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"For gasoline, maybe?"

"I don't know," he said, peeking through a crack in the curtains. "I don't see anything."

The truck continued to slow and then rolled to a stop. The radio went off when the driver cut the engine. His door creaked open. The cab rocked when he stepped out.

"Hey, sugar," they heard him say. "Been waiting long?"

Shortly after separating from Barrie and Gray in the parking garage, he spotted a gray sedan that, for several blocks, maintained a safe distance behind him. After some calculated wending through city streets, Daily was sure he was once again being tailed.

Maybe Gray had been right, and his car had an electronic tracker planted on it. Or maybe the bastards were just lucky to have picked him up again.

Or maybe Merritt's secret police were more pervasive than even Gray knew.

That was a scary possibility. However, it was unlikely that his thugs would accost a sick old emphysemic on a busy street. Daily felt relatively safe.

For the first hour, the game of chase was fun, but eventually the monotony overcame him. After his third yawn in five minutes, he tuned his radio to a station that played rap music, for the simple reason that he hated it with a passion. If that obnoxious racket couldn't keep him alert and edgy, nothing could.

When his stomach began to growl, he pulled into the 376 Sandra Brown

drive-through at McDonald's and ordered Big Macs for him and Dolly. The youngster manning the window noticed that Daily's date was an inflatable doll, but he didn't comment and Daily offered no explanation. Better to let the kid think he was a pervert rather than a subversive.

He parked his car in front of the dining room and absently watched other customers come and go while he ate his burger and fries. He didn't have much appetite, so he finished only half his meal. He could swear that Dolly looked at him reprovingly when he disposed of their leftovers. Disinclined to begin driving again, he sat with his hands resting listlessly in his lap and continued to monitor the McDonald's clientele.

He was particularly interested in the couples with young children. These seemingly happy families were living proof that the ideal wasn't entirely unattainable. Rather than deriving any pleasure from this testament, however, the kids with the Happy Meals made Daily feel incredibly sad. Not for the first time, he acknowledged that he'd missed out on what was really important in life. He should have married that sweet little schoolteacher who'd been so crazy about him. He'd been just as crazy about her. He'd fallen head over heels for her soft brown eyes and gentle mannerisms the first night they met. One of her smiles could make him feel like a million bucks.

But he'd taken her for granted and treated her badly, opting too often to work overtime rather than keep a dinner date. She had always run a distant second to his pursuit of a good story. Between taking her to the movies and following a hot lead, there was no competition.

She'd been a sweetheart, truly, putting up with him longer than she should have. But he'd stretched her patience too far. She'd given up on him and married someone else, a

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man more stable and attentive, one who wasn't so dedicated to his work and his freedom.

Funny how the freedom of youth turns to loneliness in old age.

More and more lately, he thought about her and contemplated what could have been.

Catching himself in the poignant thought, he scorned his self-pity.

Somewhere along the line, I've become a pitiful old fool.

Impatient with his maudlin reverie, he started his car and backed out of the parking lot. The sedan was across the street at a Taco Bell. It pulled out behind him. He took 66 out of the city until it intersected with 495, then he doubled back, heading northwest. It was amusing to watch the sedan in his rearview mirror as it tried not to lose him in traffic, although he wasn't so naive as to believe that the gray sedan was his only tail. He reentered D.C. via Chevy Chase, Maryland, and drove back downtown. He made a drag down Wisconsin Avenue, where eclectic crowds seeking the nightlife of Georgetown vied for tables in crowded bars and restaurants. Letting his nose lead him, he continued driving through the city until he once again reached the outskirts. He was getting bored, and sleepy, and weary from sitting behind the wheel for so long.

His mind drifted back to the schoolteacher. He'd been a damn fool to let her get away. She would have made a loving wife. They could have had kids, grandkids by now. These autumnal years wouldn't be so lonely, and he wouldn't be depending solely on Barrie for company. She was a great kid, and he loved her like she was his own flesh and blood, but she wasn't a life partner. There was a difference.

Maybe, if he had married that sweet lady way back then, he wouldn't be so afraid of dying now. "Some life for

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her," he muttered. "Having to take care of a gasping old fart like me."

His own voice snapped him out of his daydream. Where the hell was he?

Unaware, he'd driven himself into an industrial park with row upon row of warehouses, one barely distinguishable from the next. All were closed at this hour. At loading docks, empty trailer trucks stood open like behemoths with their maws spread wide.

Daily's car, and the one following it, were the only moving vehicles on these deserted streets. Becoming more disoriented with each turn, he wound his way deeper into the concrete maze until he entered a street that came to a dead end.

"Damn!" He glanced quickly at his rearview mirror. The sedan was right behind him in the cul-de-sac.

Acting on instinct, Daily hooked a sharp U-turn and was just about to pull up even with the sedan when the driver spun the wheel hard to the left.

Daily had to stand on his brake pedal to keep from hitting the sedan broadside.

It would have been better if he had. He might have stood a chance of fleeing the scene of an accident. He feared there would be no escaping the three angry men who got out of the car and came toward him.

"You're ten minutes late." The woman's whining could be heard through the walls of the camper.

"Shit!" Gray hissed.

"What's going on?"

"I picked a Romeo with a bedroom on wheels. Hurry!"

He tossed her shoes, clothes, shopping bag, and satchel up onto the bunk that jutted into the cabin of the camper and extended over the cab of the pickup. "Get up there. Quick."

"No way. It's like a coffin."

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Having no time to argue, he grabbed one of her bare ankles. With the other hand splayed over her bottom, he launched her up onto the bunk, where there was less than a foot of space between the mattress and the ceiling.

When not in use, the bunk served as storage space for extra bedding and pillows. Gray chinned himself up and crawled in among the pillows, blankets, and sleeping bags.

"Get way back in there," he said to Barrie, who, for once, did as she was told without question. She made herself as small as possible in one of the forward corners.

The couple could be heard approaching the rear of the camper.

"I'm getting tired of this stupid thing," the woman complained. "Why can't we go to a motel?"

"Because this is more private."

"And free."

"It's not a matter of money. Honest, baby. Motels keep records. You don't want my old lady finding out about us, do you?"

During this spat, Gray worked frantically to reposition the rolled-up sleeping bags and pillows at the end of the bunk. With luck, they would shield them when the couple entered the rear of the camper. Then he scrunched Barrie even farther into the corner. With only seconds to spare, he pulled a quilt over them, heads and all.

"When they join us up here, it's going to be awfully crowded," she whispered.

"Do you have a better idea?"

If she did, she had no time to say so. The rear door opened and the dome light came on. The camper rocked with the man's weight as he stepped inside. "Here we go, baby." He gave a low whistle. "You look like dynamite tonight. Is that a new blouse?"

"Like it?"

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"I like it a lot. How quick can we get you out of it?"

"You're such an animal!"

The door was closed and the light went out. Laughter. Sighs. The wet, sucking sounds of passionate kissing. The whisper of clothing being removed. The rasp of a zipper. A low moan.

"You're a handful," the woman said.

"You better believe it, baby. Tighter."

More sighs and smacking sounds, then: "I'm about to bust already," the man panted. "Come on, let's-"

"Do we have to get up there?" she asked in her nasal whine. "I hate it up there. I banged my head on the ceiling last time."

"Okay, okay, just. . ."

"Wait a minute!" she screeched. "Don't tear them. I'll take them off if you'll wait half a second."

Apparently the poor bastard was beyond the point of no return. From below came the sounds of bodies knocking against the wall or the floor. Gray couldn't be sure. He didn't want to be sure, because knowing for sure what was going on below would conjure up mental images that he was sure he couldn't handle right now. He tried to think of something, anything, to buffer the unmistakable sounds of sex. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could shut his ears as effectively, wishing he could suspend all his involuntary responses, one in particular.

Barrie was lying perfectly still, hardly breathing, as tense as he. He knew because he was aware of her stillness, and her breathlessness, and her tension. He was aware of every damn thing about her, from the fragrance of her shampoo to the feel of her toes nestled against his knees.

What was happening on the floor of the camper was a scene straight out of a stag film, the kind of movie a bunch of guys get together and watch while polishing off a few six-EXCLUSIVE 381

packs. It was the kind of rendezvous recounted in graphic language in hard-core porno magazines. It was a fantasy with no artistic value. It wasn't even elegantly erotic. It was juvenile, base, and . . .

To hell with it. He was burning hotter than a furnace.

He realized that he wasn't turned on so much by what was going on below as he was from lying entwined with Barrie. She was seminude; he was fully clothed. A turn-on in itself. The danger of discovery was as enticing as it had been when he was six, sneaking off with the eight-year-old preacher's daughter to play Adam and Eve in her daddy's peach orchard. And it was one of Nature's mischievous tricks played on Man that the more helpless he was to satiate his arousal, the more aroused he became. The man below brayed like a jackass. A moment later, he grunted, "Was it good for you, baby?"

"No, and I'll be damned before I fake it."

"Don't worry, I'm gonna take care of you. I've got plenty of rubbers and forty-five minutes before I have to leave for work."

Forty-five minutes!

Gray couldn't stand it that long. What about Barrie? Was this having any effect on her? He could feel her breath against his neck. It was rapid and hot. Agitation or arousal?

Seeming to read his mind, she moved slightly. Very slightly. Her knees, which were bent almost to her chest, began to straighten, but so gradually that at first he thought he was imagining it. Eventually they came even with his belt buckle, then moved past it. He held his breath as she painstakingly, moving only a fraction of an inch at a time, eased her knees over his erection. Then her shins slid along his thighs, past his knees, until her legs were aligned with his and they lay belly to belly, male to female.

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She tilted her head back slightly. Then a little more. It couldn't be his imagination because he could no longer feel her breath against his neck, but against his lips. And, although it was dark beneath the quilt, he knew she was looking at him, at his mouth.

You're a fool if you do, he thought a heartbeat before bending his face closer to hers and kissing her.

Her lips parted beneath his, only slightly, but enough to make him reckless with lust.

Don't do this, Bondurant.

But no sooner had he thought the words than his tongue was making love to her mouth, her sweet, silky, sassy mouth. Soundlessly, his hand slid down her back until he was palming her bottom, planting her middle solidly against his. Only one ply of silk separated her from the distended fly of his trousers. Without any overt motion, only a subtle undulation of her hips, she rubbed against it.

A guttural sound, more a vibration than an actual noise, issued from his throat. She tensed. He tensed. He pressed his cheek against hers and tried to breathe silently, though it was almost impossible to do since his heart was racing.

But they went unheard and unnoticed, because the couple below was engaged in silly, flirtatious, verbal foreplay, punctuated by her shrill giggles.

They could have been revealing the location of Jimmy Hoffa's body for all Gray cared.

He was focused solely on kissing Barrie, mouth to mouth, wetly and wantonly. He lost count of the number of times he kissed her, of how many times his tongue made forays into her mouth. He never broke contact with her lips, not even when they had to pause to breathe or risk suffocation.

But even then, she angled her head up and the tip of her tongue flirted with his upper lip. He indulged her, letting her play and tease and tantalize until he couldn't take it anymore.

He pressed his tongue deeply into her mouth. He held EXCLUSIVE 383

her tighter, angling himself against the cleft of her thighs. And he stayed there. And stayed. Fucking her in his mind. Sweet heaven and holy hell.

It was the most sustained, most intense, most intimate, most satisfying, most frustrating sexual encounter he had ever experienced. In turns, he wanted it to end with an explosive climax, and to continue into eternity.

The denouement wasn't left to him, or to Barrie, however, but to the two strangers.