Third Strike

by Zoe Sharp

  “Perhaps,” my father said, dismissive, like maybe she was humoring him. “But he didn’t get the chance, so we’ll never know for certain.” He looked up, met my eyes and I saw the violent slur of emotions washing behind his own. “I honestly do not know how you live with yourself, Charlotte. Doing what you do. Knowing what you can do. Why do you think I worked so hard to save that man after we were ambushed in Boston—in spite of what he’d done? So my own daughter wouldn’t have another death on her hands, on her conscience.” He took a breath to shore up his voice enough to go on.

  “But now I have to live with the fact that while I was in that room, torturing another human being, I had no doubts whatsoever about what I was doing. None. And I should have done, don’t you think?”

  And with that, my cold, detached and rational father put his face in his hands and wept like a child.

  EPILOGUE

  A month after we got back from Texas, I sat alone in the lofty apartment in Manhattan, staring at a small white box on the coffee table in front of me. I’d faced loaded guns with less trepidation, but that small white box scared the shit out of me.

  I’d gone ten blocks out of my way to visit a pharmacy I’d never been to before on the edge of Chinatown. I loitered at the back of the store until the checkout came free, so I could snatch up my purchase and rush it through, hardly breaking stride. Guilty as a teenage kid buying their first pack of condoms.

  The irony of that comparison wasn’t lost on me. I’d already worked out that the only time Sean and I had been too careless—in too much of an all-fired hurry—to think about such basic precautions, had been that time in the hotel in Boston. That one time. But sometimes, I knew, one time was all it took.

  I knew I’d been putting off finding out for certain if Vondie had been lying when she’d read out the results of that allencompassing blood test with such sly conviction. That’s the secret of a good interrogator, after all, to inject a writhing, squirming sense of self-doubt into the subject. To catch you off balance and batter you down, and to strike while the soft skin over the jugular is exposed.

  She’d stripped away my bravery down to bone-level fear and I’d responded in the only way I knew. I’d killed her.

  So, what kind of mother would I make?

  I thought of my own parents and, somehow, knowing they’d been in the room next to ours, had heard with mortifying clarity what might turn out to have been the conception of their grandchild, made it all the worse.

  Surprisingly, perhaps, I’d been in regular contact with my mother since I’d got back. She seemed to have emerged from the events of the previous month with a kind of serene calm, rediscovering an inner core to herself that had been long buried.

  “I just feel lucky to be alive,” she told me frankly, during one of the chatty transatlantic calls I’d grown, strangely, to enjoy. “It’s so easy to waste the time we have, don’t you think?”

  I wished my father had responded with the same composure but, as my mother had come out into the light, so he’d withdrawn, like the little figures on an ornamental clock. He’d taken a leave of absence from his surgical work at home, my mother told me, was considering early retirement. I didn’t get my father’s take on it directly. He never seemed available to come to the phone.

  The mysterious Mr. Epps, meanwhile—true to his word—had done some considerable cleaning up on our behalf. In return for complete silence on the subject of the whole Storax affair and Collingwood’s involvement in it, Epps had seen to it that Vondie’s death, and what had been done to Collingwood, was swept under the carpet. My only thought was that it must be one huge carpet—with a bloody big lump in the middle of it.

  Collingwood, so I was told, had suffered a partial paralysis of his right leg, and other areas of impaired function. I didn’t inquire as to the details. It was not quite enough to put him in a wheelchair, as my father had so eloquently outlined, but it did mean he had to rely heavily on a cane to take the daily half hour of exercise that was all his current incarceration allowed. I doubt I’ll ever know if my father spared him the full cut by chance or choice, but I’m inclined towards the latter.

  Epps magicked away the charges arising from my father’s enforced visit to the brothel in Bushwick. The Boston hospital suddenly clammed up on the subject of Jeremy Lee’s accelerated demise. We were not even questioned over the shooting of Don Kaminski during the roadside ambush Vondie had organized just outside Norwood. But, on the downside, Miranda Lee’s death remained officially a suicide.

  Storax announced a delay in the launch of their new treatment for osteoporosis. Manufacturing inconsistencies were cited as the main reason.

  There wasn’t much even Epps could do about the news reports that had already gone out regarding my father, or the opinions that had been formed from his own damning statement on TV, which I’d seen at the gym with Nick that day. It seemed a long time ago. But without any ongoing charges to propel the story forwards, it was already old news.

  Now, too restless to sit, I jumped up, stuffed my hands into my trouser pockets and paced to the window.

  It was edging towards November, early evening. A wet day, where a sneaky wind had surfed between the skyscrapers to tug at hats and umbrellas down at street level. It had driven the rain down the back of my bike jacket and penetrated the fingers of my gloves as I’d ridden the Buell home through traffic. And I hadn’t cared.

  I loved my job. More than that, it fitted me, gave me a unique sense of place, of belonging. I didn’t have to explain to these people who I was, or excuse what I could do. They already knew and they accepted me in spite or maybe because of it.

  I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Madeleine when Sean and I had gone to Cheshire to retrieve my mother, and I realized that I could finally tell her yes, at last, I had the respect for which I’d been searching.

  And maybe it was better not to think about the price.

  When we’d got back from Houston, Parker had put me straight back into the field without hesitation, even before I’d passed the Stress Under Fire course in Minneapolis. I’d returned from that the week before, to find Sean on assignment in Mexico City. He’d be gone another week, maybe two.

  More than long enough to formulate a way to tell him … whatever I needed to.

  I turned away from the sliding pattern of rain on the outside of the glass and looked across the room to where that damned white box lay, taunting me. Even buying the bloody pregnancy home testing kit was a form of defeat, I considered. It gave credence to Vondie’s invention. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard her laughing at me still.

  But I was late. Nothing unusual in that. My body clock had always been skewed and the slightest stress or trauma tended to knock it off its stride. Taking a hit from a TASER, an armful of dope, a life—it was enough to put a crimp in anyone’s day. But it meant I could no longer pretend this might not be a real possibility.

  I took a deep breath, snatched up the box as I passed the coffee table and locked myself in the bathroom, even though I was on my own in the apartment.

  I had to read the instructions three times before they sank in, followed them to the letter, and set the plastic stick on the vanity, next to the Tag watch Sean had given me. The packaging on the kit boasted 99 percent accurate results in less than a minute.

  Sixty seconds, and then you’ll know … .

  I sat on the edge of the bathtub with my arms wrapped round my body as if to ward off pain, and stared at the second hand as it made its stately sweep.

  And, quite unbidden, an image of Ella came into my mind. The little girl whose mother’s life I’d failed to protect in a frozen New Hampshire forest the winter before. Four-year-old Ella had sneaked under my skin and made off with my heart when I wasn’t looking. I’d nearly died trying to save her mother. I’d been fully prepared to do so in order to save the child.

  But to do it, I’d had to let the monster out. The cold-blooded monster inside me that could kill without pause or
pity. She’d glimpsed it, and been so terrified I’d been ordered to sever all contact with her, permanently. I’d missed her, I realized, more than I’d allowed myself to admit.

  And, riding in on the back of that revelation came a bubbling excitement, a dreadful kind of secret joy, that the kind of love I’d felt for that child, and set aside, might be mine again.

  Thirty seconds. Come on, come on!

  I thought of my father. Would he forgive me, finally, if I presented him with a grandchild—a grandson, to make up for the disappointment of a daughter in the first place? We’d had brief moments of connection along the way, but the greatest of them had been the one that had ultimately driven us furthest apart.

  Now, he couldn’t even bring himself to speak to me. Did he look at me and see what he’d become, I wondered. Did he blame me for that?

  Forty-five seconds. Did that damn watch stop?

  I wavered. The fear drenched me in a cold wash. A child. How the hell could I bring up a child to know right from wrong, when I spent each working day with a gun on my hip and had a body count in double figures? How could I be trusted, if I was tired, sleep-deprived, pushed beyond endurance, not to snap and do something even I would find abominable?

  And, disregarding Vondie’s gleefully dismal predictions, how would Sean really react to the news he was going to be a father?

  It won’t happen. False alarm. She was lying. It’ll be fine … .

  I checked my watch again, to find my minute was up, reached for the plastic stick with hands that were slick and not quite steady. For some time after that, I stared dumbly at the indicator, reread the instructions even though I knew there was no room for doubt about the result. It was indisputably, definitely, positive.

  So, Vondie hadn’t been lying after all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a novel is supposed to be a solitary occupation, but we know it isn’t. As always, many people came to my assistance with the writing of this book, generously providing encouragement, help, advice, and information. I’m humbly grateful, therefore, to—in no particular order—fellow mystery authors Reed Farrel Coleman, for details on the seedier areas of Brooklyn; Shane Gericke and Fred Rea, for firearms info; Libby Fischer Hellmann, for casting her eye over my accidental Britishisms; and D. P. Lyle, M.D., for his superb detailed medical input. If you want to know how to tie off an artery by the side of the road or break into a hospital, Doug Lyle’s your man.

  How can I not also mention other great writers who gave encouragement with this one—Ken Bruen, Lee Child, Jeffrey Deaver, and Stuart MacBride, as well as other enthusiasts within the industry—Jon and Ruth Jordan at Crimespree magazine and Ali Karim and Mike Stotter at Shots Ezine. Keep wiffling, boys.

  McKenna Jordan and David Thompson, from the independent mystery bookstore, Murder by the Book in Houston, added geographical detail, as did Terry Farmer. Thank you to the staff at the Deerfield Pistol & Archery Center in Deerfield, Wisconsin, for letting me play with some cool stuff.

  My test readers stood firm, as always—Peter Doleman, Claire Duplock, Sarah Harrison, Iris Rogers, Tim Winfield, and Shell Willbye (who also knows one end of a knitting needle from the other).

  Of course, my biggest debts go to my agent, the incomparable Jane Gregory, her editor, Emma Dunford, and all the staff at Gregory & Company Authors’ Agents, for their patience, faith, and understanding.

  Also to my UK publisher, Susie Dunlop, and my editor, Lara Swift, and all the incredibly enthusiastic and hardworking staff at Allison & Busby. And to my U.S. publisher, St. Martin’s Minotaur—in particular my editor, Marcia Markland, who also provided New York info; Diana Szu; and all the sales and marketing people who work so hard to make this book a reality in the United States.

  Of course, without the constant encouragement of my husband, Andy, nothing would ever get done. Again, thank you.

  And finally, I’d like to mention Terry O’Loughlin, who made the winning bid at the charity auction at Bouchercon in Madison, Wisconsin, in 2006, in aid of the Wisconsin Literacy, Inc., charity, to become a character in this book and whom it was enormous fun to include.

  ST. MARTIN’S / MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS TITLES BY ZOË SHARP

  First Drop

  Second Shot

  Third Strike

  CRITICAL PRAISE FOR THE WORKS OF ZOË SHARP!

  SECOND SHOT

  “Scarily good. Today’s best action heroine is back with a bang. Cross your fingers and toes that she survives for future adventures—you definitely want her to.”

  —Lee Child

  “Breathlessly compelling and utterly real.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “James Bond, watch your back.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Zoë Sharp is one of the best novelists in the business, and her hero Charlie Fox—comparable to Lee Child’s Jack Reacher—is arguably the most complex, endearing, and believable protagonist to grace the pages of a thriller in years. Fans of Child, Coben, and Connelly will find Sharp’s Charlie Fox novels addictive reading.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Sharp expertly builds suspense.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Doesn’t let up from page one to the end.”

  —New Mystery Reader magazine

  “Charlie Fox in action is the real payoff… Sharp makes the reader feel the pain.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “A direct hit, center and clean through.”

  —Crimespree magazine

  FIRST DROP

  “Absolutely riveting.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Intense…a nail-biting chase.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “The must-read heroine of mystery.”

  —Ken Bruen

  “Sharp keeps the plot moving at a lightning-fast pace … [Charlie Fox’s] lethal abilities and winning personality combine to make her a compelling figure.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Charlie Fox [is] a gal with moxie and deadly accuracy with a Sig Sauer. Slick, hard-boiled fare.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Action-packed, tightly plotted…irresistible.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Charlie Fox is something entirely new in crime fiction, a genuine female action hero—with passport. Fans of Thomas Perry’s Jane Whitefield series are sure to relish Charlie Fox, a true Brit with true grit. Zoë Sharp’s original voice, breakneck pacing, and crisp prose make for one riveting thriller. Charlie Fox is here to stay. Read First Drop, and then tell me if I’m wrong!”

  —Julia Spencer-Fleming, author of All Mortal Flesh

  “Zoë Sharp writes with a casual freshness that makes it all seem easy: her fully fleshed characters, her closely observed settings, her satisfying plot. American readers will be glad for the chance to get to know her.”

  —SJ Rozan, author of Absent Friends

  “Zoë Sharp is one of the brightest of the new generation of British crime writers, and Charlie Fox is a memorable creation—a welcome addition to the ranks of strong female characters who have turned crime fiction on its head.”

  —Stephen Booth, author of Dancing with the Virgins

  “Charlie Fox is an exceptional addition to the loner lead in crime fiction. Changing the setting she works in to the U.S. is a stroke of brilliance…. This is one roller coaster I didn’t want to get off of.”—Ruth Jordan,

  Crimespree magazine

  “The mystery genre has a shortage of female adventurers. British author Zoë Sharp excitingly fills that gap with her thrilling U.S. debut.”

  —Oline Cogdill, South Florida Sun-Sentinel

  “I feel like I’m reading a Lee Child thriller. I like everything about this book … Excellent—four stars.”

  —George Easter, Deadly Pleasures magazine

  “Deserves all accolades…combines relentless action and enough vulnerability to fully flesh out protagonist Charlie Fox. I can’t read it f
ast enough.”

  —Sarah Weinman

  “High-voltage…should signal the beginning of a beautiful relationship between British author Sharp and American readers. Sharp combines non-stop, heart-pounding action with a poignant relationship story.”

  —Booklist

  “Brilliantly suspenseful yet emotionally affecting…a stellar breakout. Were James Bond less of a sex addict, not misogynistic, and, well, a woman, he would be Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Fox…One of the strongest female characters working the dark alleys of mystery fiction nowadays.”

  —January magazine, Best of Crime Fiction 2005

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THIRD STRIKE

  Copyright © 2008 by Zoë Sharp.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Cover photograph of car and road © Veer.