Mistaken Identity

She accelerated, and her Ford moved onto the four-lane boulevard that was the Ben Franklin Parkway, slick and wet from the storm. Her tires splashed through a puddle in the gutter, spraying water onto the truck’s siders, and the Ford rumbled under the multicolored flags of all nations that flapped in the wind. NIGERIA, KENYA, TANZANIA, read the labels as Be

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. The TransAm was thirty yards behind her and coming on strong. Her heart began to pound and she steered her truck around Logan Circle, struggling to remain upright as she whirled around Swa

Her chest constricted. She thought fast. She had no weapon but she had a car phone, a hands-free model. Her fingers fumbled for the keyboard and she pressed the coded button for 911.

“Emergency operator,” said a professional voice when the co

“I need help. I’m being followed, in a car. A black TransAm.” She plowed through another puddle and checked the rearview. It was only her and the TransAm. “I just passed Logan Circle and I’m heading for the Art Museum. What do I do?”

“Are you in your car, miss?”

“Yes! It’s a blue Ford.”

“And this car is following yours?”

“Yes! Yes!” Be

“What makes you think this car is following you, ma’am?”

The TransAm was closing in. It was twenty yards behind, then fifteen. Be

“Did you say a police officer is following your car, miss? Why don’t you flag him if you need help?”

“I need help from him. Put out a bulletin. I’m traveling west, up Ben Franklin Parkway. Should I drive to a station house?” Be

“Help!” Be

“Miss, are you there? Miss?”

“Help!” Be

A bolt of fear shot through Be

“Miss? Miss?” the operator asked. “Did you say the police are there?”

“No! Help!” Be

Suddenly Be

Be

She engaged her four-wheel drive and the Ford bounded onto the pavement and charged up the granite staircase. She bounced in the driver’s seat despite her shoulder harness, taking each step to the landing, then racing skyward. Fountains flanking the Art Museum steps spurted water into the air, misting onto the truck. Cast iron gaslights lit her way.

Be

Be

The Ford surged forward. Be

She took another jolt as the Ford climbed onto the granite flagstone of the plaza. The lighted fountain misted the Ford’s windshield. The Art Museum blazed before her. Be

Be

Out of nowhere, Be

Her windshield was a network of broken glass. Her hood had buckled in the middle. The TransAm had slammed into the Ford and sat facing her, its hood crumpled and leaking steam. A split second later, Lenihan staggered out of the car. In his hand was a black nightstick.

Oh, God. Be