The Quickie - James Patterson [80]
Paul pistol-whipped the dashboard savagely, then pressed the gun barrel to my temple.
“You want to know how I felt when Veronica made me that offer at the Sheraton? For the first time, I felt like a man! I got a chance to step away from this namby-pamby investment firm, law degree, 401(k) bullshit I’ve been wasting my whole life on.”
Paul took a deep breath, then released it. The gun stayed at my temple.
“I did it, Lauren,” he whispered fiercely. “I took what I wanted, and then I went and got my prize. Let me tell you something. I remember every second of it. And Lauren, it was good. Veronica licked the blood off my knuckles. I knocked her up like a stud bull.”
“Anything you say, psychopath,” I said.
“And you’re right. I killed that prick Scott. He thought he could just keep messing with me. You should have seen the look on his face when he turned around. He was outmanned, and he knew it. I gave your boyfriend exactly what was coming to him. I could give two shits about his wife and kids.”
In the distance, sirens sounded. Somebody must have called the police about the scene Paul and I were making. Thank God for cell phones!
“You hear that?” I said. “Sirens? That’s the sound of truth and consequences catching up with you, Paul.”
“Nothing is catching up with me, cupcake,” Paul said, opening the door and shoving me out. “Time for a trial separation.”
The Jag’s tires smoked as he peeled out onto Riggs.
I stood between the skid marks, disoriented. Could somebody please tell me what the hell had just happened? The past few hours seemed impossible, surreal. What was I thinking, hours. Try the past few minutes.
My hair flew back in the wake of two siren-wailing DC police cars that appeared in full-speed pursuit of Paul.
This was it? I thought. This was how it would end?
Half a block north across the street, I spotted my rental car.
Not if I could help it, I thought, taking out the keys as I ran.
Chapter 113
MINUTES LATER, I was pinning the gas, tailgating the rear DC cop car that was chasing Paul. I felt like giving him my brights. Gangway! NYPD coming through! Paul is mine. Get in line! That’s my cheating, lying, murdering husband trying to get away.
We careened through another ritzy neighborhood. Were we in Georgetown? Ivy-covered brick and Greek revivals blurred past my windshield. Where did Paul think he was going? Did he still believe he could get away with this?
I figured it all out when I spotted the tower of the bridge back to the airport. It loomed a half mile away, above some slate roofs on my left.
I whipped a left at the next corner, ran a red light, and screeched a right onto M Street, speeding toward the bridge to cut him off if I could.
I honked as I skidded to a stop — dead center at the entrance to the Francis Scott Key Bridge.
Then I jumped out of the car and stood in the open doorway.
“Get your crazy ass out of the street!” an angry bus driver screamed at me as he leaned on his horn. “What in the green world of God do you think you’re doing?”
You think I know? I felt like telling him. But I didn’t have the energy or the time.
A block to the north, Paul was approaching with the DC cops close behind. When he reached the traffic I’d just backed up, he drove the Jaguar up on the sidewalk. No hesitation. A hot dog cart and newspaper box sailed off the Jaguar’s grill before Paul bulleted into the intersection.
I jumped to the left of my Taurus, filling the only space that might fit Paul’s car. The bus driver screamed as the Jag sped toward me. I was the only thing standing between Paul and the bridge.
I stood there transfixed.
Paul would stop.
He wouldn’t run me down.
He couldn’t kill me.
The car kept coming, though. Really fast.
At the last second, I dove to the right.
The Jag blew past me like a hunter green guided missile. Twisting around on my back, I watched Paul slalom around my car and back onto the bridge road. Son