Carla’s tongue wouldn’t work. Shaking, she withdrew the envelope with registration and insurance papers from her glove box and handed it to him. Her purse sat on the red suitcase in her passenger seat. She pulled out her wallet. The trooper watched her, unmoving, as she jerked out her driver’s license and gave it to him.
He straightened and backed up one step, taking his time with the documents. Carla couldn’t see his face. She watched his thick fingers encircle the driver’s license, pull the registration and insurance papers from the envelope. He seemed to read every line, turning the papers over to see their blank backs.
He’s stalling.
Carla flashed on the image of the trooper talking into a cell phone a second time — and she knew.
She pressed back against the headrest, sudden, surprising anger washing through her. How dare he use his law enforcement job to do this to her. She drummed her fingertips hard against the steering wheel. “So what’s the problem? I wasn’t speeding. You were behind me for miles.”
The fingers stopped moving. For a second the trooper froze, as if stunned she would dare speak. Then, slowly, radiating heat, the man bent down to look at her through his sunglasses. Carla had the wild thought that the eyes behind those lenses were demon red.
He raised an index finger and pointed it at her. “Sit here while I run your information.”
He straightened and walked away, shoes crunching over pebbles. Carla watched him return to his car, reach in through the open window for his radio. She saw his mouth move but heard no words. Was it all faked?
Carla’s mind went numb, the anger draining from her body as swiftly as it had come. Why bother being mad? No point in denying the truth — her time had run out. When Thornby showed up, she’d have nowhere to run.
Long minutes passed before the trooper returned. He thrust the license and envelope into her hand without bothering to lean down. She could see no higher than his chin.
“Drive safely.”
He turned and walked away.
She stared. That was it? He was letting her go?
Carla checked the road behind her. No Thornby.
She jammed her license back into the wallet, threw the envelope in the glove box, and shoved the Toyota into drive. Put on her blinker, checked for traffic, and pulled out onto the highway, forcing herself not to scratch off.
The trooper made a U-turn and receded in her rearview mirror.
Carla almost dared to breathe.
A minute later she checked the rearview mirror again — and saw it. A car on the horizon, gaining fast. It didn’t take long for Carla to recognize it. A black Durango.
THIRTY-SIX
Things haven’t changed since I wrote two days ago. I knew I was late for a period then. Had known for awhile. I just didn’t want to face it.
I can’t deny the truth anymore.
Of course I know to the day. The birth control pills made me totally regular. About a day and a half after I took the last pill for a month, a period would come. Now — nothing.
How in the world could they work so well in stopping cramps, but not stop me from getting pregnant?
When the day came to start taking the next batch of pills — I didn’t. Once I do, I for sure won’t have a period. And I’d have to wait a whole other month to see if one starts on time.
I’ve been worrying so much, sometimes I think my head’s going to burst. And I can’t tell anybody. It hasn’t helped that Bryson’s been out of town a lot. He’s traveling around the state, shaking hands and meeting people. I watch him on the news every night, and a knife goes through my heart. He’s so charming and smooth. He talks about the things he’ll do for the country as a US senator. How he’s wanted to serve his country since he was a boy, and how his parents encouraged him. He talks about what a “team” he and Catherine are. How much she’s behind him. I watched him give a speech about the importance of education and parenting and the “family unit.”
Does he think of me here at home? Does he ever think how his speeches make me feel? Like dirt, that’s how. Bryson is so far above me. I was lucky enough just to work for him. Bryson Hanley is “everybody’s man,” like Jilke says. Everybody loves Bryson.
Well, I love him too. But I’m left out of the picture.
Meanwhile I’m stuck in the office with Jilke, who gives me hard looks all the time, like he knows. Sometimes I wonder if Bryson has told him about us. I know he wouldn’t, but . . . Maybe we haven’t been as great at keeping the truth off our faces as I thought.
But if that’s true, who else might know?
Scott doesn’t, at least. I’ve made sure of that. We park in the forest almost every night now — and I give him all the sex he wants. Not that I feel much of anything while we’re doing it, but it keeps his mind off how down I’ve been lately.
I got Mary Kay to drive me to Seattle yesterday, supposedly to hang out. I went into a drugstore and bought a home pregnancy test kit and a bunch of makeup. Hid the kit at the bottom of the bag. That was less risky than buying one in town, where some cashier is bound to know me. Now the thing’s stuffed under clothes in my dresser. I’m too afraid to take it. What if it’s positive? What would I do? For now at least I have hope.
I don’t want to lose hope.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“Jared, sure you don’t want something?” Twenty-one-year-old Leslie Brymes pushed away from her desk in the cluttered Kan-ner Lake Times office and reached for her purse. Her crystal-studded watch read twelve-thirty — which meant one thing: it was past time for her second biggie latte of the day.
“No, thanks.” Jared Moore, owner of the newspaper, waved a hand at her, eyes not rising from his computer. “Got to finish this story, then be going home for lunch soon anyway.”
“Okay, your loss.”
Leslie hustled across the dusty wood floor toward the front door, her mind flitting over various news items. Steel structures for the new hotel by the city beach two blocks away now jutted into the sky. Late that afternoon Leslie had an appointment with the developer for updates on the hotel’s completion schedule. Some said next spring, some next fall. Leslie wanted the inside scoop. Completion in spring could make a lot of difference in next summer’s tourism. Then in a couple weeks the suspect from the Kanner Lake murders last March was headed to trial — in Boise, thanks to a change of venue. Unfortunately Leslie would not be covering the trial. She’d be a part of it, called to the stand as one of the first prosecution witnesses. Of all the hard luck. Jared would get the byline on every article.
Yeah, well, don’t be forgetting all you’ve learned. People dead, and you’re thinking of a byline.
She pulled open the door and stepped out to a sunny afternoon, unusually warm for September. Once Labor Day passed, the Kanner Lake weather could turn on a dime. Warm one day, doggone frigid the next. She may have grown up in Idaho, but Leslie never could get used to the cold. She turned down Main Street, shielding her eyes from the sun. Drat. Her sunglasses still sat on her desk.
She turned back to fetch them. “Forgot something,” she mumbled to Jared as she entered. He barely looked up.
As she neared her desk the phone rang. She picked up her sunglasses with one hand and the receiver in the other, noting the Seattle area code on the ID. “Kanner Lake Times, Leslie Brymes.”
“Hello, I . . . I’m . . .” A woman’s voice. Sounding downright scared. Just like Ali Frederick’s voice last March. And that phone call had led to terrible things . . .
Immediate memories rushed Leslie. Her mouth ran dry.
A crazy part of her wanted to bang down the phone. Whatever this was, she didn’t need any more drama. Nobody in town did. But the reporter in her pushed her arm to grab a pen, sank her body into the desk chair. “Hi.” She infused warmth into her voice. “How can I help you?”
“I . . . need to talk to you about Carla Radling.” The words now rushed. “I can’t get hold of her, and the woman at Java Joint wouldn’t give me her number, and that wa
s hours ago, and now they’re not even answering their phone. I must find Carla. I must talk to her — soon.”
Leslie tried to make sense of the run-on. “Who am I speaking with, please?”
“Tanya Evans. That’s my real name — so Carla will recognize it. I told the woman at Java Joint it was Ellie.”
“Oh.” Leslie frowned. “Why?”
“Because I was afraid. People are watching me. But now I’m afraid I’m running out of time.” She drew a quick breath. “Have you seen Carla?”
“Not today.” She’d never shown up at Java Joint. Leslie got an earful from Wilbur when she bought her latte that morning. “Have you tried her office?”
“She’s not there. Nobody knows where she is.”
Leslie stared at the worn wood on her desk. Nobody knew where Carla was?
“Please. You have to help me find her. I’m afraid she’s in trouble.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Someone broke into my home last night — to warn me not to talk about things of the past. Things that involve Carla.”
Whoa. “What things?”
“I can’t tell you. But I have a lot to tell her. Things she doesn’t even know. I have to tell her in case . . . in case I don’t make it.”
Leslie was already jotting notes. The scratch of pen against paper felt good, normal. She could almost convince herself this was an ordinary Kanner Lake call. Someone’s dog had gotten lost, or somebody fell in an aisle of the IGA grocery store. Everyday inconveniences — not another trauma that could again spin lives in Kanner Lake out of control.
“Tell you what,” Leslie said slowly. She wasn’t about to give out Carla’s number until she was sure who this woman was. “Let me give you my own cell number.” She rattled off the digits, then repeated them. “I’ll go look for Carla, and when I find her, I’ll have her contact you. This number you called from. Is it your cell?”
“No, it’s a pay phone.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll need a number for you.”
“I can’t give one to you. I’m afraid they may be watching my phones. Maybe not, but . . . when someone breaks into your house, it’s easy to get paranoid.”
No kidding — if this woman was telling the truth.
But something in the woman’s voice told Leslie she was.
“Please give me Carla’s number.” Tanya sounded desperate. “I’m running from one pay phone to the next. There’s no safe way for her to call me, and I have to talk to her!”
Leslie closed her eyes. She shouldn’t do it. Not a cautious move.
“Tanya, I promise I will hunt down Carla for you. But we need a way to reach you. Can you borrow somebody’s cell?”
“I don’t know. I just . . .”
“All right then. Call me back on my cell as soon as you can give me a number. In the meantime I’ll look for Carla. Promise.”
“Okay.” Defeat coated Tanya’s voice.
Before Leslie could say anything more, the line went dead.
THIRTY-EIGHT
After work — another day with Bryson gone — I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to take the test. The stick turned pink.
Pregnant.
It’s like I’m dead. I can’t even feel. Can’t even cry. I think about what I’ve done, and the lie I’ve been living, and want to wish that Bryson never happened. But I can’t imagine him not happening. I can’t imagine going back to the way life was, even after this. How stupid is that?
Scott knows something’s wrong. I made an excuse not to see him again tonight — third time in a week. Probably thinks I’m about to break up with him. I’m not. I need Scott. He’s so sweet to me. He doesn’t deserve what I’ve done to him. Not at all.
Bryson comes back day after tomorrow. I’ve been counting the days. But I have no idea what I’m going to tell him. How can I possibly hide this from him? Still, I’m afraid if he knows, I’ll lose him.
I should just get an abortion and be done with it. Except I don’t have the money after spending my paychecks on clothes. Besides, look what happened to my friend Christine. She had one, then cried for two months. On the way out of the clinic we saw a picture of an aborted baby some protestor was carrying. Great help I was to Christine. I bawled almost worse than she did. The picture was awful. How can I do that to a little baby?
How can’t I? No way can I stay pregnant.
Maybe Scott would help me pay for an abortion. Of course he’ll believe the baby’s his. Bryson would never need to know. But Scott’s Catholic. What if he told me he expected me to have the baby? That he’d never forgive me for having an abortion. Then I’d really be stuck.
Or what if I told Bryson I’m pregnant with Scott’s baby? Maybe he wouldn’t be mad, and he’d pay for the abortion. I so need him to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. To help me figure this out. He’s done so much for me already. He wouldn’t abandon me now.
But what if he did get mad? The first time we were together, I told Bryson I’d never slept with Scott — and I’ve never said anything’s changed. If he heard I was pregnant by someone else now, would he ever want to see me again?
I can’t lose Bryson.
My thoughts go around and around, and I don’t know what to do. Either way I’ll be lying to somebody. How can I live with that for the rest of my life?
THIRTY-NINE
There she is.
Cold satisfaction surged through Tony. He pressed the gas pedal, eyes fixed on the white Toyota. At last. Just seeing the back of Miss Wit’s head sent a zing through his veins. Never had closing in on a target felt so good.
He caught up to her car and slowed. Three car lengths away —that would do it. Far enough to react in case she hit her brakes. Close enough to keep another car from slipping between them.
Even though he itched to stop her now, he had to play this carefully. He couldn’t just drive up beside Carla Radling and put a bullet in her head. He needed her alive, able to tell him what she’d taken from that hatbox. Where it was now. And who else knew about it.
Timmy’s life depended on that information.
Tailing someone was tricky. Not like in the movies. Running a car off the road was a huge gamble. What if another driver came along and stopped to help? And what if that person noticed things — like white paint on the grille of his black vehicle. Traffic on this highway seemed to vary — some miles he’d seen no other cars, then three or four would appear. If he found a window of time, the right spot, he’d go for it. If not — Carla Radling had to stop somewhere, sometime. When she did, he’d be there.
For now, he could almost smell her fear. It made him smile.
His “Barry” cell phone rang. Tony flipped it open. “Yeah.”
“Andy here. I think they found the bugs.”
Tony blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“Nah. All’s silent.”
Not that it mattered, now that he had Miss Wit. Andy’s hidden position in a van down the street from Java Joint, listening to phone calls, was no longer necessary. Still, what would have made an oblivious coffee shop owner search for bugs in her phone?
“Got any idea why?”
“Not a clue.” Andy sniffed. “What do you want me to do now?”
“Get out of there, that’s what.”
“Hey, I’m long gone; they ain’t gonna find me. Just wondered if you had a plan B.”
Carla was watching him in her rearview mirror. Tony could tell by the slight movement of her head. His lip curled.
“Okay, Andy, here’s what you do. Go home and eat some breakfast. Kiss your wife. Hide the tapes until I can stop by for the usual exchange — tapes for your money.”
Always, phone call tapes before payment — that was nonnegotiable. Tony never left evidence like that sitting around.
Andy grunted. “That one call I told you about — from Ellie. Anything useful come of that?”
The man was forgetting himself. First rule of the game —don’t ask questions. Fortunately f
or him, Tony was now in a good mood.
“Nah, nothing. Now go home. Call you when I need you.”
That could be next week, next month, next year. Tony snapped the phone shut and threw it on the seat. Right now he couldn’t look past the next minute. Didn’t want to.
He planned to enjoy every second of Miss Wit’s terror.
FORTY
Leslie hurried out of the Kanner Lake Times office, turned to head down the street — and froze. Two police cars sat outside Java Joint.
Lunch break?
Maybe. But after Tanya’s call, and Leslie’s subsequent conversation with the receptionist at the realty company where Carla worked — who had absolutely no idea where Carla was and now sounded close to panic — Leslie doubted it. Plus, she’d called Carla’s cell three times. It was turned off.
Wasn’t like Carla to turn her phone off during a workday.
Leslie shoved her purse up on her shoulder and trotted down the street.
Through the coffee shop windows she spotted Chief Edwards and twenty-five-year-old Officer Frank West standing near the cash register, talking to Bailey. In spite of her worry, Leslie’s heart performed a little tap dance at the sight of Frank. As usual, his dark hair was perfect, his jaw chiseled, and those shoulders just ached to be hugged. If only. Ted Dawson —S-Man — stood next to Chief Edwards, hands shoved in his pockets and thick brows together, looking perplexed.
No customers. Any lunch-timers must have gotten their sandwiches and run.
Leslie pushed through the door, and all four heads turned her direction. Chief Edwards looked grim. She huffed across to the counter. “What’s going on?”
Frank and Chief Edwards exchanged a glance. Ted gave her one of those penetrating looks that went to her soul. She tingled with sudden awkwardness. Leslie knew how S-Man felt about her. The feeling had apparently grown ever since they’d been thrown together in a battle of life and death last March. Was she as transparent? Did he see her reaction in Frank’s presence, even as something deep inside her, something inexplicable and not quite formed, tugged her eyes back toward Ted?
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