If she was in the car — the thought made him feel sick. Hut he knew the killer might have knocked her unconscious, or killed her and thrown her body into the fields alongside the pike. To stop and get rid of her body would have taken only a few seconds, and in that brief time he would run little risk of being spotted by a patrol.

O’Leary stepped on his accelerator and moved ahead of the convoy; in his rearvision mirror he saw a black station wagon cut smoothly in front of the Ford.

Harry Bogan cursed at his luck, cursed at the rain driving in thin, silver columns through his headlights. He hunched himself forward and wiped steam from the windshield with the palm of his hand.

A few minutes before he had been laughing with boisterous good humor. The plan was going to work; he had been convinced of it. The intervals between the cars in the convoy were long, and the rain was a fine, steaming cover for the move he had planned to make. He had read in the newspapers of the President’s trip, that he was attending a floodlighted ground-breaking ceremony at a veterans’ hospital in Plankton, near Exit 5, and that he was traveling back to Washington that night.

And then, as Bogan approached Exit 5, he had picked up a broadcast from the local station in Plankton which assured him that his plans to intercept the President’s convoy were timed exactly right. The mayor was being interviewed; he spoke of the honor done the village by the President’s visit, of the inspiring message the President had delivered not only to Plankton but to the nation, to free men everywhere. Bogan had listened intently, irritated by the big words, the round, oratorical voice booming in the car. And then the mayor had said, “Although he has been gone from us only a few short moments, we nevertheless miss him deeply, and our hearts wish him Godspeed on his journey.”

That was what Bogan had needed to know — the time of the President’s departure from Plankton. Until then he had been guessing; now he was certain.

But suddenly, as he was preparing to execute the final step, a police car had come up alongside him and had hung there with maddening persistence. And when it had finally driven on, a fool in a black station wagon was hogging the road in front of him, slowing him down to forty miles an hour and arrogantly ignoring the furious blast of his horn.

The convoy had pulled away from him, the red light of the patrol cars fading into the darkness, and the black station wagon had then swung sedately into the right lane to let Bogan pass. But now another Tool was in the way, a man in a small pickup truck who seemed either drunk or suicidal; he weaved erratically in front of him, frustrating all his attempts to get by.

Bogan no longer felt inflated by the proud sense of accomplishment. Everything had become confusing and pointless; as with the breach with his brother and the long years of bitter and meaningless disappointments, there was no rhyme or reason to what was now happening to him, only the feeling of having been wronged somehow and the need to strike back at his tormentors. But his trail of splintered thoughts had come to a sustaining end. Every hand was raised to destroy him. But they wouldn’t find it so easy.

He called sharply to the girl in the back seat. “You think you’re going to marry your big handsome trooper, don’t you? You think I’ll turn you over to him safe and sound, eh? Pretty and sweet, so he can paw you. Is that what you’re hoping?”

Sheila was lying on her side. In that position she was able to work at the buckle that secured the belt about her ankles. “Where are you taking me?” she said. There was no purpose to her question; she hoped only to distract him from his ugly preoccupation with herself and Dan. She couldn’t bear the thread of obscene excitement in his voice, the frenzy of his insinuations.

“You’ll know where I’m taking you when we get there,” he said.

She had given up hope that her apron would be found. She imagined it wet and crumpled on the highway with thousands of tires grinding it into a soggy, unrecognizable mass. The only chance now was when he stopped to pay his toll at an exit; if it were possible, if he didn’t discover that her hands were free before then, she would claw open the door and throw herself from the car. He would shoot her, of course; she knew that from what he had been saying and the sound of his voice that he intended to kill her one way or another. But she could choose the way; and she knew that a bullet would be infinitely preferable to being alone with him in the anonymous darkness that stretched beyond the turnpike.

Bogan laughed suddenly. The pickup truck had moved out of his way. He hadn’t lost more than a few minutes. The President’s convoy was traveling under the legal limit, probably only a mile or two ahead of him. There was still time to catch up with it. He pushed down on the accelerator.

At headquarters battle plans were laid. Sergeant Tonelli had marked the turnpike map with a red thumb tack at the killer’s position and a dozen green ones to indicate the patrol cars surrounding him. Captain Royce sucked on his cold pipe and considered the problem to be solved; they would get the killer, of course, but the job was to get him without hurting anyone else. The presidential convoy was now well out of danger. After pulling ahead of the killer’s blocked-off car, the convoy had moved to the left lane and increased its speed to seventy miles an hour, with a patrol car clearing the way with sirens. The convoy was streaking toward the last exit now, and the killer couldn’t possibly catch it; and even if his car were fast enough, there were patrols available to cut him off.

“We might take him right on the pike,” Tonelli suggested. “Box him in; knock him off the road. There’d be guns in his face before he knew what hit him!”

Royce frowned at the map, considering the traffic and weather conditions in the killer’s area. He didn’t like Tonelli’s idea; blocking a car at high speed was never an easy mission, but tonight it would be especially hazardous. He trusted his men and had a fierce pride in their skill and judgment, but he didn’t intend to expose them to the caprices of a madman under these circumstances. Also, there were the civilian motorists to consider; if there was shooting or if the killer attempted to evade the patrols, it could cause a panic that might result in a bloody wreck.

“We’ll let him get off the pike,” Royce said, “He’s got just three more chances, at Exits Three, Two and One. We’ll take him when there’s no chance of involving anybody else.”

“And what about the girl?”

Royce turned from the map and stared at the windows; outside the weather had worsened, and the rain rolled in waves down the wide panes. He could see the flash of the turnpike traffic moving sluggishly through the storm.

“We’ll try to keep him so busy he won’t have time to worry about her,” he said slowly. “It’s all we can do. And it isn’t much. Right now he’s dangerous. He lost the convoy, and if he’s not a complete madman he’ll know he can’t catch it. His plans have gone wrong, and he’ll be expecting trouble.” He rubbed his forehead. “If we could just calm him down a bit, make him feel confident. Then we could...” Royce paused, still staring at the windows. A grim smile touched his hard, seasoned features. “He’s looking for a convoy, isn’t he, sergeant? Supposing we arrange one for him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen, then get hustling. Flash Interchange Two, and Sergeant Brannon at Substation South. We’re going to put a convoy on the pike ahead of the killer. Our convoy. With escort patrols at the front and rear. We’ll let him into it. Then we’ll spring the trap.”

The eight black sedans were commandeered from the municipal administrations of townships at the southern end of the pike. They were assembled in convoy column fifteen minutes after Royce’s order was transmitted to Sergeant Brannon, and at one minute after ten o’clock they rolled smoothly through Interchange 2 and merged with the southbound traffic on the pike. The convoy moved into the right-hand lane, with the escorting patrols clearing a path with their sirens. Al the head of the column was Trooper Frank Sulkowski, a seasoned veteran who kept the convoy speed down to fifty miles an hour. At the rear was Dan O’Leary. He was watching his rearvision mirror for any glimpse of the killer’s Ford. The eight sedans herded between them were manned by troopers and detectives in civilian clothes, and the drivers were purposely allowing an inviting interval between each car. The convoy was a moving trap, with seven holes baited to tempt the killer.

O’Leary lifted his receiver and spoke to Sulkowski. “I think we’re too fast, Frank. Let’s drop it a bit.”

“Check.”

Their exchange was monitored by the dispatcher at headquarters, who relayed it to Captain Royce. “Convoy’s in lane three, milepost eighteen. Reducing speed below fifty.”

Royce nodded and checked the position of the killer’s car on the map. Standing beside him was Major Townsend, the state-police commandant’s chief of staff. He had arrived a few minutes before, a wiry man in his late fifties, for a personal report from Royce on the situation.

“Milepost eighteen,” Townsend said. “And where’s the Ford?”

“A quarter of a mile behind. We’ve got it under surveillance. He’s coming up steadily.”

“And if he bites? What then?”

“The convoy will close up its intervals and swing over onto the middle lane. Unmarked cars in lanes one and three will come up on each side of him. He’ll be in a four-car box.”

“And supposing he doesn’t bite? Is there anything about the look of our convoy that might make him suspicious?”

“I don’t think so, major. Not unless he’s a mind reader. There’s nothing about our convoy to distinguish it from the President’s. Particularly on a dark, rainy night like this one. Its rate of speed is consistent, and it’s moving along right where the killer will expect it to be — in the right-hand lane, same number and type of cars as the President’s, with patrols at the front and rear, beacon lights flashing.”

“All right,” the major said. “Assume he sticks his head into the noose. Where do you intend to take him into custody?”

Royce moved closer to the map and pointed to Exit 1, the last interchange on the pike. “Right here, sir.”

O’Leary didn’t identify the Ford until pulled up alongside him in the middle lane; until that instant it had been nothing but a blur of approaching brightness in his rearvision mirror. Now he saw the driver’s bulky silhouette and, as the sedan crept past him, the license number. He picked up his receiver and spoke to Sulkowski. “He’s just passing me. Frank.”

Other voices cracked from O’Leary’s radio phone — the dispatcher at headquarters, and then the troopers in the unmarked cars tailing the Ford.

O’Leary watched the killer’s car pull slowly abreast of the convoy, red taillights winking in the rainy darkness. Then the car picked up speed suddenly and swerved right, taillights disappearing abruptly. The killer had slipped in between the third and fourth sedans in the convoy.

O’Leary said sharply, “He’s in, Frank!”

“Check!” Sulkowski said. “Close up the intervals now and hang on.”

The drivers of the third and fourth sedans in the convoy skillfully shortened the intervals between themselves and the Ford, and then the column of cars curved gracefully as Sulkowski swung into the middle lane. Unmarked patrols came-up swiftly in lanes one and three to position themselves alongside the killer’s car. The carefully timed mission was complete; the killer was boxed in on all sides, caught in a moving trap that rushed him along toward the last exit on the pike.

Captain Royce’s plans to capture the killer were based on the fundamentals of simplicity and surprise; the police convoy would be escorted to the tollgate at the extreme right side of the interchange and kept well dear of normal turnpike traffic. The highway beyond the exit stretched a half mile to the Washington Bay Bridge, and this area was blocked off; all other traffic was being diverted to secondary roads.

At headquarters Royce explained the final details to Major Townsend. “We’ll stop the convoy right here,” he said, turning to the map and pointing to the right-hand toll booth at Exit 1. “About fifty yards this side of the toll booth we’ve placed a traffic standard or red blinker lights. When the convoy stops, a trooper will salute the first car and point to these lights, indicating that he wants the driver to stay on the right of them. Then he’ll salute again and wave the car on past the toll station. He’ll repeat this performance at the next two cars. The killer’s car comes next. The killer will be watching, naturally, but all he’ll see is a respectful trooper waving the President’s convoy into its proper lane, expediting its departure from the pike.” Royce prodded the surface of the map with his finger. “Meanwhile, troopers will be coming up behind the killer with their guns drawn. Dan O’Leary, who’s the tail escort on the convoy, will leave his car and move up on the right. Troopers and detectives from the convoy cars will join him, covering the killer on both sides. They’ll take him from behind, and they’ll kill him if he makes a fight of it.” Royce glanced at Major Townsend. “See any bugs in it?”

“No, it looks all right. I don’t like exposing the trooper in front of the killer. And I don’t like the fact that the girl’s probably in the car. But if things were as simple as I’d like them to be, we could go fishing and let a pack of Girl Scouts make the arrest.”

“I know,” Royce said, and rubbed his forehead; the strain of the last three hours was evident in the lines about his mouth and eyes. “We’ll need a break.”

The dispatcher left his station and strode into Royce’s office. “Captain, a trucker discovered the body of a young man at Howard Johnson’s Number One, In a ditch near the truckers’ parking lot, He’s not conscious, but they seem to think he’s in fair shape. His papers show he’s the owner of the Ford the killer’s driving.”

“Ambulance on the way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the boy’s got a chance?”

“Seems like it, sir. He’s lost some blood and has a nasty lump on his head, but he’s breathing pretty well.”

“That’s one bit of good news,” Royce said. “Maybe we’ll get another break now.” He turned and frowned at the map. “We’ll know in a few minutes.”

In the speeding convoy Bogan was laughing softly with relief and excitement. He felt snug and confident in the smoothly rolling column of official cars; in front and back of him, reassuringly close, were the privileged black sedans of the President’s convoy, and on either side of him, coincidentally and luckily, were cars that happened to be traveling at exactly his rate of speed. No one could get at him now; he was safe from everyone in this speeding steel cage, rushing to freedom behind an invincible shield of power and authority.

He felt cunning and triumphant once more, all of his emotions raised to a thrilling pitch of excitement. He called to the girl, “We’ll be leaving the turnpike soon. Courtesy of the police.” He laughed softly, savoring the warm confidence running through him. “We’re very important people, did you realize that? We’re riding right along with the President. The police will salute and bow as we go by. It’s a pity you can’t sit up here with me and enjoy it.”

Sheila had managed to unbuckle the belt about her ankles, but Bogan’s words destroyed her hopes; if they didn’t stop at the toll booth, what had she accomplished by freeing her legs?

“You’re making a mistake taking me with you.” she said desperately. “The police will be searching for me. If you let me go, I promise I won’t—” She stopped, knowing the hopelessness of her appeal and despising the sound of animal fear and entreaty in her voice.

“You won’t tell on me, is that what you were going to say? I’m sure you wouldn’t,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “But the police won’t find us. Don’t worry about that. Not before we have our little talk. We’ll go somewhere nice and quiet. And I’ll get some coffee and sweet rolls. I know just the kind you’ll like. They’re covered all over with sugar, and inside there’s a thick filling of jelly. I’ll untie you and you’ll be comfortable.” Bogan frowned and touched his forehead; there was a strange, confusing pain there. What was it he wanted to explain to her? It had something to do with the big trooper she wanted to marry. Yes. He had to tell her that wasn’t right. And there was the thing about his family, his father and brother, and the young couple in New York, the girl with the slim, bare legs she displayed so cruelly. They hadn’t been nice to him, he remembered, and he thought it would be interesting to talk to them too. But he couldn’t do that. Somehow they got away from him.

With saving instinct, Bogan knew he shouldn’t be thinking about these things; they would confuse and anger him, and he needed all his cunning and strength to fight the forces ranged against him.

“You shut up,” he said petulantly, sullenly. “You got me into this trouble. That’s what I’m going to talk to you about later. You wait.”

“Please,” she said, and for the first lime her voice broke; she knew then he wanted to kill her. “Please don’t—”

“Shut up!” he cried in a low, harsh voice, and hunched forward, eyes narrowing with tension.

The convoy was slowing down. Ahead he saw the arched lights of Interchange No. 1 glowing brilliantly in the darkness. The streams of turnpike traffic were fanning out as they entered the broad approach to the last exit. The convoy swung past a line of troopers standing at attention and turned toward the blinker lights and the toll booth at the far right side of the interchange. They were coming to a stop, and Bogan felt his heart pounding with fear; this was all wrong, no one could stop the President’s convoy — unless they were looking for something. The thought was a lightning flash of terror in his mind. He pulled the gun from his pocket and rolled his window down halfway. A spray of cold rain struck his face. Beads of moisture collected on his glasses, and the traffic lights and police beacons splintered against them like threatening lances. In the silence he could hear the girl’s rapid breathing.

“Don’t you move or make any noise,” he told her quietly. “If you do, you’ll be responsible for the men I’ll have to kill.”

Bogan wiped his glasses with the tip of his index finger, clearing a small tunnel of visibility through the rain and lights and shadows. When he saw a trooper approaching the first car in the convoy, Bogan raised his gun and rested it on the edge of the rolled-down window. But the trooper stopped a good six feet from the first car, came to attention and saluted smartly. He pointed toward the standard of blinker lights, obviously directing the driver to the right of them, then saluted again as the car moved ahead slowly. The performance was repeated with the second car, and Bogan realized that this was simple routine, a respectful policeman directing the convoy into its appointed, privileged lane. He withdrew his gun from the window and let out his breath slowly. Everything was all right; the feeling of relief was so intense that he almost laughed aloud. Now the car immediately ahead of him was moving out, and the trooper was walking toward him with long, swinging strides, a tall black figure in the slashing rain.

Bogan heard the girl stirring behind him and heard the metallic click as the lock of the rear door was released; then a thin edge of cold air touched the back of his neck. He twisted about desperately, fear leaping through him in sudden, shocking waves. The girl was free, he saw; the belt was gone from her ankles, her hands were clawing at the partially open door. He felt nothing then but a despairing ache of betrayal; she was worse than all the rest, tricking him in silence, cunningly plotting to frustrate all his plans.

And then, through the rear window, Bogan saw the figure of a uniformed man running at a crouch toward his car. He cursed furiously and released the clutch; and at the same instant he turned and fired at the trooper approaching his car from the front. The thrust of the car under full power caused the rear door to close with a crash, and Bogan heard the girl scream in pain. Her fingers, he thought, as he swung the car to run down the trooper who had hurled himself to the roadway at Bogan’s shot. Slim white fingers, soft as velvet in a caress. Bogan twisted the wheel savagely, swerving clear of the trooper and rushing at the toll booth. Escape was important, not the fool lying there in the rain. Take care of him later, lake care of them all later.

O’Leary was six feet from the rear of the Ford when Bogan fired at the trooper. He leaped forward, closing the distance in one stride, but the car was already lunging away from him, swerving off sharply to the left; but then it swung back crazily to the right, heading for the toll booth, and O’Leary hurled himself at the rear door, catching the handle in both hands. The speed of the car jerked him off his feet, swinging his body in a bruising arc along the turnpike, but he kept his grip for a precious second, and managed to release the catch and open the door.

The Ford bucked spasmodically as Bogan shifted gears, and in that momentary halt O’Leary flung the upper part of his body into the back seat of the car. He wrapped his arms around Sheila’s knees and let his weight go limp; and when the car surged forward again, his legs dragged along the ground, and then he was free, slamming painfully against the wet concrete with Sheila’s light weight held desperately in his arms.

O’Leary came to his knees and held her tightly against him for an instant, isolating her from the roar of cars, the flash of gunfire. She was crying hysterically, saying his name over and over, but there was no recognition in her eyes or face. The terror would not leave her for a long time, but she was clinging to someone who would be with her until it did.

O’Leary left her with detectives who had poured from the convoy sedans and ran back to his own patrol car. The Ford had crashed past the loll booth and was racing down the half-mile stretch of highway that led to the bay bridge. But there was no escape now; three blue-and-white patrol cars were speeding after it, maneuvering for position with merciless precision. There were no other cars on the road; Bogan roared down a deserted tunnel, with patrol cars closing in behind him.

O’Leary shot past the toll booth after the pursuing police cars, holding his microphone to his lips. “He’s all alone,” he said. “The girl’s out of the car, she’s safe.” His report sounded in the patrols ahead of him and at headquarters in Riverhead.

Captain Royce said, “Don’t get careless now; don’t take any chances. He’s not going anywhere.” And he issued an order to the bridge police to open their span.

The bridge barriers slid automatically into place, and the powerful cables at the four corners of the bridge began to turn on their drums, lifting the span slowly into the air. “Take him when he stops,” Royce said.

Bogan saw water sparkling ahead of him, spreading away like a broad, calm meadow at dusk, with a soft wind stirring the leaves of grass so that they flashed with the last glancing rays of evening light. It was very lovely; quiet and peaceful. But he couldn’t stop crying. The tears streamed from his mild eyes and ran coldly down his cheeks. He needed someone to comfort him; someone he wasn’t afraid of.

The patrol cars were racing up behind him, he saw; stalking him like great, dangerous animals.

Brilliant red lights flashed in his eyes, and he saw a barrier, and beyond that a heavy chain swinging across the highway. And beyond that nothing but the wide, peaceful meadow that looked like water in the curious confusion of nighttime lights and shadows. He heard the crash of his car against the barrier and then the wrenching, snapping sound of the chain giving, and then he was free at last, soaring toward the dark, mild meadow, as effortlessly as a bird, or a child’s paper airplane.

Dan O’Leary swung his car about and snapped off his siren and beacon lights. He sat for half a moment with his arms crossed on the steering wheel, his forehead resting on the backs of his hands. It was all over; the Ford had plunged into Washington Bay, and after the noise of the crash and a plume of white spray, there was nothing left but the spreading ripples on the surface of the black, silent water.

O’Leary said a prayer that Sheila was safe. Then he started back to Interchange 1, where she was waiting for him. He drove at less than the legal maximum speed, steadily and precisely, his big hands firm on the wheel, his eyes alert on the road ahead of him. There was no need to hurry this last half mile to Interchange 1, he thought gratefully; the important part of him was already there.