One of the cops pulled out his radio. “You all right? You need an ambulance?”

“No, no, I’m okay.” The cop nodded to her, looked at her creds again, shook his head, and strode to where the van still sluggishly burned.

“Lucy, dammit, you’re not okay, you’re shot.” Coop grabbed her, pulled her close, examined her head. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it on the wound. “All right, okay, it must have bled like mad, but it’s not deep. Good thing, or I’d really be pissed.”

“No, I know it’s not bad, Coop. I’m okay, really.” She touched her hand to her face, and her fingers came away bloody. She stared at them, as if trying to take it in. “This is very odd,” she said, and looked up at him. “I suppose we should have someone look at this.”

Coop spoke to the cops, shoved her into the passenger seat of his Corvette, got behind the wheel, and headed back to 95. He made sure she kept pressing the handkerchief against her head. She felt a bit light-headed now, but who cared? She’d survived, she’d beaten them. She was alive. She heard Coop on his cell. “Yeah, Savich, I’m taking her to the hospital.”

He was speeding, the Corvette hugging the road, as he pushed it hard for the first time. “Coop,” she whispered, “you’re going to get a ticket.”

He laughed. “Hold yourself still, Lucy, and don’t move. Our ETA to the hospital is about ten minutes.”

Lucy touched her head again, lifted away the handkerchief. The cut was still oozing. The blood was red, and it was coming from her. She pressed the handkerchief hard against the wound. It hurt.

“The bullet grazed you. You’ll be okay.” He sounded like he was convincing himself.

“Then why are you racing like I’m bleeding to death?”

“Because I’m scared.” He speeded up.

“I hope the cops get that other van. The guy left his partner to die.”

She sounded strong, she was talking and she was making sense, but it didn’t matter—Coop’s heart was still pounding. “Lucy, tell me what happened.”

“They sandwiched me between them.” She told him about the trap they’d set, about her U-turn, and how she’d finally had the chance to fire and shoot one of the drivers behind her.

She gave him a big grin. “My Range Rover was a hero, getting me out from between those two vans.” Then her face fell. “I didn’t have a chance to name him, though, and now he’s totaled. That’s not fair for a hero, Coop, it’s not fair.”

They heard sirens behind them. They would have an escort to the emergency room. He looked over at Lucy, her bloody face and palms. She could so easily be dead.

CHAPTER 49

Whortleberry, Virginia

Thursday afternoon

Kirsten frantically turned the radio dial of the stolen Silverado to the next station, and heard it again. The male accomplice of Ted Bundy’s daughter, Kirsten Bolger, died after extensive surgery during the early hours of this morning from gunshot wounds in a shoot-out in Baltimore with the FBI. . . .

She smashed her fist against the radio until it went silent, and pulled to the side of the country road. She laid her forehead against the steering wheel, the horrible truth playing over and over in her mind. Bruce was dead, really dead. But he’d managed to save her, and now those fed jerks were chasing their tails again.

She slammed her foot down hard on the gas, and the Silverado shot forward. Soon she was flying, singing Springsteen’s “Born to Run” at the top of her lungs, hooting and hollering, trying to drown out her thoughts.

Who would she talk to now about her daddy and what he did with his lady loves? She remembered how after she’d gotten back to him, she’d dress to look like her own lady love for the evening, and they’d watch lovely raunchy porno and Bruce would grab her and they’d tear the sheets off the bed. No one would ever understand her like Bruce did; no one else would listen to her tell how it felt to jerk the wire one last time and know, know all the way to your soul, that this life was gone, forever. And he’d hold her and tell her how much he loved her as his thumb rubbed away the dried blood on her hands.

How had Bruce missed that setup? How had the cops even known they’d be at that dive? That big-haired waitress, she’d bet on it. She’d seen Big Hair looking at her, but she hadn’t paid her much attention because she was just an old hag with tons of brassy blond hair who worked in a bar. Who cared what she thought about anything? Kirsten wished she’d told Bruce about her, but she hadn’t.