by Cari Hunter
“On what grounds?” Buchanan asked. He had the beginnings of a sly smile on his lips, and Sarah suspected that he was merely toying with the defense team for his own and the public’s entertainment, that the decision to refuse bail was a foregone conclusion, but he was choosing to continue the charade regardless.
“On the grounds that Sarah Hayes, also known as Sarah Kent, presents a serious flight risk, Your Honor,” Kryger said. Buchanan made a rolling gesture with his hand, urging her to continue. She nodded graciously. “Hayes is a foreign national, temporarily a resident in this country, who has already altered her identity once in the last two years. An FBI agent organized her change of name and the documentation necessary for her to live under this assumed identity.”
“The reason being?”
“Hayes would claim it was for her own protection, but I would suggest that it is the citizens of America who require protection from Sarah Hayes. Your Honor, may I approach?” She held aloft a file and walked across to hand it to Buchanan, stating the evidence log number as she did so. He slid out two photographs and took time to study each of them closely.
“As you can see, just two years ago this woman was already displaying a dangerous propensity for violence,” she said. “She now stands accused of murdering a young paramedic.” She opened her hands, intimating that the link was simple. “Who’s to say that as soon as Hayes is released on bail, this helpful federal agent or Hayes’ own police officer wife won’t take it upon themselves to arrange another change of identity and spirit her out of the country?”
“Your Honor, that is prejudicial, not to mention slanderous!” Bridie had to raise her voice to cut across the murmurs spreading among the spectators.
About fucking time, Sarah thought, but Bridie was immediately overruled and sat back in her seat.
“I’d never do that,” Sarah told her in an urgent undertone. “Alex and Castillo would never do that.” She felt Bridie pat her hand to quiet her. She looked toward Alex, hoping to find a vote of confidence there, but Alex’s face was ghostly pale and she appeared to be on the verge of tears.
“Shit,” Sarah whispered, what little hope she might have had now completely extinguished. “Shit.”
In the public gallery, Alex opened her mouth to speak and shut it again, terrified of making things worse. Below her, she saw Sarah’s posture drop as Kryger summarized her reasoning in a manner that suggested there were some present in the courtroom who might be baffled by her razor-sharp logic. In direct contrast to the defense team, Quinn was sitting bolt upright, obviously relishing the proceedings. He had known, Alex realized, when he granted her time with Sarah, he had known how this would go. He had given her those five minutes to say good-bye.
Buchanan told Sarah to stand, and she grasped the rail to keep herself motionless as he outlined his decision. He took less than a minute to side with the prosecution, overruling Bridie again and detailing Sarah’s transfer to the closest county jail with suitable capacity until the date of her trial.
As Bridie publicly noted her intention to file for a Harnish bail proceeding, Sarah swayed a little but then seemed to collect herself, turning away from Buchanan toward Alex.
“I’ll be okay.” Sarah shaped the words soundlessly, a single insistent shake of her head forcing Alex to see sense and refrain from launching an impromptu appeal of her own.
A guard took hold of Sarah’s arm and began to escort her from the court.
“Jesus, just stop a minute,” Alex gasped. It was all happening too quickly; she pushed forward, trying to keep up with Sarah as she was led away. By the time Alex had shoved her way to the end of her row, the locks on the security doors at the rear of the court were already reengaging, the lights switching from green to red.
“Fucking hell,” she whispered. She heard Bridie call her name, but she didn’t want to be consoled, didn’t want to hear a sensible, apologetic explanation of what they could do next. She pulled her keys from her jacket pocket and ran out of the court.
Chapter Twelve
The logging truck in front of Alex had maxed out at thirty-five, the gradual incline sapping its speed. Its driver was obviously in no rush, and although Alex repeatedly maneuvered wide to make herself visible in his mirrors, he ignored every opportunity to let her pass. She knew the road well but was too impatient to wait for a safe spot, and she overtook him only yards before a hairpin bend. He blasted his disapproval as she accelerated out of the curve. She would have flipped him the bird, had she not needed both hands to wrestle the steering back under control. As she hit the straight stretch that dropped down toward the lumberyard, her cell phone rang, Castillo’s number flashing up again. They had been playing phone tag for the last hour: four missed calls by the time she had gotten out of court. She hit hands free, not trusting herself to multitask.
“Mike?” Her voice was already brittle, her breathing heavy and irregular as she tried to keep herself together.
“Alex, you driving?” Castillo wasn’t stupid; he would have heard by now what had happened to Sarah.
“Yeah.”
“Well, stop. Pull the fuck over before you get yourself killed.”
“You know what they did.” She didn’t stop but she did slow down, half-blinded by tears. “She’ll be on her own in there, Mike.”
“I know, honey. I’m already working on it. Where are you?”
“West Ruby.”
“You’re going to check out Emerson’s place.” He wasn’t asking, but she grunted an affirmative anyway.
“I can’t just sit on my ass and do nothing,” she said. “I have to get her home.”
“We’re still looking at the treads,” he told her, and she was grateful he didn’t try to talk her out of whatever she was planning. “Alex, there’s something else.”
She raised her eyes skyward; there was always something else, and from the hesitancy in his voice, she knew it wasn’t anything good.
“The team monitoring Caleb Deakin lost him about five days back. There was some kind of power outage down in North Carolina, things got a little confused, and he slipped through the gap.”
“Fucking hell. He’s the eldest son, isn’t he?” she said, already attempting the math. Five days—how many had it been since Lyssa’s murder?
“Yes, he’s Nicholas Deakin’s eldest son.” She heard Castillo swallow as if his mouth was dry. “And yes,” he said, apparently now a mind reader, “the dates check out.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit.”
“No idea where he is?” she asked, more out of hope than anything else.
“No, but I have a good idea where he’s been.”
She braked sharply for a stop light, the river tumbling by on her right-hand side. “Jesus, if he screwed up his mission first time out, he could still be here,” she said, beginning to grasp the implications of that and of what she had just driven across Ruby to do.
“Alex, you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Castillo said emphatically. “I’ll send a photo to your cell, so at least you know who you’re looking out for.”
“Okay, thanks.” The light flicked to green and she crossed the intersection. A small playground marked the boundary between the shops and offices of downtown West Ruby and a pleasant tree-lined residential area. She dropped her speed, straining to read the street names as she passed them.
“Mike, I have to go. I think I’m close.”
“No problem. That photo should be there when you hang up.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Keep safe.”
A tone sounded as he ended the call, followed by the beep of an incoming message. She pulled onto a side street, made a U-turn to leave herself facing in the right direction, and parked just short of the junction to open the image. A thud behind the car sent her hand lurching toward her gun, but then she heard the high-pitched laughter of children, and in her rearview mirror, two boys chased a bright red ball across the road. She kept an
eye on them as she unlocked the screen on her phone, trying not to look at the SMS message until she felt ready.
“Fuck this,” she muttered, and tapped on the link.
Taken 2010. Assault. Victim refused to press charges, Castillo had written beneath the image.
Caleb Deakin must have guessed the outcome of his arrest because he was smirking in his mug shot. There was little to distinguish him from every other thug Alex had marched off the streets: the same aggressive stance, his mean blue eyes challenging the camera with an “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. His resemblance to his father was unmistakable, while a small swastika tattooed above his left ear confirmed his affiliation with his father’s politics.
Alex studied the image until each detail was ingrained in her memory. She noted the scar beneath his right eye, and the black ink of larger, unidentifiable tattoos just visible through the torn material of his shirt. The measurements on the wall behind him showed him to be of average height. She tried to visualize him with hair, then with facial hair. He would know the police had his photograph on file and was likely to have altered his appearance. Once she was certain she would be able to identify him on the street, she closed the message and restarted the engine. She checked her map to plot the remainder of her route. Emerson’s apartment was less than a half mile away.
Her foot hovered over the gas pedal, but she didn’t push it down. Her thoughts were racing too haphazardly to allow her to focus on driving, every theory she had formed suddenly thrown through another loop. She leaned forward and rested her head against the steering wheel, then closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on what she had just learned. Caleb Deakin’s disappearance seemed far too timely for him not to have been involved in Lyssa’s murder. Had the photograph of Sarah in the newspaper prompted him to act? Or had he already been aware of their location and stepped in personally when Emerson failed to get rid of Alex during the warehouse raid? If he and Emerson had been working together since the raid, that would explain the ease with which someone had covered up the incriminating tire tracks, and why Deakin hadn’t recognized Lyssa as the wrong target. Alex had been assuming that Lyssa’s murderer was someone local, but now the idea that it was Deakin in collaboration with such a person seemed much more plausible. Emerson might well be one of Deakin’s lieutenants, and she knew for sure that he had a place where Deakin could lay low.
That was enough to give her a renewed sense of purpose, and she pulled out of the side street. The traffic had built up, as rush hour brought hot, harried office workers onto the streets. It would be a good time to check out the apartment complex, almost guaranteeing her at least some residents to talk to as they arrived home. They might not open their front doors to her, but catching them in the parking lot would give them less opportunity to avoid her. She watched cars pass her, their drivers shouting into cell phones or gesticulating at the car in front, and she wondered whether any of them would want to trade places with Sarah.
*
The last woman herded onto the van had stopped screaming abuse at the guards and fallen silent. She twitched now and then, the shackles at her wrists and ankles jangling in time to her erratic movements. Perspiration gave her face a sickly, glassy look; Sarah wondered what the woman was withdrawing from and how the side effects would be managed in a county jail. Thinking about that stopped her from thinking about anything else: Alex, or home, or the overcrowding at the Aroostook jail that was now forcing her and women from several other areas to be transferred to a far larger facility in Prescott. She knew that the raid on the warehouse in Ruby had resulted in prisoners being sent as far away as Kennebec, and was thankful that Prescott would only be a three-hour drive for Alex, when she was allowed to visit.
The van slowed and then stopped, its engine idling. The stomach of the woman on Sarah’s right rumbled in the lull, the sound loud in the confines of the secure compartment.
“Man, I am fucking hungry,” she said, somewhat unnecessarily.
The woman next to her snorted. “You’re always fucking hungry, Kitty.”
“So hungry, I could eat your mama,” Kitty answered, not missing a beat.
Her friend laughed raucously, the noise of her movements making the silent woman moan and paw at her face.
“How about you, darlin’?”
It took Sarah a moment to realize Kitty’s friend was addressing her.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head, unsure whether she was being asked about the woman’s mother or her own appetite, and not having a clue how to respond either way.
Kitty seemed to take pity on her. “I think Alma here is asking what you’re in for.”
“Oh.” Sarah looked down at her hands. “Second-degree murder.”
Alma whistled, showing her ruined teeth. “Holy fuck.”
“That young paramedic,” Kitty said. “I thought I’d seen your face before. You’ve been all over the news.”
Alma nodded sagely. “That orange suit makes her look smaller.”
“Lesbian love triangle. That’s what Tilda Travers on WACN said.”
“And she’s never wrong.”
“I didn’t do it,” Sarah told them, but they spoke over her, too excited by their close encounter with a notorious criminal to care whether she was guilty. She looked at her hands again. The cuffs were tight enough to make her fingers white. “I didn’t do it,” she whispered.
*
The unimaginatively named Riverview Apartments occupied a prime location, overlooking parkland and a gentle curve in the Little Silver River. Each apartment in the three-story building had large glazed doors leading out onto a private balcony. As Alex drove along the access road, she could already see a number of residents taking advantage of the late evening sun by dining outside. The building had two wings with separate secure entrances. She pulled into a parking space just beyond the second door, where a stone plaque built into the wall read “Fifteen–Thirty.” According to Castillo, Emerson owned apartment 27.
She studied the pale gray building, counting along the rows and trying to guess which of the balconies belonged to Emerson. His car wasn’t in the lot, and he certainly wasn’t enjoying a beer in the sunshine like several of his neighbors. Not that she had expected him to be; she already knew that he didn’t live here. What she didn’t know was whom he leased his apartment to. With her eyes concealed behind dark shades, she scrutinized the various faces, occasionally glancing at the image of Caleb Deakin for comparison. She couldn’t see anyone remotely resembling him, and she sagged back in her seat, discouraged. She sat up again, though, when a sleek black convertible pulled into the space next to hers. A smartly dressed woman stepped out, her heels tapping against the asphalt as she strode across the lot. Alex hurried after her, ensuring that they arrived at the entrance together.
“Hey, thanks.” Alex smiled as the woman politely held the door open for her. Once inside the lobby, she took her time studying the floor directory and watched as the woman walked to a bank of mailboxes and unlocked box twenty-five.
“I guess you won’t know if Scott’s around,” Alex said, pretending to hesitate at the elevator.
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Scott Emerson. He lives at twenty-seven.” She went over to the mailboxes, intending to indicate Emerson’s name, but there was a blank tag in the “27” slot. “I should’ve called first, but I wanted to surprise him.”
The woman frowned at her. “I don’t think the guy in twenty-seven is called Scott.”
“No?” Alex switched her target, feigning confusion. “You sure? He’s about a foot taller than me, blue eyes, tattoos. Oh, and he has a scar just beneath his eye, here.” She traced a line under her right eye, gauging the woman’s reaction, but nothing like recognition showed on her face.
“I’m sorry. I think you must have the wrong address.”
“Damn. I was sure I’d written it down right. Maybe I should just try the buzzer, see who answers.”
“You could,” the woman said, still
frowning, “but that really doesn’t sound like him. I think the guy in twenty-seven is called Rob.”
“Definitely not Scott, then,” Alex said lightly, not wanting to make her suspicious.
“No, definitely not Scott.” The woman clutched her mail to her chest. “The door opens automatically from this side,” she said, leaving no doubt as to what she thought Alex should do.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Alex waited until the sound of the woman’s heels faded on the stairs, leaving her alone in the lobby. A quick look outside told her that no one was approaching the entrance. She took out her pocketknife and used it to lever the uppermost piece of mail from the over-full box that should have belonged to Emerson. The thick white envelope had a New York postmark and the addressee was a Mr. R. Hollis. She scribbled the name on her hand and slid the envelope back into the box just as the entrance door swung open again. An Asian man hustled past her without making eye contact or stopping to check his mailbox. Unwilling to risk lingering any further, she caught hold of the door and walked back out into the lot.
The heat immediately closed around her, making her clothes cling to her skin and the air catch like cotton in her throat. She looked up to find the sky boiling with thunderclouds; the first drops of rain began to splatter on the asphalt as she jogged across to the Silverado. She climbed inside and shook water from her hair, watching the storm obliterate her view of the apartment entrance. It felt deliberate, as if something out there was sabotaging everything she tried to do, forcing her to take two steps backward for each one forward. The thought was absurd but it still made her feel wretched. Realistically, she didn’t think she would get any further information about the apartment. Emerson probably was leasing it out, but now that she’d seen the complex she knew that someone like Caleb Deakin would stand out a mile there and she doubted he was the current occupant. Even so, she didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to have to tell Sarah that she had given up because it rained, and because she was heartsick, and hungry, and needed to pee. She started the engine and flicked on the wipers, increasing their speed until she could see clearly enough to monitor the building. Chewing on a piece of gum salvaged from the fluff in her pocket, she put her feet up on the dash and settled down to wait.