“Sorry,” I told the registration clerk, and, gathering up my skirts (sky blue with cream lace edging that was gorgeous but a horrible dust collector), ran after them. Out on the street there was traffic, but no sign of the Flyer or Dixon. I ran a couple of blocks in the direction the car had gone, but didn’t see any sign of them and eventually slowed down. It was late evening—about nine p.m.—and the people on the streets were giving me odd looks.
“Does anyone speak English?” I asked loudly. “Or French? Or a little very bad German?”
No one answered me. I spun around at the intersection, hoping to see Dixon or the Flyer, but the street was full of modern cars only, and not one single Englishman in Edwardian clothes. Tabby and Sam pulled up. They had stopped to fill their car with gas and passed me on the way to the motel at which we’d agreed to meet.
“Problem?” Tabby asked. A car behind them honked.
“Our car was stolen!” I wailed.
“Get in,” Tabby said, and gestured toward the backseat.
I climbed in, beating back the fuzzy boom microphone, and shoving the camera over, just barely getting my skirt tucked inside before Sam hit the gas. I explained briefly what had happened with Vitale.
“We’ll find them,” Sam said grimly, gripping the steering wheel with white fingers.
“Should we call Roger?” I asked, peering out into the lit streets, trying to see in shadows.
“Are you kidding? He’ll have kittens,” Tabby said, snorting a little at the idea. “If we can’t find the car, then we’ll have to, but it’s going to stand out like a sore thumb, so someone will see it. Left, Sam.”
“Why?” he asked.
Tabby pointed. “Sign for Kazan, Novgorod, and Moscow.”
“Done.” Sam turned left and wove in and out of traffic, ignoring the honking of irate drivers. It was about two miles out of town that we finally saw the Flyer ahead on the road.
“Got you,” Tabby said, and hooted.
“You bastard!” I yelled out the window when Sam, with a burst of speed, raced up and cut off the Flyer, forcing it to the shoulder.
“Where the hell did you learn to do that?” I asked Sam, momentarily flabbergasted.
He smirked as he pulled off his seat belt. “I used to drive cameramen in the Tour de France. After him!”
There was nothing to be after, thankfully, since Vitale didn’t run. He did argue quite loudly and profanely when I wrenched the long flat key from him, and then ended in tears when Tabby demanded he gather up his dog and pram and leave the car, begging us to help him get to Moscow.
“Stealing our car isn’t the way to go about getting help from people— Dixon!”
A car squealed to a stop behind us, a blue flashing light wavering drunkenly on the roof of the car. Out of it burst Dixon, followed by two men.
“You caught him! How did you— Oh, Tabby. Thank god. I saw a policeman and flagged him down. Luckily, he speaks enough English that he understood me.”
“I watch American television,” the man said with a huge smile. “I likeCSI Law and Order. Is very informative. Book ’em, Danno!”
“Yeah, I think that’s another... Never mind,” I said, so relieved to see Dixon that I wanted to cry. Which wasdisconcerting as hell, because I’m not the crying-at-the-sight-of-a-person sort of woman. I was mulling over this strange situation when I realized what was going down in front of me.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I said, moving quickly to the Flyer when the cop brought out a zip tie and spun Vitale around to face the car. “No, no, no, don’t arrest him!”
“No?” The cop hesitated when Dixon asked, “For god’s sake, why not?”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong other than take the Flyer.”
Dixon breathed a bit heavily through his nose. “Repeat that last bit: he stole the Thomas Flyer. Our car. The one we need for the race.”
“Yes, but he just took it because he’s trying to get to Moscow. He’s not a bad person, not really. He’s just super focused on a goal.” I pointed at Chou-Chou, sitting regally in the backseat. “And he has an old dog that he takes care of. Not many people would go to the trouble of wheeling their old dog around the world.”
“He stole our car!” Dixon said, running a hand through his hair.
“Because he wants to go to Moscow and we were leaving him here in Izhevsk.” I looked meaningfully at Dixon.
