Prologue (36 page)

“Go for the highway!” Pamela yelled. “Left, left!”

At the far edge of the canal Ginter passed one more set of mill buildings and then swung hard right down
Bedford Street
.

This road was narrower and filled with trucks backed into a line of loading docks. Ginter braked to a crawl and picked his way around the vehicles. Curious faces stared down at the pair.

To their right was a five-story building while another lower building lay on their left. As Ginter cut around a 12-foot box truck he slammed on his brakes. Straight ahead the road ended at a wasteway that connected the two canals. A narrow train trestle spanned the wasteway, but sitting on the trestle was a locomotive which had backed three freight cars into the yard. Workers from Mill 3 on Ginter’s right were loading boxes into the second car.

“Shit!” Ginter exclaimed.

They both swiveled at the same time. The cruiser was not yet in view.

“Did the cop turn?” Pamela asked.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Ginter said. He shut off the ‘Vette and yanked the key from the ignition. He and Pamela flung open their doors. At the rear of the car he grabbed her hand.

“Let’s go!” he commanded, and together they ran back along the cobblestoned road. The siren grew louder. Several workers paused and stared in the direction of the approaching wail.

“The door!”
Ginter shouted and pulled a stumbling Pamela toward a section of the low building that protruded into the roadway. They raced up five steps and Ginter tugged open an iron door as the cruiser hove into view. He pulled Pamela inside and yanked the door shut behind them. He looked desperately for a latch or lock. There was nothing.

They were in a stairway. One door led into the building while a set of iron stairs rose to a landing. On each of the metal risers the name “Amoskeag” was stamped. Ginter grabbed Pamela’s hand again and led her toward the stairway.

“Where’re we going?” she protested.

“Up!” was all he said.

Ginter passed the second floor without pausing. On the third he stopped and let go of Pamela’s hand. She was panting heavily. He could no longer hear the siren.

“Did he leave?” Pamela rasped.

Ginter shook his head. “He shut it off. Come on,” he said, and pulled open a tall wooden door. Together they walked on to an open floor piled high with crates and boxes arranged in neat rows.

“Storage,” he announced.

It was stifling. The high windows were all closed. The temperature was close to 100.

Ginter slid a wooden crate across the aisle and shoved it up against the outside wall. He climbed up and peered out the window. Two stories below the cruiser was turned sideways, blocking any escape by the Corvette back up
Bedford Street
. Its bubble light was flashing but the siren was off. The officer stood outside his cruiser holding a microphone connected by a curled cord to the dashboard.

“What’s going on?” Pamela panted.

“He didn’t follow us into the building. He’s with the car, maybe 150 feet back from the Corvette.” To Ginter’s left, workers had finished loading the freight car and one of them loudly rolled the side door shut before moving back to the loading dock to watch the excitement.

“He’s trying to use his radio,” Ginter added.

“There’ll be more cops here,” Pamela wheezed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Ginter shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure that radio will work between these buildings. They’re high enough to block the signal.”

Pamela turned and slumped against the inside of the brick wall and slid to the wooden floor. “So, now what’s the plan?” she asked without looking up.

Two workers had approached the officer and were pointing at the building. No one had yet entered the mill.

“We can go down the stairs at the end of the building near the trestle, cross in front of the train and get out of here on foot,” Ginter said. “Then we can hoof it back to the hotel.”

“You’re crazy,” Pamela said. “You know how many cops will be there? Paul and Amanda are probably arrested by now.”

Ginter grimaced.

A second black and white cruiser rolled into the yard and stopped. A single officer got out and began conversing with the first. Together, they looked up at the building. Ginter crouched.

“What is it?” Pamela asked.

“A second cop,” Ginter answered.

“Jesus, Lewis! You said that radio wouldn’t work.” Pamela stood up.

“He must have got a call through earlier,” Ginter argued.

“Now what are they doing?”

“Coming in,” Ginter said.

The two officers walked to the exterior stairway and the second one tugged open the door.

“Both of them?”
Pamela asked.

“This is our chance to get out of here,” Ginter said. “Come on.”

Ginter jumped off the crate and strode toward the far end of the long room. Pamela cast one look back at the doorway that led to the stairs, and followed. At the end of the room Ginter stepped around a high set of steel shelves jammed with boxes that formed a wall. Behind them was a brick wall-the end of the building. Grey metal filing cabinets were pushed up against the bricks. In front was an ancient oak desk. The space served as a makeshift office. Ginter desperately searched along the back wall. There were no windows, and no door. He moved to the side window overlooking
Bedford Street
. Below, the two cruisers stood empty, their roof bulbs still flashing.

“They’re in the building,” Ginter said.

“There’re no stairs here,” Pamela said. “We’re trapped. We’ve got to go back.”

From the floor area Ginter heard the creak of the stairway door. He raised a finger to his lips.

He moved to the window at the other side of the building. Thirty feet below lay the upper canal, its murky surface camouflaging its depth. To his right was a small waterfall, which spilled into the wasteway and flowed to the lower canal. The building abutted the canal’s very edge. He quietly gestured for Pamela to join him.

“No way,” she whispered, when she looked down.

“No other way,” he hissed, and gently lifted the sash. When it was halfway up a shrill whistle startled
him
and a low rumble shook the building.

“The train’s moving, c’mon,” he urged, and climbed up on the window ledge.

“We don’t know how deep it is,” Pamela protested. She looked back at the wall of boxes and then quickly scrambled out onto the ledge.

A sheet metal vent protruded from the second story window directly below them. For the third time that day he grabbed her hand. “We have to clear that. Bend your knees,” he commanded and then, without another word, he leaped off the window ledge pulling Pamela with him. He closed his eyes just before he hit the murk, and was thankful that the water slowed the momentum of his fall before his feet scraped the canal’s bottom. He pushed off and shot back up, still clutching Pamela’s hand. They broke the surface five feet from the building’s edge and Ginter spit water from his mouth. He grabbed one of the granite blocks that lined the canal. The rough stones provided easy hand and footholds and together they pulled themselves up behind a shed connected to the side of the building. To their left the train had cleared the trestle spanning the wasteway and was moving away.

Ginter trotted to the shed’s corner and peered around. He stepped out and waved Pamela forward. They sprinted to the Corvette and Ginter jumped over the driver’s side and shoved the key into the ignition as Pamela circled around and got in the passenger side. The Corvette roared to throaty life and Ginter popped it into gear and was moving toward the trestle before Pamela had closed her door.

“Anyone?”
Ginter asked as Pamela looked back. The car bounced wildly on the trestle as the Corvette crossed over the wasteway. Directly ahead the locomotive chugged the three freight cars back to the freight yard.

“Not yet,” Pamela said, keeping her attention riveted behind her.

Ginter turned left up
West Central Street
and out of the mill yard along the same road he had come in. Once across the triple train tracks he swung left onto
Canal Street
. In a moment of exhilaration, he took the ‘Vette up to 100 for about half a mile until he braked to turn left onto the iron bridge spanning the river. Only when they were heading south on the
Everett
turnpike at a comfortable 60 miles per hour did Pamela turn back to the front.

“No cops,” she said simply.

Ginter nodded.

“We were lucky,” she added.

Ginter shrugged. “Maybe that’s a good omen.”

“What about Paul and Amanda?” she asked.

“We can’t go back,” Ginter said. “The cops have the plate number. Hopefully, they made it out. We have to get out of state.”

Pamela took a deep breath. “And then what?” she asked.

Ginter tightened his hand on the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking about this,” he said simply. “Today is Monday. We have four days.”

“Four days?” she asked.
“To do what?”

“To get to
New Orleans
.
We’ll contact Paul and Amanda later.”

Pamela leaned back and closed her eyes. Her clothes were soaked and she could still feel the canal’s oily dampness on her skin. The adrenaline rush was subsiding. She didn’t feel like asking how Lewis proposed to do that.

From his eleventh floor corner room Paul watched the three police officers conversing in front of the
Franklin Street
entrance. They had been with the manager for several minutes and he could not figure what they were up to. From behind his shoulder Amanda peered at the scene.