Solitude Creek (Kathryn Dance 4)

Thanks, Dad...Desire and fear, the keys to successful selling.

March was presently hiding in the trunk of a Nissan sedan, which was still parked in one of the garages at Global Adventure World. He was quite hot in the ski mask and cloth gloves.

Getting out of the park itself had been relatively easy, thanks to the massive herd of frightened animals fleeing the terrorist lion. He'd even caught a fast glimpse of his beloved Kathryn Dance, staring with wide eyes at the surging crowd, not seeing him. But the rest of his getaway--escaping from the area--was more of a problem. As the crowd surged out, March had diverted into the garage, where he began looking for a certain type of car. Finally he found what he sought: a rental (with a big trunk) that had a hotel valet ticket, good for three more days, on the dash. That meant the family had already checked in and wasn't leaving Orange County for a while; therefore, no luggage in the trunk in the immediate future. Sure, maybe Billy or Suzy had bought some souvenirs but, if so, they'd probably lost them in the crush.

He'd jimmied the door, popped the trunk--found it empty, good. Then climbed in, along with the shopping bag containing his gym bag and gun, and closed it. True, he might have to shoot his way out of this, if the driver and family did decide to toss something back here. But he didn't have a lot of options.

Would there be roadblocks, would they open the trunk?

Again, no choice.

As he smelled rental car cleanser and gasoline he assessed the situation. He'd lost one of the burner phones on the sprint to the Chevy in Tustin, which'd have some information he would rather they didn't have but nothing critical. No prints. He'd worn gloves whenever he used the unit. He wished he'd gotten Prescott's computer. But a fast look had revealed nothing obviously incriminating on the laptop. No, no direct leads to him. Even brilliant Kathryn Dance would be hard-pressed to connect those dots.

Now, an hour after the panic, he heard the grit of footsteps approach and the click of the locks. He gripped the gun. But the trunk didn't pop. Then doors opening and closing. Somber voices. Adults. A third door closed. A teenage boy, he deduced from the kid's tone.

The engine started and they were driving, but very stop-and-go; the lines to exit would be long, of course. The car radio was on but he couldn't hear much. Man, it was hot. He hoped he didn't faint before the family got to their destination.

More conversation. He could discern the woman's, though not the man's, voice. A matter of pitch, maybe.

"Police there. A roadblock."

The man muttered something angrily. Probably about the delay, the congestion.

March wiped sweat from his eyes and gripped his pistol.

The car squealed to a stop.

He could hear an indistinct voice from outside, asking questions. A female voice. Was it Kathryn Dance?

No, these were line officers. Not the Great Strategist, the woman so intent on capturing him...and the Get.

Wiping sweat.

Silence.

Trunk inspection? Shoot the cop, commandeer the car and drive like hell.

No option.

Footsteps.

But then the car started forward again. The radio grew louder. The boy said he was hungry. The man--father, surely--muttered something indecipherable. The mother said, "At the hotel."

After forty minutes of highway driving they made several turns and stopped. The radio went silent and the car was put in park. Doors opened and closed.

The valet took charge and drove for five minutes, up a series of ramps. Then he parked. Closed the door, locked it and left.

March gave it five minutes and, when he heard nothing outside, pulled the emergency release cord and climbed out of the trunk. And closed the lid. He looked around the garage.

Empty. And no CCTV eyes in the sky.

He walked back and forth, stumbling like a drunk, to revive the circulation in his legs. Once, he had to sit down and lower his head to his shaking knees.

Then on his feet again and into the hotel itself. A Hyatt. He went into the restroom in the lobby and examined himself in the mirror: He didn't look too bad. The glistening head, which he'd shaved the minute he heard his description on the radio several days ago, showed a bit of stubble. Like Walter White on Breaking Bad. He opened the Global Adventure shopping bag and pulled out his gym satchel. From this he retrieved the blond wig, which he'd been wearing since the shaving, at least when he was out in public.

Porn star meets Mad Men...

March pitched into the trash the wig, baseball cap and the worker's jacket he'd worn at Stan Prescott's apartment and when he'd first broken into the theme park (he'd stripped them off as he'd stood in the interminable queue near the Tornado Alley roller coaster, and donned a souvenir jacket that he'd bought. Nobody noticed the quick change; everyone was watching the flamboyant ride, racing overhead).