The Stolen - Jason Pinter [59]
He'd changed out of his hospital whites and was wearing
a bulky overcoat, carrying a stuffed briefcase. He trudged
through the parking lot as our eyes followed him. He
stopped for a moment to yell at another motorist whose
Saab edged a little too close, and for a moment I worried
that the argument would escalate and our whole plan
would be shot. Thankfully, after a heated exchange and a
middle-finger gesture that left the driver steaming, Petrovsky continued walking, eventually stopping at a dark blue
Nissan.
"Do me a favor," I said. "Take my tape recorder out of
my bag." She did so. "Now turn it on."
She clicked the record button.
I said, "I want to record the directions. Just in case."
"Smart," Amanda said.
I started the engine, waited until I saw the brake lights
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on Petrovsky's car turn red before I edged out of the
parking space. I turned the corner of our row just as Petrovsky finished backing out. I allowed another car to move
in front of us as all three vehicles headed for the exit.
"What if he sees us?" Amanda said.
"I don't know," I said truthfully. "Let's just hope he
doesn't."
Petrovsky pulled up to the exit and put his right-turn
signal on. He made the right, and the car in front of us
turned left. I put my right blinker on, waited until Petrovsky's Nissan was about thirty yards away, then I pulled
onto the exit ramp and began to follow the doctor.
Petrovsky kept an even speed as he circled the exit ramp
that led away fromYardley. I stayed far enough behind that
it would be tricky for him to see me in his rearview mirror.
Neither Amanda nor I spoke. We were both focused on the
road, the car and what would happen next.
When the ramp came to an end, Petrovsky kept on
straight and merged onto the freeway. He pulled into the
left lane; I took the middle, kept pace three cars behind.
There was still light in the sky, sundown not yet for another
hour, so I was able to make out his car pretty clearly. The
hum of our engine seemed as loud as a bullhorn as we kept
pace, threatening to give us away.
After a few miles, Petrovsky drifted over to the middle
lane, then turned on his right-turn signal and headed
toward a sign that read Exit 62. I relayed this to the tape
recorder. When he pulled into the right lane, I allowed a
silver Mercedes to do the same and I pulled in behind it.
I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky
closely. I could make out the man hunched over the
steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we
were being cautious, keeping out of sight.
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Jason Pinter
I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds
decreasing as the road became more residential. The
doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-anhour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer
for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after,
leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.
We followed him down this road for some time. Eventually the sun began to set. The sky grew darker. Soon all
I could make out of Petrovsky's car were the taillights. The
faint hum of the tape recorder was the only noise in the
car. My pulse was quickening. I had no idea how this
night would end.
About twenty minutes later, Petrovsky turned on his left
blinker and pulled off onto a narrow street. I had to follow,
had to hope it was too dark for him to recognize our car
or see me behind the wheel. I was still about thirty yards
behind him, but when his Nissan made another right and
then a left within seconds of each other, I had to speed up
before losing him among the turns.
"There's no way he doesn't know we're following him,"
Amanda said, her voice quiet, fearful. "No way."
I said nothing. Just spoke the directions into the
recorder and kept driving.
We passed through streets lined with houses, lamps illuminating rows of homes. Most of them were in disrepair,
casting an aura of poverty, carelessness, hopelessness. I
tried not to look at them, focused on the car in front of us,
felt cold sweat beading down my back.