Gabe slapped his hands on his knees, a signal the interview had ended. “If you’re as good as your reputation, you’ll find this guy.” He arched an eyebrow. “Are you as good as they say?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you’re good?”
“Don’t know who ‘they’ are. I just like to take bad people off the streets to protect the citizens. But don’t get your hopes up. This is a long shot.”
“Keep me informed when you have anything new. We’ll need to make an official statement soon. I’d like you to be there when I talk to the press.”
Matt nodded. “No problem. I’d prefer to wait until we have something concrete. Nothing worse than giving reporters daily updates when nothing’s happening.”
“I’ll try to hold the press off as long as I can.” Gabe reached the door and turned. “Solving this case would be a feather in your cap. I’m sure the governor would be grateful.” He grinned. “No pressure, though.”
Sara Bradford’s Home
Sunday afternoon, Sara made a last-minute sweep through her home for items to donate to the church bazaar. She stopped inside the library at a shelf display that held a lead-crystal tennis ball on a matching pedestal. A trophy from the past, given to her and Josh at the Women’s Tennis Tournament on Amelia Island. Their first vacation together—with a promising future ahead of them—before she found out about the other women.
The crystal orb weighed heavy in her palm as she lifted it from the mantel and read the inscription. She turned the sphere and remembered the tournament’s excitement. Horseback rides along the surf line and quiet strolls on the sandy beach strewn with jellyfish. That sense of wonder she and Josh shared for a brief time constricted her throat. She should add the souvenir to the donation box. Instead, she exhaled a deep breath and replaced the ball on the base. Unwilling to let go of the good memories.
For the next couple of hours, she and Pete picked up boxes for the sale, working from a donor list the pastor had given her. The afternoon passed in a blur as they moved from house to house. The sale started tomorrow, and she already felt the pressure. She was depending on Pastor Davidson to use his influence to keep the rain at bay.
October marked the annual event, and Pastor Davidson had tapped her the past few years to coordinate the effort, the first fundraiser the church held to send church kids to summer camp.
People often asked why she gave up a week’s vacation to head up the sale. The answer was simple. The camp fund and bus ministry were her mission field. She shared pastor’s passion for the project to get children into church. Most bus kids had only one parent and usually lived below the poverty level. Church once a week, and five days at camp each year, could change their lives forever.
Twin Falls Baptist Church
Sara followed Pete in her car to the church parking lot. Seth Davidson’s face formed a wide grin as they pulled in. Sara smiled as the pastor waved Pete’s truck into the unloading zone, like a flagman on the deck of an aircraft carrier.
The fellowship hall door stood open and cool air wafted outside into the warm afternoon. Weaving through the crowd of people and boxes, Sara left the men to unload and hurried inside. The large area bustled with energy, full of women, in loosely assembled groups, arranging tables and merchandise.
The pastor entered and placed his hand on Sara’s arm. “Are you sure you’re up to this? I heard about the accident Friday, but you’d left the hospital when I called. You should have let me know.”
“Was it on the news?”
He shook his head. “Matt Foley told me.”
She’d heard Matt was still in grief counseling at the church. “I would have called if my injuries had been serious, but I only received a few scrapes. I’m good.”
Moving among the boxes, Sara joined the group of familiar faces. For the next half hour, she attached price labels and answered questions. On a trip down one aisle, she stopped. A piece of red plaid material poked out from under a stack of blankets. As she reached for it, one of the women called her name. Distracted, Sara turned away, the object forgotten.
Sara’s Car, FM 2960
After evening church service ended, Sara pulled away from the parking lot, ready for a shower and bed. Her finger pressed play on the Il Divo CD Siempre, and the lovely, blended voices cleared her mind. She made the turn onto the two-lane county highway that led home. It was a lonely stretch of road, but lonely meant no traffic, and that was okay with her.
Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror, and a black truck eased in behind her. The brightness momentarily blinded her, and she switched the mirror tab, defusing the glare. What was this guy doing? Much too close and he had plenty of room to go around.
She lowered the car window and waved the driver past. The truck hovered behind her, suddenly increased speed, and slammed into her rear bumper. Her car skidded onto the shoulder. Turning the steering wheel into the skid, she sideswiped a tree, just off the pavement, before coming back onto the highway. Trying to keep the car from hitting the tree, she realized a sudden truth─this wasn’t road rage or some crazy random assault. It was personal.
Regaining control, Sara pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard. The high-performance engine shot the sports car forward and left the truck behind.
Who was this crazy person? Why would he do such a stupid thing?
Sara pressed the red button on the OnStar control. A friendly voice responded, “Good evening, how may I help you?”
Unable to control the quiver in her voice, Sara said, “I’m on Farm Market Road 2960, headed northeast, about five miles out of Twin Falls. Someone is following me. He just rammed my car. Please send help.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll contact the authorities immediately. Let me confirm the information I have. You’re driving a white Stingray coupe, Texas license...” She read off the license number.
“That’s...c-correct.”
“I’ll stay on the line with you until we contact the local authorities. Can you tell the make and model of the other car?”
Sara glanced in the rearview mirror and gasped. Her tormentor raced forward— mere feet separated her rear bumper from the truck.
“I’m not sure, but I think it’s—” The truck again crashed into the back of her car, sending the vehicle into a tailspin. She screamed, unable to hold back the terror. The roadster careened across the highway, bounced off a railing, tipped as if to roll, then settled upright in the oncoming traffic lane.
She glanced up, just as the truck smashed into the right front fender. The impact landed her car crossways in the road, inflated the airbags, and killed the engine. Fingers trembling, she shoved the gearshift into park and turned the key. Only a futile grinding noise followed.
In a blur, the black pickup roared past her and out of sight.
Voice unsteady, Sara called, “H-hello...are you...still there?”
The operator replied, “Yes. Mrs. Bradford, are you all right?”
“My air bag exploded. It missed my face but my right arm hurts.”
A new male voice spoke through the OnStar link. “This is Officer Kirkpatrick, ma’am, with the highway patrol. I’m about five minutes out. Sit tight and keep talking. Where exactly are you? Is the truck still a threat?”
“I’m stalled on the lake bridge. I think he’s gone.”
The sergeant said again. “Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
The voice sounded calm, confident and caring, but it amazed her. ‘Sit tight?’ What else could she do? It was easy to be calm when a maniac wasn’t trying to kill you.
Sara stuck her head out the window, inhaling a deep breath of cool air. She filled her lungs and leaned against the headrest, eyelids closed. Pain shot through her arm from abrasions left by the airbag
The roar of an engine made her glance through the window. She couldn’t see the truck, but she knew.
He was back.
Anxious fingers searched for the ignition and she turned the key again—another g
rinding noise sounded. The black menace barreled towards her—a sinister missile she couldn’t avoid. “He’s back...please hurry.”
Sergeant Kirkpatrick yelled, “What’s happening?”
Sara whispered a prayer, “Dear Lord.”
She didn’t have time to respond to the officer. Her frantic fingers fumbled with the seatbelt as the truck drew closer. She bent forward straining against the belt that held her in place, and covered her head with her arms. A groan of panic escaped her lips.
Sounds of crunching metal filled the night air as the truck smashed into the passenger side. The collision slammed her against the driver-side door. Her car slid towards the guardrail as her frenzied brain tried to piece together his motives.
Was he trying to crush her inside the car? Seconds later, her mind flashed the answer. The lake lay on the other side of the protective rail.
The sports car plowed into the railing, then punched through the barrier and over the edge. Nothing but black water lay below. Sara tugged franticly at the seat belt.
Jammed.
CHAPTER 12
Lake Palmer
A brief sensation of space and time elapsed before Sara’s car plunged into the lake, landing flat on the surface with an impact that sent shock waves through her body. The car tilted right. Nanoseconds passed. The vehicle settled upright and floated. Sara’s fingers groped madly for the belt’s release button. Before she could find it, the car’s hood dipped forward and began to sink.
Icy water rushed through the open window so fast she only had seconds to grab a lung full of air before the lake’s depths covered her, and the automobile continued the descent to the bottom.
Cold darkness surrounded her and she realized this might be her last moments on earth. An image of Maddie flashed into Sara’s mind. Of her aunt’s tender care after the death of Sara’s parents in a plane crash. Without her, Maddie would be alone with no one to look after her.
Terror paralyzed her muscles. Numbed her brain. She couldn’t breathe. Her preeminent thought―find the belt release. Biting cold slowed her movements. Her lungs cried for oxygen until she thought they would burst. Please, God...not like this.
At last, her fingers found the button. She pressed it with all her strength and the belt fell away.
Free, she kicked to the vehicle’s roof, grabbed a breath of air trapped there, then maneuvered through the open window and pushed upward. How many feet was she below the surface? No way to tell. Pressing urgently upward through the cold darkness, she breathed a prayer with each stroke.
Finally breaking the top of the water into fresh air, she coughed and sputtered the foul liquid she’d swallowed, struggling for each breath. Her body felt weighted and the lake’s undercurrent tried to suck her back under. She treaded water, her gaze searching the embankment. Which way to shore? How far?
Light filtered across the waves from the bridge above. Through the haze of fatigue, she could see people with flashlights moving along the shore. She turned towards the brightness that shimmered across the water, about a hundred yards away, and forced herself to start swimming. The din of sirens and shouts seemed surreal as she placed one stroke after the other, almost on autopilot. Halfway to shore, her arms grew too heavy to lift. Cold seeped into every cell of her body.
She began to slip below the surface.
****
On his way home, Matt Foley’s radio picked up the emergency call at the FM 2960 Lake Bridge. Only a few miles from the location, Matt flipped on his overhead lights and siren, then floored the SUV. He arrived at the bridge the same time as the highway patrol car, soon followed by other emergency vehicles. No sign of the car that placed the distress call.
Matt jumped from his truck and rushed to the broken guardrail in time to see someone’s head in the water. Emergency lights splayed across the surface as the swimmer struggled to reach the bank.
Matt stripped off his jacket and shoes, calling back to the patrolman, “After I’m in the water, grab a lifeline from the fire truck and throw it to me.”
He dove into the lake, and biting cold invaded his body like an electric shock. Breaking the surface, he shook the water from his hair, and soon located the officer on the bridge. He tossed the lifeline, and it landed just out of Matt’s reach. He swam a few strokes, clutched the collar, then slipped it under his arms, and turned towards the swimmer a few feet away. Before he reached her, the woman’s head dipped below the surface.
He caught her shirt, but couldn’t hold on. Dark hair spread out on top of the water. Kicking closer, Matt reached out again, grabbed the woman’s hair, pulled her in close, and placed his hand under her chin. No strength left, the victim’s body floated motionless behind him as he made his way to the embankment. A spotlight followed their progress as firefighters reeled them in like fish from the sea.
When they were within a few feet of the bank, men met them with blankets and stretchers. They covered the victim in blankets, and handed one to Matt. He wrapped it around his shoulders, and waved the second gurney away. He glanced at the shivering woman and recognized Sara Bradford.
Her face was ghostly pale, and lips slightly blue, she shook uncontrollably.
“What’s up with you and water?”
For a moment, she gave him a blank stare. Then shook her head. “N-not even f-funny, Foley.”
****
Ensconced on the gurney, warm cover held tight against her body, Sara studied the officer as he took out his notebook. “When they’re finished with you at the hospital, we’ll get your statement.”
“I-I think I c-can answer your questions now.” Her voice quavered. “I’m n-not injured. There’s nothing the hospital can do that I can’t do at h-home.”
“You sure?”
She nodded, pulled the blanket tighter, and ran through the night’s events as the officer scribbled on his pad.
When she’d finished, Matt pulled the officer aside for a moment. Matt turned from the trooper, then came back to stand next to her. “You okay?”
“Yes...thanks...you saved my life. I couldn’t have made it to shore.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe someone deliberately pushed me into the lake. My insurance company will have a coronary.”
Matt leaned against the ambulance door. “That’s the least of your worries. Whoever shoved you over that rail meant business. You should go to the hospital. People in shock don’t always realize they’re injured.”
Sara shook her head. “I’m not in shock, and I couldn’t face another visit to the ER.”
His jaw worked, and he turned away. Hands on his hips, he gazed at the gap in the guardrail. A moment passed before he swung around to face her. “You’re very lucky to be alive. By some miracle, you’ve survived two attempts on your life.” He glanced down at her. “Right now, your guardian angel is asking for reassignment.”
“Has anyone ever told you your sense of humor is inappropriate?”
“It’s been mentioned.” His mouth softened a little, erasing its grim set. “How do you plan to get home?”
“If I may borrow a cell phone from someone, I’ll call Pete to pick me up.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll take you. I think these guys have all the information they need from you.”
“I don’t want to put you out, Matt. You’re wet. I can call Pete. I’m just five—”
“—Sara, I’m in no mood for a debate.” His jaw seemed locked again as irritation crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’m here and I’ll take you. The way this night has gone, you may need a bodyguard, and Pete isn’t exactly Kevin Costner.”
It wasn’t worth a fight. He was tired, wet, and probably as cold as she felt. Since he thought her a killer, he was probably regretting the rescue.
His accusation yesterday still stung. She wished she’d known Matt better while Mary lived. Perhaps he would have trusted her, realized she could never kill anyone.
Despite Matt’s suspicions of her, he apparently hadn’t relayed them to Mary. She would never
have believed him anyway. Sara and Matt had called an unspoken truce during the last year of Mary’s illness. They were civil to each other, even friendly, in Mary’s presence. That ended with her death.
Were all cops suspicious by nature? She couldn’t fight that. He’d have to prove himself wrong. She sat up and clutched the blanket closer, then stepped out of the ambulance. “You have serious issues.”
“That’s entirely possible.”
Matt took her arm and guided her to his SUV, waited until she slid into the seat, then slammed the door.
He walked around and got into the driver’s seat. Why was he mad at her? She’d done nothing to raise his ire, except not follow his orders without question. Did he resent her intrusion into his professional life? She rested her head against the seat back. She couldn’t worry about his feelings right now. She didn’t have the strength.
Silence hung like a heavy cloud on the drive home. Sara glanced across at the stubborn set of his jaw then turned back to stare out the window. For reasons she didn’t understand, tears pushed at the back of her eyelids. She held them in by sheer force of will. Why the tears now? The danger had passed and she wasn’t the crying type.
Sara Bradford’s Home
They stopped under the portico. Her reluctant hero got out and opened the car door. Chilled to the very core of her being, she stepped out of the car and the dam of emotions she’d held inside, broke. She gulped back a sob, and turned to flee into the house. He caught her and drew her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest.
All the anxiety and horror of the last hour overwhelmed her in a flood of tears. Minutes seemed to tick by until the tears finally stopped.
She pushed away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s been a stressful night. I guess you’re entitled to a good cry. I’d give you my handkerchief but it’s wet.”
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 34