He pulled the Jaguar in at the end of the back row. He would leave it here with the bodies in it, then hotwire something that could get him to Mexico.

Tommy had stopped crying. The car sat idling, exhaust fumes leaching up into the trunk.

Anne was dizzy and nauseous on fumes and fear and from struggling against her bonds as the car rose and fell over a road she couldn’t see.

She had managed by twisting and squirming to finally get her hands free of the belt Crane had bound her with. Feeling around inside the trunk, she had found a couple of potential weapons. She had to think about how and when to try to use them. She would probably have only one chance. If she tried and failed . . .

Why wasn’t he doing something? Why hadn’t he turned the car off?

Maybe they were in a closed building and this was his plan: to gas them.

Or maybe she wasn’t his priority.

Tommy.

Instantly Anne began to kick and scream and thrash. If he would just open the damn trunk . . .

Tommy pretended to be asleep. He had had lots of practice at that, fooling his parents on a regular basis. Now he would have to fool Shadow Man, who had opened the door and stood staring at him. Tommy could feel the monster’s eyes on him. If he had dared to look, they probably glowed red in the dark night.

He stayed perfectly still as Shadow Man crouched down in the open door and touched the back of his head, stroked the back of his head, then put a hand on his back—like his father sometimes did when he came to check on him in the middle of the night.

Tears rose up again in Tommy’s throat.

I want my dad. I want my dad. I want my dad.

He stared at the boy for a moment, then reached out and touched his hair. The moonlight on his face made him look like a sleeping angel.

He rubbed the boy’s back and prepared himself for what he was about to do, pulling a cold steel curtain across his mind, relegating the job to its proper compartment.

Then the car began to rock and the teacher started screaming.

As the trunk opened, Anne attacked, coming up in Crane’s face with a spray can of something that smelled like oil, shooting in the dark and hoping to blind him.

He cried out—startled?—hurt? She didn’t know and couldn’t wait, scrambling out of the trunk in the second he jumped back.

She had to run. She needed cover.

Her ribs hurt. She couldn’t get a breath.

Rows of cars, one after the next.

If she could duck out of his sight—If she could get under one of the cars—If she could get more than three steps ahead of him—