There, thought Jeanne-Marie, it was out now. He had killed a man. He admitted it. All sham, all pretense was gone. The charming man of the world was now completely gone, replaced by the ruthless killer.
The light changed to green—had been green for some time now. Horns blared behind them. The driver shifted gears and they began to drive again.
Still standing on the corner, the policeman had seen nothing.
Three hours later, they were still driving. The city was behind them now. They had sped through the darkness and obscurity of the northern suburbs as night fell and now were in a rural area. The expressway rimming the city had become the state parkway going north, and some twenty minutes ago they had left the parkway behind them, traveling a two-lane black-top road.
"Next left," Lucky told the frightened driver, and moments later the cab braked and turned up a dirt road hardly more than a trail.
"Friend of mine used to own this place," Lucky explained as they stopped before a small log cabin. Actually log, Jeanne-Marie thought, only ninety-some miles from the city. It was totally unexpected. "Used to use it for a hunting lodge."
He opened the door and held it that way for Jeanne-Marie, who climbed out of the cab. Then Lucky leaned in across the driver and removed the ignition key from the dash, pocketing it. "You get out of there, too," he said.
"I thought I'd just be going now, mister."
"That's very funny."