by Karen Rose
Her eyes instantly filled with tears. “Shane,” she whispered.
Shane’s eyes were shadowed with sorrow. “It’s me, Linnie. Where are you?”
“I’m at his house.” Her expression hardened. “The one who killed Andy. A cop.”
She’d tensed as she spoke and, sensing it, the baby began to cry. Immediately she relaxed, swaying again, murmuring the soothing words, but the baby was done.
“Whose baby is that?” Shane asked calmly, but Adam could tell that he already knew.
“His,” Linnie hissed.
Shane drew a breath. “Give him to Detective Kimble. Please. You don’t want to hurt a baby. That’s not who you are.”
Linnie started crying then. “You don’t know who I am now. You don’t know the things I’ve done.”
“I know some. I know you’ve worked the streets. I know you’re sick. I know I miss you. I know I love you and I need you with me right now. I can’t bury Andy alone.” Shane’s voice broke. “Don’t make me do this alone, Linnie. Please. They’ll put you in jail if anything happens to that baby and I’ll lose you forever. Please.”
Linnie had trouble speaking through her tears. “I’m dead either way. If I give them the baby, they’ll take me to jail.” Tears were streaming down her face. “They all lie. They’ll take me away and I won’t be able to finish this. And I need to kill him before I die.”
Shane made a choking sound. “You’re not going to die. You can get medicine. Andy’s gone. Don’t make me live without you, too.”
She shook her head. “He killed Andy. Shot him in the head. I saw him do it.” Guilt lined her face. “Andy did it for me. He died for me.”
“Because he loved you!” Shane blurted out. “He always loved you. He . . . he broke rules for you because he wanted you to live. So if you won’t live for me, live for him.”
Linnie’s face twisted then. “The cop needs to die, Shane.”
“Let Kimble deal with the cop. I trust him. I need you to trust him, too.”
“Please, Linnie,” Adam said quietly. “Give me the gun.”
Chapter Thirty
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 12:10 p.m.
He’d trekked across eleven backyards altogether, going around the cul-de-sac and down five more houses. He now leaned up against the back of the house that sat directly across the street from the home he’d shared with Rita for almost eight years.
He was tired and his arm burned like it was literally on fire. He didn’t want to check it. He’d probably popped a stitch or two, with all the vaulting over fences. He’d have to get an antibiotic soon, because it was probably infected. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Even worse, not one of his neighbors seemed to be home. There seemed to be no cars to steal in any of the houses all the way to the end of the street. Everyone was out. What busy neighbors he had, he thought bitterly. They were oblivious to the real world around them. Out working or shopping or at school pageants.
He felt a pang. Ariel’s Christmas pageant was today. She was going to be one of the reindeer. He’d miss it. He’d miss her. Forever. Because he couldn’t take her with him.
He’d had kids with Rita more as a cover than because he’d wanted them. He’d never thought he’d grow so attached to them. But it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t take his family with him and he didn’t want them visiting him in prison.
There was no choice. I’ll do what I have to do to get out of here.
He considered breaking into one of the houses and holing up, but that was suicide. Once Novak discovered he wasn’t in Wainwright’s house, he, Kimble, and Bishop would begin a house-to-house search. He’d rather keep going and take his chances.
He peeked around the corner of the house where he’d stopped to rest and saw the wall of SUVs that Kimble had formed. In my own driveway, the bastard.
Yeah, they believed he was in Wainwright’s house. I can’t stay here. I can’t.
It was just as well that none of his neighbors were home right now. He’d be stopped before he cleared a stolen car from any of the driveways on his street. Too many fucking cops. He’d keep going, sticking to the backs of the houses until he got to the next block. Besides, nobody home meant no calls to 911 ratting him out.
He’d get to the next block and find a car there, before they realized he was no longer in Wainwright’s house. Because then they’d lock the whole neighborhood down.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, December 21, 12:10 p.m.
Meredith saw the thumbs-up Deacon gave her as she was driven away, but Adam was fully engaged in talking to Linnie and he didn’t look back. She knew she shouldn’t want him to turn to her, because he was focused and doing his job. But she still did.
She’d been instructed to stay in the back and to stay down. Priding herself on not being stupid, she’d obeyed—even as she lost her mind with worry. Adam, out there unprotected save the tactical gear he wore, with a killer who could be hiding anywhere. Every second ticked in her mind like a crashing hammer.
She’d taken her entire daily dose of antianxiety medication after Adam’s near miss this morning in the church parking lot. And she felt utterly justified having done so.
God, how she wished for a coloring book! The scrap paper in her lap had been an envelope she’d found in her purse, but now it was torn apart, flattened, and covered in the complex designs she’d sketched while waiting. She gripped her pretty pink tactical pen so hard her fingers ached, but she couldn’t seem to relax her hold.
“You okay back there?” Nash Currie asked. “If you’re cold I can turn up the heat.”
“No, I’m fine,” she called back. “Did you draw the short straw?” she added, because he’d been assigned with delivering her back to the hospital safely. A.k.a., babysitting duty.
He looked into the rearview with a small smile. “And if I say yes?”
She made a face. “Then I’ll believe you’re not lying.”
He laughed. “Well played, Dr. Fallon.”
“Meredith,” she corrected. “If Adam is allowing you to drive me, he must trust you a lot, so I think we should cut the formality.”
“Meredith, then,” he said, sounding pleased. He was driving slowly and carefully, because the two news vans had been joined by six more in the few minutes she’d sat alone. Reporters had spilled into the street, vying for the best view of Hanson’s house. “You should stay down. These reporters will try to take your photo otherwise.”
Again she complied, folding herself into the tight space on the floor between the rear bench seat and the captain’s chair in the middle. “Done and done.”
He swore again. “These news vans are blocking the damn road. I’m going to zigzag around them. Hold on.” He made an abrupt left turn and she winced when her head smacked the van’s wall. She scooted forward, resting against the chair’s armrest.
“I saw the video of you with the little Voss girl. Penny. I was impressed,” Nash said.
“She wanted to tell. I just smoothed it a little.”
“I worked Personal Crimes for a long time. I was IT. Never led on a case, but I’ve watched enough victim interviews to recognize someone with a gift for communication.”
“Thank you,” Meredith said soberly. “You were on the case with Adam. Paula.”
“I was.”
She drew a breath. “Why do you think Hanson did it?”
There was a long pause and another sharp turn, this time to the right. “I’ve been wondering that. And I remembered that right before Paula first made contact with Adam, he’d done this interview for Channel 12. One of those ‘Heroes Among Us’ pieces.”
“Because he’d been coaching the deaf kids. He told me.”
“Yeah. Did he tell you that after the piece ran, he was pursued by all the networks? Even CNN. He has a face for TV, you kno
w.”
Meredith smiled. “Yeah, I know.”
“He was Mr. Popular, but still nice. Never let it swell his head. Even when he was voted Sexiest Cop by a women’s magazine.”
“I missed that,” Meredith said dryly. “But I think I get your point. He was golden and Hanson was jealous. He wanted to pull Adam back. Humble him. Break him, even.”
“Yes. And then Adam did solve a case. A big one. Two teenaged girls being peddled online. A local man was setting up appointments and taking payment through a Web site.”
“I remember that. I didn’t know that was Adam’s case.”
“ICAC got credit, but Adam did a lot of the footwork. The brass knew. One day our boss kind of joked that Adam should mentor the rest of us. It was lighthearted praise and we all knew it. Except Hanson. He was not pleased.”
“So he set Adam up, then ripped him apart. Adam and you.”
“Yeah,” Nash said gruffly.
“Are you all right, Nash? I’m not asking as a therapist. I’m asking as someone who’s grateful you stood up for Adam.”
“I’m okay. I mean . . . it was rough. My marriage couldn’t . . . didn’t take the strain.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She couldn’t handle my depression. My kids pulled me out. Made me go to counseling. It— Holy shit. Hold on. I’m backing up.” The van came to a hard stop, backed up, and swerved to the left before coming to another hard stop. “Stay down.”
He jumped out of the van and Meredith edged back to the driver’s-side wall, lifting herself enough to peek out the window. They’d stopped for a black SUV pulled onto the shoulder. She heard Nash curse, then he was back in the driver’s seat, radioing for help.
“This is Detective Currie. I need backup and an ambulance for—”
The driver’s door was yanked open, and Nash was pulled out of the van. Meredith started to move, but there was a terrible thud against the side of the van that made the vehicle shudder.
No. No, no, no. Meredith watched in shocked denial as Wyatt Hanson casually set a pistol in the cup holder.
Oh my God. Nash. Did he kill him? If Nash wasn’t dead, he was injured. If he finds me, he’ll kill me, too. The thought of it yanked her out of her shock and she pulled her gun from the bra holster. Not going down without a fight.
Hanson slammed the van door, gunned the engine, and set off with a squeal of tires. He struck the steering wheel with his fist. “Motherfucking police van,” he shouted angrily and she cringed until she realized he wasn’t talking to her. He was just mad. “Of all the fucking vans. Goddammit.”
He hadn’t intended to steal a police van, she thought. He hadn’t known this was a police van. So he probably doesn’t know I’m back here. God, please don’t let him know.
He grabbed the radio. “This is Detective Currie,” he lied. “I’m sorry. I don’t need those emergency services after all. It was a false alarm.”
Meredith nearly shouted for help, but as soon as he detected her presence she’d be dead. So she kept quiet as he switched off the radio, pulled the handset out of the dashboard, and tossed it to the passenger seat.
Her body jerked when her phone buzzed in her hand with a text from Wendi. Shane talking to Linnie. Looks hopeful he can get her to surrender the baby. U OK?
A sob built in her throat and she swallowed it back. No. No, I’m not okay. Hands shaking, she replied. Help. Hanson has me. In the van. Alone. Nash Currie hurt.
She set her phone to silent. Hanson was driving faster than Nash had been. There was more car noise, so she doubted he’d hear her phone. It was worth the risk. She dialed 911 and slid the phone under the captain’s seat, which still shielded her from view. She didn’t dare speak to the operator, but hopefully they’d be able to track her signal. In case she didn’t kill Hanson with the first shot.
She crunched her body close to the wall of the van on the driver’s side, stealing a look between the wall and the side of the chair. But her hands were shaking. Just like in the parking lot of the hospital when she’d fired and fired and the man had kept coming. The man. Wyatt Hanson’s uncle. Panic clawed at her throat and she dug deep for just a little calm.
Balancing the gun on the armrest of the captain’s chair in front of her, she aimed for his neck, the piece of skin she could see from this angle. Relax. Pretend you are at the target range with Kate and Scarlett.
Who I’m never going to see again.
Stop it. Stop. It. Relax. For Adam. Don’t make him find your body.
She squeezed the trigger—
She was tossed to the right side when he made an erratic turn, her shot hitting the van’s wall. A second shot followed hers by a second. His shot. He’d seen her. God.
Fire burned up her right arm and she looked up to see his arm extended back from the seat, the gun still in his hand. He’d deliberately swerved to toss her body between the seats.
Move. Get cover. She scrambled behind the captain chair on the right, able to get a better shot now, anyway. Except her arm was shaking. Because she was bleeding. A lot.
She hoped the dispatch operator hadn’t believed Hanson’s lies of a false alarm. But even if the operator did believe him, Wendi would have called the police by now and Isenberg’s people would be in pursuit. She knew that.
So stop Hanson. Give Adam time to catch up. Don’t make him find your body.
Gritting her teeth, she used the uninjured arm to pull herself to a sitting position, gripping the gun in her left hand. Because her right arm wasn’t moving. At all.
Closing one eye, she aimed and fired. A sharp cry was her reward. She fired again and the van lurched to the right, throwing her to the floor and sending her gun sliding to the front of the van as they came to an abrupt halt in a cacophony of squealing brakes and crunching metal.
There was quiet then. Absolute quiet for several beats of her heart.
Is he dead? Please, God, let him be dead.
She pulled herself to a sitting position once again. She had to blink hard, unable to see. She wiped her hand over her eyes and it came back red. She was bleeding from her head now. That sucks.
An acrid smell burned her nose. The airbag, she thought. Fuck it. The fucking airbag had probably saved his miserable life.
Then she heard a creak of vinyl a few feet forward. Sonofabitch.
He wasn’t dead. Goddammit. He’d climbed over the center console and was coming for her. His nose was gushing. At least the airbag had broken his nose.
But hell, all that blood . . .
“Hope you didn’t have unprotected sex with Linnie,” she found herself saying.
Even through the blood in her eyes, she could see the rage burning in his. “You fucking cunt.” He spat a mouthful of blood toward her, but it hit the captain chair in front of her. “I am going to gut you.”
“Like Butch gutted Paula?” she asked and he grinned, revealing bloodstained teeth.
“Just like her.”
She scrabbled back, frantically searching for something to use in her own defense. Where are you, Adam?
“Why?” she asked, running her hand over the floor, finding nothing. “Why did you kill her?”
“To hurt him, of course.” He loomed, staring down at her. “Why else?”
“Why?” Her fingers closed over something small, thin, and metal. Ah! She recognized it by touch. Smooth, except for brief etchings. They’d be hearts. The pen would be pink. Thank you, God. She gripped it in her fist, just as she’d practiced. “Why torment him?”
He shook his head and reached for her. Grabbing her bulky bulletproof vest in both hands, he dragged her to her feet. “I’m going to slit your throat and gut you and leave you for him to find.”
No. It will kill him. But she forced herself to smile. “He’s stronger than you think. He’s a lot stronger than you are.”
She cried out when his fist connected with her jaw. “Shut up,” he snarled.
Now. Now. Gripping the pen in her left hand, she arced her arm upward with all the force she could muster. He grabbed her wrist, twisting away before she struck his throat, but his startled yelp told she’d hit something. More blood gushed from his face where the pen had ripped his skin, and he gripped her vest tighter, yanking her to the van door. He tore the pen from her hand, shoved the door open, and dragged her out into the cold air and down an embankment.
They’d gone off the road and hit a tree, the hood of the van crushed and mangled. It could have been worse, because fifty feet ahead was a bridge spanning the valley between two steep hills. If Hanson had been going a little bit faster, if he’d lost control a little bit later, they would have gone off the bridge. They wouldn’t have walked away from that.
New panic pushed away any relief when she looked up. The van blocked her view of the road. And, she assumed, blocked anyone’s view of her.
Nobody can see me down here. Nobody will know I’m here.
But they’ll see the van, she told herself. They’ll be looking for the—
With a loud growl Hanson tossed her pen aside and dragged her toward the underpass beneath the bridge, then threw her to the ground, her head hitting hard concrete. She blinked up at him, unable to see clearly. There was still too much blood in her eyes. Stay focused. Keep him talking. Give Adam time to find you.
“Who was she?” she demanded, scrabbling back. “Paula? Who was she?”
He advanced toward her and she ran, but tripped and went down. Her shoes came off, the cold concrete burning her stocking-covered feet. He grabbed at her, but she rolled away, grabbing for one of her shoes, now covered in mud.
But with a stiletto heel.
“Fucking bitch.” Clutching her vest, he shoved her to her back, his fingers closing over her throat. Panicking, she sliced with one of the shoes.
He yelped and released her.