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accident—unless they're driving in front
of me, in which case they are four hundred times more likely to get
rammed from behind.
    "What did you say?" I shouted into the
crackling.
    "Did you find her yet?" I think she
answered. "Do you know where I can go and get her?"
    "Not yet," I yelled back. "But we're making
good progress. I think he's headed for the coast."
    There was a silence and I thought we'd been
disconnected, but her voice returned in mid-sentence: "—makes
sense. He has a couple of—" Her words were drowned out by more
static. I held the phone out, annoyed.
    "Car phone?" Bobby asked
sympathetically.
    I nodded glumly. The receiver squawked at me
and I took a chance at the meaning of her gibberish. "Sounds good,"
I shouted. "Call me tomorrow."
    I hung up, pissed. "I wanted to ask her
about that engine thing with Jeff."
    "Forget the ex, Casey," Bobby said. "I have
a feel for these things. They don't know each other. What I saw was
a man trying to pick up a woman. I guarantee it. You're not
jealous, are you?"
    "God no. Just paranoid."
    "Well, don't sit there and mope," he
ordered. "Do something. You're making me nervous. Can't you go home
and do whatever it is you do with that hell-on-wheels boyfriend of
yours?"
    "He's getting ready to throw another pity
party," I said glumly. "I think I'll stay away."
    "Then go get laid. You're bringing me down."
He followed this romantic advice by gobbling the last of three
cheeseburgers with a gusto most people reserve for their first meal
after being lost in the wilderness for weeks.
    "It's all food and sex with you, isn't
it?"
    "It is with everyone," Bobby pointed out.
"I'm just willing to admit it."
    I was pondering the possible truth of this
pronouncement when my phone rang and Marcus Dupree came to my
rescue. "You're a lucky woman, Casey."
    "Price used his credit card?"
    "He just charged an early dinner at the
Sanitary Fish Market in Morehead City. The total was twenty-six
dollars and change, in case you were wondering."
    "I love you, Marcus," I told him. "If you
ever decide to bat for my team, I'll give you a signing bonus that
will knock your socks off."
    "I am no longer a free agent," he said
primly and hung up. Spoilsport.
    I checked my road trip knapsack. It held a
change of clothes, a toothbrush and a spare makeup kit. I added
credit cards, identification, cash—and my beloved .357 Colt Python.
I stopped for a moment to admire its barrel: six inches of
glistening, hard steel. Could a girl ask for anything more? (Well
sure, but she'd be unlikely to get it.)
    In the past, I'd had as much bad luck with
guns as with boyfriends. They either weren't big enough, went off
in my hand or had a tendency to backfire. I finally decided that
while reliability in a boyfriend is boring, it's a must when it
comes to your roscoe. So I chose the Colt after careful
consultation with a friendly underground arms dealer who didn't
care about my felony conviction. I told him I was interested in
stopping assailants, not making hamburger out of them. The .357 fit
the bill, and the barrel tucked nicely into my waistband. It even
held a tampon in a pinch. After giving it a good luck kiss, I
slipped it into my knapsack, then grabbed my down jacket and headed
for the front door.
    "Where the hell are you going?" Bobby asked
as I dashed past.
    "Road trip. I'm hot on the trail."
    "You need to cut back on your coffee," he
yelled as the door slammed shut behind me.
    There's nothing like a fast highway to clear
the mind of daily jumble. Especially since my car can take the wear
and tear. After a string of clunkers, I'd discovered a 1963 356-b
Porsche and had it restored to its former beauty with a little
financial help from Burly. It was an odd shape, almost like a
bathtub, but it ran great, gripping the curves like a railroad car
rocking around a turn. There are two stretches along Highway 70
between Raleigh and Morehead City where you can put the pedal to
the metal, and I hit a hundred easily on