I was desperate enough to eat the bologna sandwich they gave me and drink their watery coffee.
My cell’s only positive feature was the layout. The toilet stood only a few convenient feet from my cot. And since it never grew dark, I didn’t have to grope about trying to find it during the night. The negative was that it became really, really cold. My fingers and toes and the exposed skin of my face—even my bones—felt painfully cold, in spite of the blanket they gave me.
They hauled me into municipal court first thing in the morning. At least I thought it was the morning. It was difficult to tell whether it was 9 A.M. or 9 P.M. The meal at the jail, another bologna sandwich and more watery coffee, offered no clue. It might have been breakfast, lunch, or dinner. The sky looked no different. The temperature had skidded down to a tooth-chattering 35 degrees. “It’s the williwaw,” a jailer told me, explaining that was the name of a strong cold wind.
It had to be morning, I finally decided, unless this was night court.
All of us lawbreakers sat in an empty jury box waiting for our cases to be called.
“Heard about chu,” whispered the prisoner next to me, a Native American with thick black eye makeup, big hoop earrings, and a leather biker’s jacket. “You go, girl. Kick his worthless butt. Squeeze him for child support every day for the resta his no-good life. Good for you. But today,” she said, wrinkling her nose sweetly, “play nice. Say whatever they wanna hear and get your ass outa here. Jail is no place to birth a baby.”
“You are absolutely right,” I said. “Thank you.”
The judge, the jailers, even the court clerk, a chubby motherly type, looked troubled to see me. But none were as troubled as I. My back pains were more intense, my legs were stiff, my feet hurt, and I was desperately hungry—hungry for Miami, its warmth, its food, its Cuban coffee, and the people I loved.
My public defender introduced herself five minutes before my case was called. She told me that the police had tried to verify my story, that I was on assignment for the Miami News. The editor they had spoken to on the city desk overnight was surprised and dismayed to hear I was in Alaska, much less behind bars. She had disavowed knowledge of any assignment. According to her, I had failed to show up for work days ago, without explanation. I was AWOL. Gretchen, the editor from hell, I thought. It had to be. Who else? She got me.
I saw I was outnumbered and caved.
“Your Honor,” I said, “I apologize for my mistakes and deeply regret any trouble I’ve caused. Hormones may have something to do with it. All I want is to go home to Miami as soon as possible. I’m not feeling well and it would be extremely inconvenient to give birth here, thousands of miles from my obstetrician. I don’t wish to be a burden on your state.”
I hated myself. Have you no scruples? I wondered, as I used the baby excuse.
The prosecutor scanned the small courtroom. “The complainants, visitors from Minneapolis, here on their honeymoon, don’t appear to be present, Your Honor.”
The judge, an older fatherly type, gazed down kindly at me from the bench. “I’ll make you an offer, young lady. I’ll sentence you to time served, without an adjudication of guilt, if you promise to board the next flight out. Go home and get yourself some help. It’s never too late to turn your life around.”
“Yes, sir, I promise,” I lied. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
The prisoner in the black eye makeup and leather jacket smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.
My rental car had been towed away from the cabin by the police, so I took a taxi back to my hotel. I yearned for a warm nap, hot soup, and a reconnect to reality, but the desk clerk said I had a problem: my credit card.
I asked him to swipe it again. He did. It came up canceled.
“Give me a minute,” I said confidently, “and I’ll take care of it.” I collapsed into a lobby chair and tried to think.
I called Fred at the News.
“You canceled the credit card,” I said accusingly.
“Thought that might get your attention,” he said dryly. “Nothing else did. I take it you have a ticket home.”
“Yes,” I said. “I bought an open-ended round-trip back.”
“Use it,” he said grimly. “When you left here for Arizona you were told to check in daily. Yet we had no idea where you were until we heard you were in police custody in Fairbanks, Alaska.”
“Fred,” I said breathlessly, “listen. I am not the sportswriter you sent to the Super Bowl two years ago, the one who partied all night, passed out, and didn’t wake up until after the game. Or Danny Jacobs, the reporter sent to Vegas to cover the world heavyweight championship fight. He wined and dined a showgirl and bought her an engagement ring, all with the News credit card, while you, his wife, and three kids all thought he was working. I am not like them. I’m pursuing a once-in-a-lifetime story. Marsh Holt is here now, with a new bride, a Minneapolis TV personality, if you can believe that. I’m working every minute.”
“I don’t doubt that, Britt, but I’m taking heat from the people upstairs. There is growing concern that you may well become a major liability, that you weren’t ready to come back to work, and that I used faulty judgment. Lord knows, I fought for you, balls to the wall. But it’s a no-win battle when you take off like a runaway freight train, fail to keep us informed, and still expect our support.”
“Two more days, Fred. Just give me two more days.” I clutched the phone like a lifeline. “Reactivate the credit card,” I pleaded, “so I can wrap it up here.”
“I can’t do that, Britt. Come back and we’ll talk.”
“Look. I was afraid if I mentioned coming to Alaska you’d say no,” I confessed.
“You were right.”
See, I thought. I knew it. I just knew it.
“I wish I was in Miami,” I blurted. “More than anything. I’m lonely, broke, and cold as hell, but I can’t walk away from the story now.”
“I hope to God you’re taking care of yourself.” His voice softened. “You sound terrible. But my ass is on the line too. Mark Seybold has advised the publisher to rein you in. Period. Anybody who pays a lawyer for advice is a fool not to take it, and the publisher’s no fool. I don’t know what else to tell you. You’re like a pit bull, Britt. You hang on. And never let go. That’s what makes you such a good reporter. But there comes a time in life when one has to let go. This is that time. I’ll see you in my office. Soon, I hope, for your sake. Sorry.”
The desk clerk stared, watching me balefully from behind the counter.
I cheerfully signaled that I needed one more minute and punched in another number.
“Holy shit, Britt,” John Lacey murmured, when I filled him in.
“I need help, Lacey. I’m not sure what to do. I can’t leave because when Holt hits the wind, he’s gone. Next time you can bet he won’t be so easy to find.”
I began to cough. What new hell is this? I wondered. Fred was right, I realized. I sounded terrible and felt worse, achy and congested, probably from my night in that cold cell with only a thin blanket.
“I was wrong about one thing,” I croaked. “I came here with three major goals: to keep Nancy alive, expose Marsh Holt, and finish my story. I even pissed off the local police chief by insisting that Nancy’s life was more important than a herd of caribou. After meeting her, I owe the caribou an apology.”
“Two out of three ain’t bad.” I heard the smile in Lacey’s voice. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”
“She and Holt deserve each other,” I muttered miserably.
“First,” he said, “let me talk to the goddamn desk clerk. I’ll give him my credit card number to cover your room, and I’ll call you there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I swore, my throat raspy.
Twenty-three minutes later, the phone rang in my room.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lacey said. “I just made a reservation. Sit tight. Order room service. Don’t leave your room until I get there. Don’t answer the door unless it
’s me. I talked to a friend of mine who went to law school. He says that if the judge meant what he said, they could arrest you for just being on the street.”
“Okay,” I said numbly. “I’ll wait for you.”
I checked my e-mail and the voice messages on my cell phone. Most were those I’d ignored from Fred as he asked, urged, then demanded that I get back to him. Why didn’t I listen?
You were warned, I thought.
Feverish and exhausted, I ordered hot soup and crisp toast. I’d drift off but kept waking up, wondering how long I’d slept. Four hours or sixteen? Was this day or night? A.M. or P.M.? Neither my watch nor my travel alarm could tell me.
Was the sun rising or setting? I staggered to the window several times to search the sky. Once I thought I saw the Southern Cross and was grateful, knowing it would guide me safely home. But then I realized I couldn’t have seen it in this place. It isn’t visible north of Miami. I must have been dreaming or hallucinating.
The sky was blank, no stars at all. It never got dark enough. How did people here ever get their bearings?
An aberrant crescent moon hung ramrod straight in the eerie twilight, or was it dawn? I had never seen the moon in such an odd position before.
I asked Lucy, the pale and quiet dark-haired young woman who brought my soup, what it’s like to live here in the winter.
“Dark,” she said softly. “I hate waking up in the morning and going to work when it’s so dark. The sun rises around noon and sets three hours later.”
I imagined police patrolling a midnight shift that lasted twenty-one hours.
“We have something in common with Florida,” she told me shyly. “We have our own little Cape Canaveral. They launch rockets into the Northern Lights.”
“Why?” I sat up in bed, sipping soup from a mug.
“To learn more about them. For better insight into the relationship between the earth and the sun.”
“What do the Northern Lights look like?”
She hesitated. “Imagine translucent fabric curtains whipping back and forth across the sky.”
I couldn’t.
Lucy, a native of Alaska, had spent her childhood living above a little outpost grocery store owned by her parents. Often, she told me, they’d be awakened at 3 A.M. by would-be customers pounding on their door, tourists who thought it was three o’clock in the afternoon.
Time is slippery when you are feverish, half dreaming, and disoriented. I slept erratically, kept ordering soup. I waited for days, but Lacey never came.
I left message after message for Detective Sam Stone in Miami, hoping he had checked out the scuba-diving death of Gloria Weatherholt. But he was never there, and no one could tell me when he would be.
Lacey had forgotten me, I realized, and I finally resigned myself to confinement in that small room forever.
When my phone finally rang, I couldn’t find it. I fumbled about among the blankets and sheets, looking for it, then answered wanly.
“Pack up,” Lacey said. “Get ready to check out, I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
“Who is this?” I yawned and blinked.
“Lacey. What’s wrong, Britt?”
“Where are you? Why didn’t you ever come?” I complained drowsily.
“I did. I’m here.”
“But it’s been four or five days.”
“We talked yesterday, Britt. Are you all right? You sound funny.”
As though in a dream, I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, packed my things, and waited until he called from the lobby.
Lacey pulled the car, a rented Ford Explorer, up close to the lobby door, carried out my bag, and hurriedly helped me into the rental.
“I didn’t want to risk having a cop spot you from a passing patrol car. You sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Thank you,” I murmured. “Nice to see you again too.”
He felt my forehead. “Shit. You have a fever.”
“I’m okay. I just want to finish my story and go home.”
“What more do you need?”
“Is Nancy still alive?” I mumbled. Why couldn’t I stop yawning?
“We’ll know soon.” He swerved onto the rutted unpaved road to the honeymoon cabin.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Wait!” I sat up straight. “We can’t go there,” I said. “They’ll call the law.”
“We’re not visiting them—yet,” he said. “We’re just driving by. We’re their new neighbors.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
He smiled. “There was a vacancy, the cabin closest to them, not quite a mile away. It’s rented to Mr. and Mrs. John Lacey. I thought it best not to drop your name. Watch it, I think we’re passing their place right now.”
“That’s it.” I scrunched down in my seat.
“Nobody around,” he reported. “There’s a black Range Rover out front.”
“That’s the car they’ve been using.”
“The next left should take us to our place,” he said, consulting a map.
The engine strained, climbing higher and higher up the mountain. There seemed to be only woods and wilderness until another rustic cabin came into view.
“Bingo,” Lacey said. “We’re home.”
He had grocery bags stashed in the back of the Ford. The rental agent had stopped by earlier to prepare the place. Flames crackled and sputtered in the fireplace. The cabin was warm, cozy, and welcoming.
“Thanks, Lacey. Remember, I’m running a tab. Save your receipts. I’ll pay you back. How did you afford this?”
“Maxed out my credit cards.” He shrugged.
“Sorry.”
“It’ll be worth it,” he said, “to see that bastard’s picture in the paper, to see him behind bars for life—or, better yet, in the ground. If not for you, Britt, I wouldn’t have known what really happened. There never would have been justice for Suzanne.”
Without the cover of darkness, it would be tricky to surveil Holt’s cabin.
“I thought we’d stay in touch by cell phone and work in shifts, so if he took Nancy somewhere, we could follow them. If the situation started to look dangerous, we could raise hell, make a lot of noise, and call the cops. But I don’t think you’re up to it.”
“I am,” I assured him. “Don’t worry, I’ve caught my second wind.”
He nodded, but his eyes remained concerned. “If I can catch Nancy alone, I’ll try to get through to her,” he said. “I brought some pictures of Suzanne to show her.”
“Been there, done that. It didn’t work.” I shook my head. “She’s smitten. And what honeymooner is ever alone long enough to listen to reason?”
“Don’t know,” he said sadly. “I’ve never been one.”
“Me either,” I said.
He cooked hamburgers and vegetables and insisted I eat.
I just picked at the food, no longer the ravenous chowhound I’d been for months. I cleared the dishes and Lacey left on a “recon mission” to check out Holt’s cabin. He returned, excited, after forty-five minutes.
“They’re home,” he said. “I looked in a window. They were eating dinner. Looked romantic, like they’re in for the evening, but he could be planning anything.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten that close. What if he caught you?”
Lacey ignored the question. He looked agitated, full of restless energy and fearful possibilities. “Holt could be planning a fatal walk in the woods for her, or a fire, or even a fake accident with the Range Rover. He might even try to drown her in one of the streams.”
“She’s looks pretty strong physically,” I said. “And even though she didn’t believe me, hearing my warnings over and over must have made her start to look at him in a slightly suspicious light, if only subconsciously. She may not be as easy to kill as the others.”
Lacey showed me a pair of small binoculars and a small compass he’d used. “Follow it due south, to their cabin,” he said. “Due north brings you back he
re.” He paced the room, the firelight casting shadows on his boyish face. He looked so young it scared me.
“This is no game, Lacey. He’s older, more experienced, and very dangerous. If he had caught you at that window—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t get hurt. What I’m worried about is you, Britt. Don’t you have enough to just go home and write your story now?”
“Probably,” I admitted reluctantly. “But it’s better to overreport than under. When you wrap up a big investigative piece and have the bad guy dead to rights, that’s when you want to talk to him. Your final interview is always your target. It can make great copy. They tend to protest too much, try too hard to explain, and you can catch them in one damning lie after another. Holt is so slick and smart, that may not happen in this case. But if nothing else, I want to see Nancy safely out of his hands before I leave. Though when you meet her, you’ll wonder why.”
He sat across from me at the rough kitchen table. “You know, Britt, at first I seriously considered buying a gun and taking care of Holt myself,” he confessed. “But thanks to you, I’m thinking straight now. I believe your story will do it for us.”
Before returning to stand first watch at the honeymooners’ cabin, Lacey took a swig of the blackberry brandy he’d brought to keep warm. This may have been early summer in Alaska, but we were both thin-blooded natives of warmer climes.
He’d be back, he said, when he was sure Marsh and Nancy had retired for the night.
“Be careful,” I pleaded. “Stay away from their windows. He’ll probably try to hurt her on one of their daily outings. We can follow them in the morning. That’s our best chance to catch him in the act.”
Lacey set his cell phone on vibrate in case I had an emergency. I hugged him goodbye, then napped in a chair by the flickering fire, cell phone in my lap.
I wasn’t sure what time it was when I awoke. It still appeared to be dusk, but it felt cold and the fire had gone out. I checked my watch and saw it was six hours later. Six hours? Where was Lacey?
Too worried to sit and do nothing, I struggled to pull on my boots, listening, hoping to hear his key in the lock. He had the compass. But normally my sense of direction is good. I put on my jacket and began to plod south through the woods, but the uneven light and the clouds that shadowed the landscape made the unfamiliar terrain tricky. Ungainly and clumsy, I stumbled, slid, and skidded several times, unable to get my bearings. I couldn’t risk falling down out here alone or becoming hopelessly lost.
Love Kills Page 20