Follow the Sharks by William G. Tapply Page A

I doubted that they were feeling snug and secure.
    A few minutes later I pulled over to the side and stopped on the overpass. I left the engine running and the lights on. The last thing I wanted was for some well-meaning citizen—or, worse yet, a policeman—to pull up behind me to offer assistance. I got out and went to the trunk before I remembered the keys were still in the ignition. I went back to fetch them. I left the parking lights on.
    The bag of money was heavy. I needed both arms to hoist it up onto the rail of the bridge. It occurred to me that I had heard the directions wrong. This was Waltham Street. Did she say the one after Waltham Street? She did say to drop it over the side. Didn’t she?
    I imagined a pedestrian or jogger or dog-walker hearing the thump of falling money. I imagined the kidnappers waiting somewhere else for it.
    I imagined myself screwing it all up and E.J. Donagan dying because of it.
    I looked at my watch. It read nine forty-one. Two minutes. I held the bag of money balanced on the rail. The drumroll of thunder sounded closer, and a freshening breeze carried with it the sharp smell of ozone. A few cars passed close by me. One slowed down as it went by, and I saw the brake lights flash on. I willed it not to stop. It took the exit over the bridge.
    Nine forty-two. I leaned over the bridge to peer down. I could neither see nor hear a thing down there. I thought of the hundreds of ways the exchange could fail. Even if it wasn’t my fault, I feared that wouldn’t matter. E.J. Donagan’s life depended on my delivering that money.
    The two changed into a three on my digital watch.
    I stood there, alone on the dark highway, and with a little grunt pushed the bag over the edge. I heard it hit the ground below with a hollow plop, the same sound you get when you punch a half-inflated beach ball. I waited for a moment, peering over the rail, waiting for the beam of a flashlight, or the sudden glow of headlights cutting through the blackness, or the growl of a car’s engine starting up. Then I thought better of it. I climbed into my car and drove away as fast as I could safely go.
    I pulled into the first gas station I came to. There was a pay phone in an open stall outside. I deposited a quarter and punched out Sam Farina’s phone number.
    Sam answered on the first ring. “It’s done,” I said.
    “You gave them the money?”
    “I dropped it over a bridge. Who’s there?”
    “Me, Jan, Josie. Stern and Basile.”
    “Eddie?”
    “He’s here. Not saying much, but he’s here.”
    “Okay. I better talk to Stern.”
    A moment later the FBI man came onto the line. I recounted for him what had happened. He said, “Damn!”
    “What?”
    “We missed whoever gave you that envelope.”
    “There was someone there?”
    “Yeah. Travers’ man. State cop. I should have put one of my own guys there. He called after you left. He didn’t see anything.”
    “Did somebody follow me in the car?”
    “Yes. Had to keep going when you stopped on the bridge.”
    “So we’re no better off than we were.”
    “So far they’ve had it all their way. Hopefully now we’ll hear from them and get the boy back. You think the woman who called was the same one?”
    “Couldn’t swear to it, but, yes, I think so.” A raindrop about the size of a grapefruit landed on my hand. “It’s starting to rain,” I said to Stern. “I’m at an outside phone. What do you want me to do now?”
    “Go home. Stick close to your phone. They seem to want to deal with you. Maybe they’ll call you at home, maybe in your office. About all we can do now is wait. They’ve got what they wanted.”
    “We wait for them to call.”
    “Yes. We hope they’ll call.”
    “What about the phone call at the alleys? Can you trace it?”
    “Sure. It was from a booth somewhere, no doubt. We’ll have it recorded, too, though not much chance that’ll help us. You still have that note, I hope.”
    I patted my pocket. “Yes. It’s