ONE
Almost six-thirty. The parking lot, dimly lit by a single spotlight suspended high on a pole. As he trudged to his Buick station wagon, Gibson glanced at his wrist watch again. The calendar on the face of the watch read April 7th. Tomorrow would be Harriet’s birthday, her thirty-sixth. He debated whether to stop and pick up the silver bracelet he had bought at Potter and Lemon. The engraving he had ordered would be finished. The store remained open until seven, but the hell with it. He’d do it tomorrow. This evening he was too tired. Just wanted to get home, have a drink and relax before dinner.
At the thought of food, his stomach growled and he remembered that he’d had no lunch. Nothing new. Half the time he went without eating from breakfast until he arrived home at seven or later.
When he turned the key to unlock the station wagon door, he discovered he had just locked it instead. Probably had forgotten to lock up in his hurry to get to the office. Wouldn’t be the first time. He unlocked the door, tossed his briefcase on the front passenger’s seat and sank into the driver’s seat. He’d relax for a moment. He closed his eyes for ten seconds, then put the key in the ignition. While he was buckling his seat belt he felt sudden pressure against his neck. A bug? He reached behind to slap it. His fingers came into contact with metal. Startled, he glanced toward the rearview mirror, but it was tilted up so he was seeing only a dim reflection of light from the car roof. Gibson started to turn.
“Don’t turn around!” “What the hell do you want?”
“Shut up and drive!”
It surprised him that he wasn’t frightened. He’d thought about being held up and wondered what he would do. Now he knew. He reached for his wallet. “Look, take what you want and get out. I won’t—.”
“Keep your fucking hands on the wheel!”
The metal he’d felt now pressed firmly into his neck. A gun barrel.
“Get this car moving!”
Gibson started the car.
“Left out of the driveway.”
The evening rush hour traffic had thinned out. Only a few cars passed in the opposite direction, there were no cars in front of his, no pedestrians in this part of the city at this time of day. As he drove, Gibson prayed he’d come across a cruising police car. Ram it and duck down in the front seat. He dropped that idea quickly. He’d give the guy his money, watch, credit cards, whatever he wanted. He wasn’t ready to be a hero and die.
Now they were traveling south on Dueber, past Prairie College Road and were out of the city. At Fohl, a red, white and blue shield-shaped sign pointed to southbound Interstate 77. The gun barrel was pushed more firmly into his neck.
“Get on the freeway here.”
Freeway? Who the hell was this guy and where was he taking him?
Almost six-thirty. The parking lot, dimly lit by a single spotlight suspended high on a pole. As he trudged to his Buick station wagon, Gibson glanced at his wrist watch again. The calendar on the face of the watch read April 7th. Tomorrow would be Harriet’s birthday, her thirty-sixth. He debated whether to stop and pick up the silver bracelet he had bought at Potter and Lemon. The engraving he had ordered would be finished. The store remained open until seven, but the hell with it. He’d do it tomorrow. This evening he was too tired. Just wanted to get home, have a drink and relax before dinner.
At the thought of food, his stomach growled and he remembered that he’d had no lunch. Nothing new. Half the time he went without eating from breakfast until he arrived home at seven or later.
When he turned the key to unlock the station wagon door, he discovered he had just locked it instead. Probably had forgotten to lock up in his hurry to get to the office. Wouldn’t be the first time. He unlocked the door, tossed his briefcase on the front passenger’s seat and sank into the driver’s seat. He’d relax for a moment. He closed his eyes for ten seconds, then put the key in the ignition. While he was buckling his seat belt he felt sudden pressure against his neck. A bug? He reached behind to slap it. His fingers came into contact with metal. Startled, he glanced toward the rearview mirror, but it was tilted up so he was seeing only a dim reflection of light from the car roof. Gibson started to turn.
“Don’t turn around!” “What the hell do you want?”
“Shut up and drive!”
It surprised him that he wasn’t frightened. He’d thought about being held up and wondered what he would do. Now he knew. He reached for his wallet. “Look, take what you want and get out. I won’t—.”
“Keep your fucking hands on the wheel!”
The metal he’d felt now pressed firmly into his neck. A gun barrel.
“Get this car moving!”
Gibson started the car.
“Left out of the driveway.”
The evening rush hour traffic had thinned out. Only a few cars passed in the opposite direction, there were no cars in front of his, no pedestrians in this part of the city at this time of day. As he drove, Gibson prayed he’d come across a cruising police car. Ram it and duck down in the front seat. He dropped that idea quickly. He’d give the guy his money, watch, credit cards, whatever he wanted. He wasn’t ready to be a hero and die.
Now they were traveling south on Dueber, past Prairie College Road and were out of the city. At Fohl, a red, white and blue shield-shaped sign pointed to southbound Interstate 77. The gun barrel was pushed more firmly into his neck.
“Get on the freeway here.”
Freeway? Who the hell was this guy and where was he taking him?