Page 29 of Liar, Liar

The cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her neck.

“Drive,” he ordered in a harsh, guttural voice.

Didi nearly swerved off the road, the front wheel edging onto the shoulder, bits of gravel flying up as she overcorrected, then straightened the big car. Her heart was a drum. Panic sent adrenaline through her veins. What the hell was this? Who was he? Oh, God, he was going to kill her! Right here in the desert! For a split second, she considered hitting the gas, then the brakes, throwing him off balance or crashing so that someone, anyone would find her. Help her.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growled in that low voice, as if he’d read her damned mind.

How had he gotten in here? Had he been hiding in the back seat all the time? Sweat blooming beneath her tight dress, she swallowed back her fear and tried desperately to think, to find a way to get out of this mess. With a sinking sensation, she realized he might have been hiding in her cargo hold, the spot she’d used to conceal herself or props or . . . oh, dear God, what did it matter how he got in? The problem was getting him out before . . . before . . .

“Drive,” he repeated, his eyes slitting as he calculated her next move. “And keep it under the speed limit.”

She did as she was told.

As long as she was at the wheel, he couldn’t shoot her, could he? He’d risk his own life if he pulled the trigger and the car sped out of control. No—he needed her. For now. Until he decided to stop. If so, then she’d have to do something drastic. Crash on purpose or something. She glanced at the gas gauge. Half full. What would happen if she ran out of gas and the car slowed to a stop?

Pure terror chilled her blood.

Between now and then, she’d think of something. She had to. Her heart was hammering, and her hands shook on the wheel, her gloves slick on the inside with sweat, her breathing shallow, her mind racing.

She had the pistol. In her purse. If, somehow, she could get the drop on him, maybe claim she had to stop at a rest area or gas station to use the restroom . . . he’d never go for that, though; she sensed it. But if she said she needed a cigarette and instead pulled out her pistol, could she get the drop on him before his finger squeezed the trigger?

She had to try.

She couldn’t just let him murder her.

Somehow, she had to outmaneuver him.

But the cold bite of steel against her neck reminded her that she was very quickly running out of time.

CHAPTER 8

As Noah slipped out of his hospital room after the last nurse had been called down the hall, he saw that the clock read 2:45 AM. He stole along the opposite corridor and saw an exit sign, then avoided the elevators and took the stairs, moving silently down the steps. He’d waited for hours, thinking that surely the cops would return and bust him for something, but his ruse of being asleep or comatose, whatever the nurses wanted to think, had worked.

He’d waited until the hospital had grown quiet, the lights dimmed, the parking lot, from what he could see through the window, emptying to the few sparse cars that remained under the security lights. He’d found his clothes in the small cupboard wedged between the small bathroom and the door to the hallway and slipped them on. He hurt all over, especially his neck, where the damned bullet had passed through, and his shoulder, where he assumed he’d landed upon being thrown from the bike.

From the moment he’d woken up, figured out where he was, and his memory of the night before had returned, he’d tried like hell to figure out what had happened in the desert, but only partial images of the events floated through his brain, and he couldn’t for the life of him piece together what he’d witnessed.

Hopefully, the gaps in his memory were from the anesthesia, and he would eventually remember what had gone down. Nothing good. And the more he thought about it, the more he’d concluded Didi Storm was involved.

What about Remmi?

Where was she?

Did she know?

The questions had pricked at his brain, but he’d ignored them, forcing himself to concentrate on escaping unnoticed from Elizabeth Park Hospital. As far as he knew, no one had recognized him as he’d slipped through a door from the stairwell to the first floor. No one knew who he was. But that wouldn’t last for long. As soon as his picture was circulated, his friends or acquaintances, from school or the jobs he’d held at two diners and a gas station, would recognize him. If he wanted to get out, the time was now.

He felt a prick of anxiety as he passed by a planter filled with fake leafy ferns and headed for the main doors. He had his collar turned up, for he was certain that his image would show up on the hospital cameras. But so be it. He had to get out. Before the killer returned.

He slipped through the sliding doors of the ER when the desk attendant wasn’t looking as she concentrated on a phone call and some papers scattered on the counter in front of her. Once outside, he started jogging. His legs worked well, no problem there, but his arms and neck ached. He figured he still had some anesthesia flowing through his bloodstream from the surgery, and eventually it would wear off. Sometime, he’d have to deal with the pain, but so far, so good.

He left the hospital and headed toward the heart of the city, the Strip, which was in the opposite direction from his house. But if he were caught on some of the hospital cameras covering the parking lot, it would seem as if he were heading south. Once

out of clear view of the hospital, he’d pull a U-ey and find his way home. Once there, he’d steal what he could from the rest of the old man’s money stash, assuming he didn’t realize that Noah had already tapped into it, then he’d start hitchhiking south. L.A. first, then San Diego, before he slipped across the border.

He figured he could make it on his own.

In all reality, he had been for the last few years.

---