Minutes ticked past.
Only as the ferry turned past Wing Point and angled up Eagle Harbor toward a shimmering Winslow did she move her search to the parking decks. Everyone on the ferry had to get off.
She descended through the smell of oil and the sea. There were two levels of parked cars on either side of a single open hold for vehicles. She checked the two upper side wings first, walking the long rows of parked vehicles, amazed at how many drivers chose to ride out the thirty-five minutes dozing behind the wheel or listening to NPR. The hold was dull paint and dim lighting, vehicles bumper to bumper, all aimed toward the bow. Vehicle after vehicle. Face after face. No Flek. She reached the lower center hold, facing well over a hundred vehicles. Time running out. The water churned violently at the bow, noisy in her ears and tangy in her throat. She approached one of the ferry M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
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personnel and took full advantage of his interest in her.
“Listen,” she said, raising her voice above the engine noise, “is there any law preventing a woman from asking a few of these good people for a lift?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” the man replied.
“When we dock, these cars roll. Don’t be standing out there then, I’ll be yelling at ya.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“There’s a couple taxis,” he told her.
“Thanks,” she said again.
The information about the taxi caused her to reconsider her plan. If she spotted him, then maybe the taxi would do. She could follow. Then again, maybe someone else would beat her to those taxis. Or maybe Abby Flek wasn’t in a car, despite her conviction at this point that he had to be. He was in possession of a fairly large rifle, perhaps stolen goods as well. It seemed unlikely he would travel on foot. A thought occurred. Boldt had been shot at the night before, sometime around 11 P.M. Bryce Abby Flek had taken the 8:30 ferry to Winslow—Osbourne had evidence supporting this. The next day, this same morning, Flek had ridden a ferry back from Winslow to the city. Granted, there were numerous return ferries, but what were the odds that Flek had returned that same night to take a pot shot at Boldt? It seemed unlikely, if not impossible, to her. She reached into her purse and grabbed her phone—she wanted to tell Boldt immediately. But as she prepared to dial, she looked up to see that most, if not all, of the vehicles were now occupied. 380
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Out the bow, the well-lit dock at Winslow quickly approached. If she were to do this, it had to be immediately. She had only the one chance. M
She returned the phone to her purse, rehearsed a few opening lines, walked to the center of the four rows of vehicles and started down the aisle in front of her. She looked left to right, catching sight of every driver. She approached only men, and did not confine herself solely to this center aisle.
She tapped on a window and waited for the driver to roll it down.
“Excuse me,” she said, “do you happen to know who won the Mariners’ game?”
The stranger’s hopeful expression faded from his face and he answered, “They aren’t playing today.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, thanks anyway.”
She moved on, crossing past the front bumper of a minivan and settling on a black BMW. Knock, knock.
“Excuse me,” she said, “do you know if there’s a Costco in Poulsbo?”
“I doubt it,” he answered.
“Thanks anyway,” she said, and continued on. The ship smoothly slowed. She wanted to be seen making as many appeals as possible. For this reason, she moved laterally, port to starboard as well as working her way back toward the stern. She was midships when she spotted Flek. He sat behind the wheel of an old model Cadillac or Plymouth. A gas hog.
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She approached the passenger side and knocked. The thing had a Landau roof that looked like burned coffee grounds—too many years in the elements. He turned the key and put down the window electronically. “Hey there,” he said.
“Excuse me,” Daphne said, a little flirtatious, a little hopeful, a tiny bit cautious, “you wouldn’t be heading north by any chance, would you?” The island’s only major road ran north toward the bridge at Agate Passage.
“Suquamish,” he answered. “You need a ride?”
“Poulsbo,” she replied, affecting disappointment. She had a destination now—the Port Madison Indian reservation town of Suquamish. He’d been smart enough to leave the city each night, smart enough to hide in a place that neither Boldt nor anyone else ever would have thought to look for him—past the affluent enclave of Bainbridge into the isolation of a reservation town.
“There’s a casino the other side of the bridge. Pretty well traveled. I could leave you there,” he offered. “Or I’ll tell you what,” he said before she could respond.
“It’s nothing to run you into town. A couple miles is all. Hop in.”
“You sure?” Her heart fluttered in her chest. No matter what the police side of her believed about seizing such an opportunity—and it warned to err on the side of caution—the psychologist hungered for a chance at conversation with this man “in the raw”—
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her before, but as a scientist she could justify this in any number of ways, none of them very reasonable if she’d been forced to listen to herself. At that moment, she knew she could refuse him and walk away—she could lift the car’s registration as she passed to the rear. She could call Boldt and organize a manhunt. But conversely, it might prove tricky ever finding him again. Perhaps it was a friend’s car, perhaps a joy ride he would ditch within the next few hours. Boldt could still be notified. The manhunt could still take place. Suquamish was tiny. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find this old car. Or perhaps they could lay a trap for him back at the ferry landing. Perhaps she would pull her weapon and walk him into the Poulsbo Police Department and claim the collar herself. Sanchez was her case, after all. But none of that mattered right now. First she had a decision to make. She opened the door and climbed in. “Thanks,” she said, laying her purse on the seat next to her. Then reconsidering, she set it on the floor. “It’s awfully nice of you.”
“How could I say no?” he asked.
A flicker of fear. Did he know her? Something in the way he had said it. The ferry arrived at the pier with barely a nudge, and the deckhands busied themselves. The psychologist sensed the danger. Who had trapped whom? she wondered. The door handle cried out for her to grab hold and get out of the car while she still could. It grew in size, begging for her to use it.
“None of those others would help you out?” he said. M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
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Had he sensed her reluctance and constructed a good line to ask?
“They all live on-island,” she replied, that door handle still calling to her. The cars up ahead started their engines, and the foul smell of exhaust filled the old car nearly instantly. Eldorado—the glove box read. He pulled the transmission into gear. As he did, she heard the familiar click of all the doors locking at once. She didn’t look. She didn’t want to make a point of it, but she knew he’d locked the car, or the vehicle itself had done so automatically upon leaving PARK—but it seemed to her it was too old a car for that safety feature. Very subtly, she adjusted her arm on the door’s armrest and fingered the window’s toggle. The window didn’t open—whereas it had moved for him only a moment earlier. Flek had disabled the windows with the child lock from the driver’s door controls. How much was paranoia, how much reality? She felt an icy line of sweat trickle down her ribs.
The cars and trucks began to roll. She understood perfectly well that this was her last chance to attempt to flee. To do so would alert Flek and cause him to break any patterns he had established. The psychologist battled the cop, and the cop battled back,
and the psychologist argued again, and Flek took his foot off the brake.
In the end, the decision was made for her. He drove off the ferry and into traffic.
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Mac Krishevski’s offer of a trade left Boldt’s head spinning. He didn’t know how much the hotel video might have caught, but it didn’t matter—it would look worse than it had been. Liz and the kids would suffer, and so would Daphne. SPD’s brass would require one of them to transfer departments, and Krishevski was right that it would be him. He’d never work Homicide again.
He took a long walk up the hill and into Woodland Park, all the while mulling over the possibility of trying to steal or leverage possession of the damning video. It wasn’t his style: he’d need LaMoia if he were to try such a thing.
He wasn’t thinking about returning any phone calls. He intentionally left his cellular and pager turned off to give him the peace and quiet necessary for the decision he had to make now. He knew that when faced with a difficult tangle, if you pulled one way the mess miraculously came undone, if you pulled the other it ended up an unforgiving knot. He couldn’t remember ever being cornered like this. He rebelled against it, but recognized too that he couldn’t let his own rebellion M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
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get in the way of clear thinking. He knew the wrong decision would have horrible consequences. From somewhere up in this same park his would-be assassin had thrown a bullet at him. He realized a little too late that he wasn’t wearing the vest. A part of him would have welcomed a sniper’s bullet at that particular moment. But he knew one wasn’t coming. He wouldn’t be that lucky tonight.
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“You don’t look like a hitchhiker.”
“No,” Daphne agreed. The trick was to control her nerves, to not let her concern show. As a professional, she knew all the tricks, though as a possible victim, many of these now eluded her. She explained,
“I’m meeting a friend in Poulsbo. One of the deckhands told me there’s only a couple taxis here at the dock, and I’m late as it is, and if I missed that taxi—”
“From the city?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
“And you?”
“Here and there,” he answered.
“As in here and there?” she asked. “Or as in anywhere? You mentioned Suquamish.”
“Friends there.”
“Are you Native American?” He looked more Polish, with a hint of Mediterranean in the skin color and around the eyes.
“No way. Just friends up there. You know. Some business acquaintances.”
“What do you do?” she asked.
He glanced over and grinned, though not playfully. M I D D L E O F N O W H E R E
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It was an asocial grin, a grin that said to leave well enough alone, a grin she had seen worn on the faces of child killers and rapists and multiple murderers. Too many to count—but only the one mattered at the moment. She experienced that glance as voltage deep within her. It disemboweled her. Disturbed her. It dawned on her then. He knows who I am!
“Electronics,” he answered. “I’m kind of like a sales rep. I handle a lot of lines.” But there was that look again that said he could tell her anything he wanted because she’d never have the chance to repeat it. She saw Maria Sanchez lying in that hospital bed as still as a corpse except for the lonely eyes. Was he the man who had done that to her?
“Like electric company stuff?” she asked. “Or more like my VCR? You can’t program my VCR, can you?”
He laughed at that, and pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket and offered her one. When she declined, he cracked his window and lit up.
“Can’t get my window to work,” she said, as innocently as possible, her finger showing off the problem.
“Oh, here,” he said. And her window operated again. They were traveling a busy roadway at forty-five miles an hour. “Thing is constantly on the fritz,” he offered.
“Electronics. Maybe you could fix it.”
He laughed again, enjoyed a pull on the cigarette and made a spitting noise with his lips as he exhaled. He said, “Let me guess: you’re a model.”
Her turn to laugh. She threw her head back and 388
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chortled to the faded ceiling fabric. “I’m flattered!
Thank you.”
“I’ve seen you someplace,” he said, his inquiring expression making her uncomfortable. She felt him undress her with his eyes. Men did this all the time with her, but this one actually penetrated beyond the clothing to where her skin burned hot, and she felt repulsed by him. She imagined him with Samway: abusive, sexually dominant, taking what he wanted when he wanted it. The woman in her wished the car could drive faster, that Poulsbo would arrive sooner. She could see him dragging her by the hair into the woods, tying her up to some tree and having his pleasure with her. Leaving her there, half naked, gagged, to starve to death or be consumed by the elements. Such things happened more frequently than the civilian population knew—
women of all ages disappeared at an alarming rate. The Bryce Abbott Fleks were responsible—the professional in her knew this as well.
“I’m a psychologist,” she said, hoping it would put him off as it did so many people.
“A shrink?”
“Not exactly. A counselor is more like it. People come to me with their problems.” She debated going for the heart, or sitting back to see where he took this, but the desire to dominate won out. She didn’t want him controlling; she wanted him back on his heels. “Relationship problems, grieving the death of a loved one, control issues. You’d be surprised how many people can’t control themselves.”
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“The TV?” he asked. “You on a show or somethin’? Is that where I seen you? Sally Jessy? Somethin’ like that?”
“I’ve been interviewed by local news a few times, but nothing recently.”
“Maybe that’s it,” he said.
She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. It felt a little to her like the cat batting the mouse in the face with the claws retracted, playing soft because there was plenty of time and both the mouse and the cat knew who was running the show. It was this control issue that she seized upon. She needed him off balance, or she needed to just shut up and get through the ride, but the psychologist in her wanted to get inside him in a much different way than he wanted to get inside her.
“You still look like a model to me,” he said, working on the cigarette. “You should have waited for the taxi,”
he suggested.
A stabbing pain at the V of her rib cage. “How’s that?” she asked, doing a decent job of concealing her sense of terror that resulted from the comment.
“You took a chance thumbing for a ride like that. There are a lot of creeps out here, you know? These islands? A woman as fine as you. . . . You understand what I’m saying.”
“Well then, I’m glad it was you who picked me up,”
she said. She waited a moment and told him, “At least you don’t strike me as a creep.”
They both laughed. Flek first, from the gut and hon-390
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estly. Daphne followed with the best she could manage—laughter was not an easy concept for her. The gun was in her purse at her feet. So was the cell phone.
He said, “You can put it up on the seat if you want.”
He’d caught her staring. “I won’t steal nothing from it.”
She covered quickly, “Just trying to remember if I left something back at the office or not.”
“So take a look,” he suggested.
“It’s only lipstick,” she vamped. “A different color.”
“I like the one you got on.”
“Thank you.”
“Not that you care.” He sounded suddenly bitter.
“Sure I do
.”
“That’s bullshit, and we both know it. Pardon the French.”
“I care what I look like,” she told him. “That’s all I meant.”
“Priorities,” he said in a dreamy voice. “So you being a psychologist and all. My brother got smoked last week. Dead. What do you think of that?”
“I’m sorry for your loss. But what do you think of that?” she asked. “That’s the more important question.”
He glanced over at her. “I miss him.” A whisper that ran chills down her spine.
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their grief. It comes out as anger or violence or both.”
She hesitated. “Are you experiencing any of that?”
“I didn’t ask for a free session or nothing.”
“Pardon me. Professional liability, I guess. I was only trying to help.”
“You can’t help. Nothing’s going to bring him back. Nothing helps.”
“I didn’t mean any offense,” she said. Flek reached down, hooked the strap of her purse and yanked it up to the seat alongside of her. He had the reaction time of a lizard. She had barely seen his arm move.
“Jeez,” he said, landing it next to her. “Thing weighs a ton! You oughta have wheels for that thing!”
The gun and two spare magazines made it very heavy. She panicked, her brain locking as she stared at her purse. She froze a moment too long and they both knew it.
“The lipstick,” he said brightly, the grieving brother suddenly gone.
She didn’t like the fact that he could throw the switch so quickly. Another in a long series of red flags alerting her to his instability. Boldt had plenty to fear from this man—Flek was capable of pulling the trigger. He said, “Try the other color. I’ll tell you which is best, which I like. It’s a date, right? Poulsbo? A dinner date. Right? I’ll tell you which one is better.” He switched on the ceiling light.
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