She prayed that Walt would not guess for long minutes that she had left the city; that he would lose more precious minutes locating the super-highway.
San Francisco was six hours ahead of her.
Walt was continually losing himself in a maze of Los Angeles streets. Ones that seemed to promise to deliver him cross-town to interrupt Julia in her erratic course twined away in improper directions. Occasionally he neared her. But she darted away each time: as if with the primeval instinct of a hunted animal.
At last he stopped the car and cried to a pedestrian across the street: "Is there any place I can get a map of the city?"
"Ask inna filling station."
Walt snarled. And five minutes later he found the map. He memorized it carefully; it required scarcely more than a minute. During that time, he let his body rest and relax. He threw the map onto the driveway. He grew increasingly more confident of catching her as the information settled into his brain. He visualized the map.
He was ready for her now.
She was already on the super-highway. He left the filling station. He was in no hurry. He was waiting for her to return.
It soon became apparent that she would not.