Because of a Girl

by Janice Kay Johnson

WHEN HE FIRST recognized the Jeep Cherokee behind him, Jack didn’t think much about it. The driver was heading out of the same neighborhood, that’s all. Most of his focus was on keeping enough distance to prevent Bouchard from getting a look at him, while making sure he didn’t drop back so far he lost his target. Fortunately, this highway was well-enough traveled, he wouldn’t stand out. A semi trailed him; ahead, Bouchard’s speed had dropped when he got stuck behind a slow-moving panel truck.

  Bouchard wasn’t going home; that was for sure. He had wended his way through town until he reached the highway. They’d soon be out of Jack’s jurisdiction. Yep, there was the Leaving Frenchman Lake sign on the other side of the highway. When it looked like they could be getting somewhere, he might need to alert local law enforcement.

  Question of the day: Where were they going?

  He slowed enough to let a couple of impatient drivers pass him. Better to hang back. He occupied himself calling Troyer and asking him to find out whether Edward Wright was licensed to own a gun.

  He had his answer within two minutes. Yes. Wright had purchased a Colt .45 eleven years ago. Jack hoped like hell Wright had also purchased a gun safe, not just kept the damn thing in a bedside drawer or a box on the closet shelf.

  “You really think Bouchard might be leading you to where he’s had the girl stashed.”

  “I think it’s a good possibility.”

  “You need backup?”

  “I wish I had you along, but it’s too late for you to catch up.” His eye fell on a vehicle in his rearview mirror. “As it happens, I’m starting to think I have a tail.”

  “What the hell...?”

  “Took the words out of my mouth.”

  “Where are you?” His fellow detective sounded tense.

  Jack named the highway. He felt as if he was in the middle of nowhere with the surrounding countryside typical eastern Washington bleak with the vineyards left behind. Raw basalt, clumps of winter-brown grass, rusting barbed wire fences but no cattle behind them. Flat ground had begun to rise, and he thought he saw wheat fields a couple of miles ahead.

  “If we keep going, we’ll end up in Walla Walla.”

  Troyer grunted. “What are you going to do about your tail?”

  “Call her,” Jack said grimly. “I have an idea who it is.”

  * * *

  ALREADY JITTERY, MEG jumped when a sudden burst of music blared. “What—?”

  Emily bent to her backpack, wedged on the floorboards between her feet. “It’s my phone.” Which continued to jangle until she straightened with it in her hands. “It’s Jack! What do I do?”

  Meg tried to think. “I don’t know. No, you have to answer it.”

  “Why would he call me?” Emily moaned, then sucked in a deep breath and lifted it to her mouth. “Hello?”

  Meg could hear a deep, stern voice, but could not make out actual words. All she could do was keep driving while watching Emily’s expressive face out of the corner of her eye. A glance in the rearview mirror reminded her that Asher was along, too. He’d been so quiet, it was easy to forget he was here. In fact, had he said a word since she carjacked his Jeep? His expression now as he watched Emily gave Meg a pang. She comforted herself that he had so far seemed pretty sensible, except for getting involved today.

  Uh-huh. And what’s my excuse?

  Meg forgot him when Emily mumbled, “Um... I’m with Mom.” Pause. “I think you should talk to her,” she said, very fast, and thrust the phone at Meg, who accepted it with trepidation.

  “Jack?”

  “Is that you behind me?”

  “Behind you?” she echoed stupidly, before the obvious all but smacked her in the face. “You’re not driving your SUV.”

  “And you’re not driving your bus.” His tone was very dry.

  She sighed. “You’re following Mr. Bouchard.”

  “And you’re following me, following Mr. Bouchard. Which part of trusting me to do my job did you not get?”

  “You didn’t say you were going to shadow him.”

  “So you thought you had to do it.”

  “Well, actually, Emily thought she needed to. She enlisted Asher, and I got suspicious and followed them.”

  “Crap,” he muttered. Then, “Hold on—he’s turning.”

  Unlike the few gravel tracks they had passed that led who knew where, this was a real intersection. The road was paved and even had a yellow stripe down the middle. A weathered sign pointed to, of all things, a lavender farm. Meg thought that might be a tumbleweed nestled at the base of the supports. When Meg made the right turn, too, it was just in time to see the BMW, well ahead, cresting a hill, followed by what she realized was a Camry.

  She also realized, with a spurt of terror, that they had left behind all other traffic.

  Jack came back on. “Meg, I said I’d take care of this, and I will. I followed him home yesterday after school let out. You need to turn around and go home. I don’t know where he’s headed, but I’m not letting you endanger yourself and Emily both.”

  “And Asher, too,” she said in a small voice.

  He made a noise she couldn’t quite label. A huff? A groan?

  All she could think was, He’s right. The least she could have done was insist Asher stay behind.

  While she drove away in his car.

  “Are you alone?” Meg asked in a small voice.

  “I’m a cop, honey. Armed and ready for anything.”

  Which meant yes. And, even though she’d put her money on Jack any day against Remy Bouchard, she still didn’t like the idea of him confronting a man with too much at stake. What if Mr. Bouchard had a gun, too?

  Right. And what was she going to do? Whack him over the head with her daughter’s book bag?

  “Do it,” Jack said curtly. “This isn’t a great adventure, Meg. You could be endangering two kids.”

  Guilt speared her. Her foot slackened on the gas pedal, and the Jeep began to slow.

  Emily gasped. “Mom! No!”

  “Good girl,” Jack said in her ear.

  The Camry disappeared over the hill, too, as Meg coasted to a stop on the gravel shoulder. She handed the phone back to Emily.

  “We can’t stop!” Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “Sabra needs us.”

  “Jack’s right. Mr. Bouchard could be dangerous. Assuming,” she added scrupulously, “that he isn’t going somewhere completely innocent.”

  “After breaking into my house?” Asher interjected from the backseat.

  Technically, they didn’t know Mr. Bouchard had broken into Asher’s house. He might have peered in windows and not actually entered any house. Or he could have broken into... Asher’s next-door neighbor’s home? Sure, that made sense.

  Meg stared ahead at the barren landscape.

  “Please, Mom.” Emily sounded close to tears. “We don’t have to get in the way. But if Jack finds Sabra...”

  “Detective Moore’s car could break down,” Asher put in. “And then he’d lose Mr. Bouchard.” He was leaning forward between the seats. “Or something else could happen.”

  Meg’s imagination produced a dozen terrifying scenarios. Jack’s car being pushed off the road, rolling, maybe bursting into flames like they did on TV cop shows all the time. Or the bark of a gun, and Jack dropping. If Mr. Bouchard had even a minute to shove Sabra into the trunk, if he got away...they would never find her in time.

  With the landscape so empty, how could he not start to wonder about the car that had been behind him since he left Frenchman Lake?

  Stomach in a knot, Meg checked to be sure there was no unexpected traffic and started forward again. “We’ll go a little bit farther,” she said weakly.

  “Hurry, Mom. We can’t lose them.”

  * * *

 
; THE ROAD HAD turned into a gentle roller coaster, the kind where teenagers would want to gun their cars and catch some air.

  Jack’s gaze kept returning to his rearview mirror, but if Meg was defying him, she was hanging back enough he couldn’t see her. Bouchard just drove on.

  Although it felt like forever, a glance at the clock told Jack they’d really only been on the way for thirty-five minutes. The morning Sabra disappeared, Bouchard had had roughly an hour and fifty minutes to stash her and get back to the high school.

  Unless, of course, he’d left her at his house, say, then moved her after school.

  But Jack was betting that was the window they were operating inside. Which meant they had to be arriving at their destination in the next five minutes or so.

  The lavender farm appeared on the left, a faded sign indicating a driveway that led between thin, brown scrub on volcanic soil and a field of winter-gray vegetation that at this season didn’t look so different but for the neat rows. The farmhouse and barns had to be three-quarters of a mile off the road.

  As he topped the next rise, he saw a panorama dominated by vineyards. Miles of vines, the rows sweeping gracefully along the contours of the landscape. In the distance, the gentle, rolling slope descended into the Walla Walla Valley. Last count he’d heard, Walla Walla was home to something like seventy wineries, far outstripping Frenchman Lake.

  The BMW slowed. Jack maintained his speed, as any other driver taking this road would. He was almost on top of Bouchard’s car when it turned into a track that led between a row of wind-scoured poplars. Jack swept past, not even turning his head in case Bouchard was watching.

  Only a few hundred yards down the highway, Jack braked and did a U-turn. He could no longer see the BMW; it sat low to the ground, hidden by rows of vines, leafless or not. Which meant Bouchard couldn’t see him, either. In summer, a cloud of dust would have risen behind any passing vehicle on that lane, but the recent cold snap after winter precipitation would allow Jack to follow without betraying his presence from a distance.

  He stopped on the shoulder just short of the first of the tall sentinel poplars, got out and ran, bent over, to where he could see down the ruler-straight lane.

  The BMW had disappeared.

  Within seconds, he was back behind the wheel of his borrowed car and taking the same turn. And, shit, there was that Jeep Cherokee, just in time to allow Meg and Emily to see where he was going.

  He snatched up his phone and stabbed it with his thumb.

  “You will stay back at the road,” he all but snarled. “Do you hear me? Do not put two kids at risk.” Hadn’t almost being killed given her pause at all?

  “I won’t.” Meg sounded subdued but not apologetic. “I promise. We just couldn’t quit.”

  He growled a vicious word in frustration and ended the call. Focus on what’s ahead. If there was any chance at all Sabra was still alive, she wouldn’t be for long.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  FORCED TO TRUST Meg to stay behind, Jack pulled off the lane just before the alley of poplars came to an end, leaving his car door cracked so as not to alert Bouchard in case he hadn’t heard the engine.

  Ahead, he could see the corner of what appeared to be some kind of open shed and, over the rows of vines, a roof. Not a big structure—unless it was out of sight, there was no farmhouse in here, although the mature poplars suggested there might once have been.

  Jack unholstered his handgun and took off at a trot, watching his footing to avoid so much as snapping a tiny branch. He couldn’t hear a thing. At least that meant Meg had done as he’d asked, for once.

  Unless they were all creeping down the lane on foot, too. He wouldn’t put it past her, even if she had to hobble, and Emily had no goddamn sense at all. Pretty sad if he had to depend on a sixteen-year-old boy to rein them in.

  Focus.

  With an open front and weathered gray siding, the shed was large enough to park farm equipment in but currently empty. Right now, the only vehicle was the BMW left in front of it. Straight ahead, Jack saw the foundation of what must have once been the farmhouse. Half a chimney still stood. Blackened timbers told him a fire had leveled the house, probably many years before.

  A couple more strides and he came in sight of a small cabin, maybe only one room. He didn’t see any windows, then realized they had been boarded up. The front door—it, too, was covered by heavy boards.

  And where was Bouchard?

  Then he lifted his head, smelling something that chilled him.

  Gasoline.

  And he heard a frightened girl’s voice. “Remy? Where are you? What are you doing?”

  He ran for the side of the cabin, where he discovered one board had been pried away. A hammer lay on the ground next to the board, propped against the side of the cabin. Heart thudding, he stepped close enough to see a portion of a face. Blue eyes looked back at him.

  Jack lifted his finger to his lips to shush her. She nodded, telling him she understood. But tears filled those eyes.

  A creak of wood giving under a man’s weight. Bouchard had stepped onto the small porch. Going utterly still, Jack heard something else: the slosh of liquid. The eye-watering smell of gas intensified.

  Jesus. Bouchard intended to torch the cabin, with Sabra inside. Presumably, he would first wish her goodbye by pumping a bullet in her from the gun belonging to Asher’s dad. He might even plan to “accidentally” drop it somewhere beyond the reach of the flames, or even toss it inside. He might have done enough research online to know that a lab would still be able to read the serial number and identify the owner of the pistol.

  Jack gestured to Sabra to move away from the window and crouch down. She gave a jerky nod of understanding and vanished, leaving Jack to retreat as silently as he could around to the back of the cabin.

  Here, the walls had already been splashed with gas. Rage rose in him. This was as cold-blooded a plot as he had ever seen.

  Then he lifted his Glock in a two-handed grip and prepared himself.

  “Sabra.” Warm, friendly, Bouchard’s tone suggested he’d just been playing a little joke on her. “Honey, where are you?”

  Jack stepped around the corner. “Police,” he said sharply. “Drop the weapon now.”

  Bouchard had to be pulling the trigger as he turned. Even as he did the same, Jack was slammed backward. Pain exploded across his chest.

  * * *

  KNOTTING HER HANDS together so tightly they hurt, Meg paced a few feet away from the car, then back. The absolute silence was terrifying. Not even a breeze stirred the poplar branches.

  When they first parked, Asher had had her pop the hatch door. She understood when she saw him hefting the tire iron. Emily had gaped at it, then shut her mouth. Since then, the two teenagers had stood without talking, staring up the lane. Waiting. Asher had his arm around Emily. Meg was glad for Emily, and jealous, too, because she ached to have Jack’s arms around her, and instead he’d put himself in danger.

  She kept expecting to hear a yell. A car engine. Something.

  At last came the sound of distant voices, too indistinct for her to make out words. She didn’t have even an instant to react before gunfire erupted. Two, three, four shots.

  Her body jerked with each sharp pop.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Jack, oh, please—”

  Teeth chattering, Emily spun to face her. “We have to do something.”

  Asher broke away from Emily. “I’m going.”

  “Asher, come back here!” Meg cried.

  Her daughter started after him. “I’m going with you.”

  He broke stride to swing around. “No.” The word was final, hard, and Meg saw the man he was becoming, not the boy he was.

  Emily froze, probably in shock that he’d talked to her that way.
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  Having absolutely no idea what to do next, Meg stared after Asher until she lost sight of him as the lane curved. She didn’t know if she could just stand here and wait.

  Was Sabra still alive? What about Jack? What if—

  Her eyes focused. Asher was running full tilt back down the lane toward them.

  “In the car!” he yelled. “Get in! He’s coming.”

  “In,” Meg snapped. She waited until she saw Emily reach for the door handle before flinging herself in behind the wheel. She had the engine running and was ready to go by the time Asher dove into the back.

  “Go!” he managed between gasps for air.

  Meg stomped on the gas even as he was closing the door. They rocketed forward.

  Suddenly Emily had her face all but pressed to the side window. “I see smoke.”

  “I know.” Asher’s breathing was still audible. “I smelled it.”

  “But...” She spun to look over the seat, then at her mother. “We need to go back!”

  “He’s coming fast. He must have a gun. If he sees us...”

  Praying Bouchard turned back the way they’d all come instead of their direction, Meg pushed the speed up. Forty, fifty, sixty. Too fast for this road, when she couldn’t see over the next hill. What if they came upon a tractor?

  What if Bouchard came up behind them and started shooting?

  * * *

  JACK GROANED AND rolled over. Swearing viciously, he managed to get to his hands and knees. He had broken ribs, at least. Could a sternum break? Probably. But at least he was breathing.

  The crackle of flames drove him to his feet.

  He staggered, flinched from the heat. Smoke swirled, the gasoline taste filling his mouth. Coughing, he covered his nose with his forearm.

  The BMW was gone. Had he lost consciousness? Could he have missed the sound of one more gunshot? If Bouchard had shot Sabra...

  Not having been splattered with gasoline, this side of the cabin wasn’t engaged yet.

  He reached the barricaded window. Profound relief filled him at the sight of Sabra’s face pressed to the opening. She was screaming, shoving at boards too heavy and firmly nailed. He had a fleeting glimpse of torn fingernails and bloody hands.