But she'd had no choice. She was just thankful that Sage and Kit were safe.
"More to the right!" Kit said. "You're drifting off again, Charlie." Nothing was the same at night. All that was familiar by day was, in the blackness, a jagged world of hungry branches grabbing and poking at her.
"The barn's just there," Kit hissed. "Five more minutes, straight ahead. Can't you feel it? Can't you sense it there?"
Charlie couldn't. "But of course you can't," Kit said, placing a soft paw against Charlie's cheek, making her feel grossly inadequate. But then in Charlie's arms Sage looked up at her, and though she couldn't see his face clearly, the trusting feel of him, so relaxed against her, the trust of this wild and shy little feral touched her and made her feel needed.
She was stepping carefully through a tangle of vines when her cell phone played its short tune. Hastily she answered, not liking that electronic sound here in the silent woods; her crackling, clumsy progress through dry leaves and twigs and fallen branches was quite enough intrusion in this wild place-and quite enough to stir other predators.
"Where are you?" Max said. "The house is dark, the door unlocked. Are you all right? I'm at the barn. You haven't fed. The horses and dogs are still out. What is it, what's wrong?"
"I'm in the woods. I'm fine, I'm almost home. Sage ran off, but I found him. He seemed disoriented this afternoon, maybe his medication. When he ran out, Kit followed him, the way cats will." She had no idea whether an ordinary cat would do that, but what could she say? "I ran after her. It wasn't quite dark. I have a flashlight. I found them both, but there were…I could hear coyotes…"
Was he buying her rambling explanation? He said, "I'll saddle Bucky. I'll whistle to find you. Keep your light on."
"I…The battery's about dead."
Max said nothing. He hated it when she forgot to keep the batteries fresh. Cops, she thought. So damned careful about their equipment. But she was glad he was-and she wished she had been.
In a very short time she heard his whistle and the far sound of a horse approaching, stepping on twigs, the rustling sound as Bucky pushed through the dense foliage. He was there so quickly that she knew Max had hardly brushed Bucky's back, had just thrown the saddle on, jerked up the cinch, and headed out.
She'd have to tell him that she'd killed the coyotes. She wasn't looking forward to that. He must have still been on the highway when she fired, or he would have heard the shots. They'd have to send wildlife management to collect the bodies and test for rabies, and Max would question her to see if she or the cats had been bitten. She answered his whistle, and in a moment Bucky came looming out of the night between two stands of pine, nearly in her face, his pale shoulders catching her fading light, his nose pushing at her. She'd never been so glad to see anyone, she wanted to hug both Bucky and Max at once.
Leaning down from the saddle, Max took Sage gently from her.
"Watch his leg," she said. "He may have torn the splint loose."
Max got Sage settled in his arms, and took his foot out of the stirrup so she could swing up behind him. Kit clung to her shoulder, trying not to draw blood. The tortoiseshell was so careful that Charlie hardly felt a claw.
Quietly she settled behind Max on the saddle skirt, leaning against his warmth.
"Why did the cat run?" Max said, looking down at Sage. "Well, you couldn't leave him out here all trussed up. Damn cat. How did you find them in these tangles?"
"I could hear coyotes, that's what drew me. The cats were on a branch and two coyotes were leaping up at them."
"Lucky the coyotes didn't climb. They will, you know. Then what happened?"
She laid her head against his back. "I killed them."
And Max said nothing more as good Bucky made his way home through the night-black woods.
***
AS MIKE AND Dallas careened into the San Jose airport, their siren screaming and red light spinning, Dallas glanced at Mike with concern. His brother-in-law, not the type to come apart, was pale and sweating.
During his professional life, Mike Flannery had handled easily the most out-of-control parolees and the most temperamental judges, soothing both with the greatest diplomacy, but now he was a basket case, the detective had never seen him this way, not since the death of his wife, Dallas's sister. Pulling into the airport, navigating between drivers too preoccupied with finding their terminal to pull out of the way, between pedestrians too busy hauling luggage and racing for connections, he said, "You're not helping Lindsey. Get it together, take it easy!"
"What the hell was Lindsey doing, chasing them!"
Dallas slowed for a woman pushing a baby stroller. "Say Gibbs did kill the woman at the ruins. How would Lindsey know that? And how did Gibbs know we found the body? For that matter, why put his car in short-term if he meant to catch a flight and skip?"
Stopping to snatch a ticket to open the gate, Dallas maneuvered through the covered parking area toward the flashing lights, approaching the cordoned-off crime scene. "Why the hell haven't they cleared a larger area, cleared the whole parking garage?" But most of the area would already be contaminated by the movement of officers and their vehicles. Dallas moved on through, pulling up behind the medics' van. The Blazer hadn't come to a stop when Mike jumped out and ran.
Two officers behind the van grabbed him. He shoved them away, his rage surging, jerked open the van doors and leaped inside, his mind a cold blank, not wanting to think what he would find.
The body was covered with a sheet. The face covered, a hank of brown hair hanging down. A sheet pulled over her face as if…as if…Kneeling beside the stretcher, he reached over, ignoring the medic's hand on his shoulder. When the medic held him back, he straightened up and spun around swinging.
The medic grabbed his arm. Tall, skinny, no more than a kid, he didn't back off, but looked at him steadily. All he said was "Can you identify her?" Then Dallas was there beside him, too, gripping his shoulder. Mike shrugged him off, wanting to be alone with her, not wanting anyone near them. The two men backed off. He reached out to her, reached to lift the sheet, steeling himself. Needing to touch her, to hold her. Not wanting to see her like this. Wanting to turn away, not really knowing what he wanted.
He folded the sheet back. Didn't want to look, and was drawn to look, to touch her face…
He went limp. Felt Dallas supporting him.
Ryder. It was Ryder. Ryder Wolf lay there, not Lindsey. Ryder, blood congealing on her face, blood gluing her shirt to her chest. He stared at her, shocked with relief.
She'd apparently taken a glancing shot to her cheek and jaw, the flesh and bone were torn, clotted with drying blood. There was a second, close shot to her chest. Her blouse was torn open where the medics had staunched the wound with gauze. He looked at her for a long time. Thanking God that this was Ryder. Wondering if he'd burn in hell for his joy and gratitude at someone's death. But Lindsey was safe, Lindsey was alive.
Wasn't she? Where was she?
Stepping down out of the van, he realized Dallas was still holding his arm. He looked around, past the cops and security people, past the tangle of vehicles, scanning the covered parking.
"Where is she? Where's her car?"
Dallas pointed. The tan Mercedes, circled by yellow crime scene tape. A man was coming toward him carrying a black satchel, a stoop-shouldered man wearing a mussed suit, his tie loose over the open collar of a rumpled white shirt, a man who held out his hand to Dallas.
He watched and listened to Dallas greet Emmett Brassen, the San Jose medical examiner. None of their conversation seemed to make sense, they could have been speaking in Swahili. Brassen complained about the contamination of the crime scene, then headed for the Mercedes. Mike, behind him, approached Lindsey's car, where cops and a plainclothes detective were working, and now he was afraid again.
But if Lindsey were hurt, they'd have her in the medics' van. Was she in the car, at an angle where he couldn't see? Approaching the Mercedes, his stomach twisted.
/> He stopped where he could see in through the car's open door. No one in the driver's seat. It was covered with blood. Bloody Levi's jacket bunched up on the passenger seat, a plain Levi's jacket like the one Lindsey had worn this morning. He could not see a purse. Had she carried a purse this morning? He looked into the backseat, saw that it was empty. Moving away, he scanned the rows of parked civilian cars, looking for her, cold with the feeling that he'd see her lying on the concrete. Three officers were walking the scene, not collecting trace evidence but looking for Lindsey, looking in and under cars. Mike was both annoyed by their interference and annoyed by his illogical reaction, and thankful for their help.
He had no notion that someone else had already scanned the scene, far more efficiently, crouched on the concrete where he could see nearly the whole floor of the parking complex except behind the cement pillars.
***
SEEING NO BODY, Joe had returned to the shadows beneath the Mercedes, where he at last picked up Lindsey's scent trail, carefully sorting it out from Ryder's and Ray's scents and from the aromas of the many officers. Ducking behind wheels and pillars, he had tracked Lindsey until he lost her at the curb, where her trail vanished abruptly. He sniffed the curb and sidewalk for a long time, trying to find her again among the scents of hundreds of pedestrians, and sidestepping those caring folk who were sure he had escaped from his cat carrier and should be bound for the hold of some unknown flight, who wanted to pick him up and take him to security.
Had he simply lost her scent? Had she made it to another level of the parking complex, or maybe inside the terminal? Or had she gotten into a car at the curb? Had Ray Gibbs doubled back after shooting Ryder, found Lindsey trying to get away, and forced her in at gunpoint? And had taken her where in the stolen Audi?
From behind a pillar, Joe watched Mike and Dallas and the other officers searching for Lindsey, watched Dallas place a number of calls and talk with various officers and airport personnel, trying to get a line on what might have happened to her. The two men joined a search of the airport, which, in Joe's opinion, was like trying to catch a fly in a whirlwind. He could see them inside talking with airline and airport employees. They were gone a long time, the tomcat was growing hungry and sleepy again, feeling lost again, when they returned, Mike looking pale and despondent. They were talking with the SJPD sergeant once more when Mike's cell phone rang.
"Flannery." Mike listened, looked up only to signal Dallas. As Dallas joined him, Mike found a slip of paper in his pocket and hastily jotted something.
"We're on our way," he said. "Be careful, stay out of sight. Get out of there, now. Out the back, there has to be a back entrance. Stay out of his way until the law gets there."
Clicking off, Mike stood grinning at Dallas, looking so relieved that Joe's own heart pumped harder. "She's in the city, at the wharf. Gibbs just checked into the Argonaut, or seems to have. Unless he made her and has given her the slip. She called the PD. You better call them."
"How did she…?"
"She followed him in a cab," Mike said. "The fare took most of her cash. She's convinced he didn't see her. Said there were several yellow cabs on the freeway, and her driver kept well back.
"Said that when Gibbs drove around to Fisherman's Wharf, her driver followed on the next street. Said Gibbs was driving really carefully, taking his time. Saw him go in the hotel. She's across the street in a restaurant, thinks he took a room at the front, saw a curtain pulled back and said it looked like Gibbs at the window."
Dallas accessed his phone list, hit the number for SFPD, and made sure there were officers on the way. Then he called San Francisco's detective division and got a detective he knew. As he laid out the scenario, setting in place some backup to the street patrol, Joe Grey moved fast for Dallas's Blazer. He wasn't going to be left behind on this one. Not in this godforsaken airport, forty miles from home.
34
AS DALLAS AND Mike ran for the Blazer, Joe raced to its far side and leaped at the door handle, pawing awkwardly, trying to flip it up and open. Blazer handles were not made for cat paws. Had Dallas locked the vehicle? In his frantic assault, would he set off the alarm? He'd had enough of that. As he flew at the latch, the two men came pounding-and just as he'd feared, the horn blasted suddenly in a heart-stopping cacophony that sent him flying for cover under the adjacent cars.
Dallas halted and circled the car, ready to move on a foolish burglar. Finding no one, he shoved his key in the door, swung in, and started the engine, silencing the din. As Mike opened the passenger door, Joe slipped behind him, crouching to bolt inside.
Mike was too fast, slamming the door as the tomcat leaped clear. Better left behind than crushed like an insect. Slinking away defeated, under the line of concealing vehicles, he watched the Blazer back out and move away through the parking lot, heading for San Francisco.
He was alone. In the vast, unfriendly airport. Alone in a strange city. Crouched on the cold, hard concrete trying to think what to do.
***
MOST OF THE San Jose officers had left. Two forensics officers were working the scene, photographing Lindsey's car inside and out, lifting prints. They had already walked a large grid through the parking area, and despite the contamination of other officers, had looked for anything dropped, had photographed visible footprints, and, around the car, had used a spray chemical to pick up unseen shoe marks. Now, working the inside of the Mercedes, Joe watched them vacuum, then use a sticky roller to pick up trace evidence. Slipping away behind the officers, Joe steered clear of the few law enforcement cars that were still heading out. None of them was from MPPD, they were all strangers. Taking shelter in the shadows beneath a red Honda Civic, he tried not to panic.
Clyde didn't know where he was. Nor did Dulcie. And Kit was too involved with mooning and sulking over Sage to think of much else. He was alone. Stuck in an unfamiliar and unfriendly airport. He didn't know whether he was more scared or more angry.
How do I get out of this one? How the hell do I get home? He was almost tempted to slip into one of the remaining patrol units, hitch a ride to San Jose PD.
Oh, right. Just his luck to link up with a cop who, finding a presumably stray cat crouched in the back of his unit, would take him straight to the pound.
He listened to the casual exchanges between the two forensics officers. He licked his sweating paws. He tried to ignore the chill in his belly that was fast turning into panic. This was the way an abandoned pet would feel when it was coldly dropped on some unfamiliar street miles from home. Torn away from home and hearth, from its humans and its blanket and food bowl. Set adrift, expected to survive among strangers in a heartless world. And he was filled with the same panic he'd known as a homeless, starving kitten in San Francisco alleys.
Except, now he was far more familiar with the cruelties a cat could encounter in the human world.
But only for a few moments did the tomcat indulge himself in his dramatic bout of self-pity before he remembered the old, horse-scented pickup truck with Ryder's cell phone hidden behind the crates.
He took off running under the rows of parked cars, almost forgetting to listen and look for moving vehicles, praying the pickup with the cell phone was still there, that some disembarking passenger hadn't thrown his bag in the back and taken off for a far-flung farm.
He smelled the truck before he saw it. The sweet scent of horses that made him nostalgic for the Harper ranch. The truck was still there, and the driver wasn't, and he leaped into the metal bed scrabbling for the phone. Half expecting it to be gone, half expecting that Ray had somehow found and retrieved it. He hadn't seen him do that, Ray hadn't had time; but for a moment Joe let his imagination run wild, he envisioned Ray finding another phone hidden in the Audi, imagined Ray slipping back to cruise the parking lot, windows down, calling Ryder's phone and following the familiar ring tone to its source in the pickup.
But of course nothing like that had happened. The phone was where he'd left it. He pawed it free of the
crates and dialed Clyde's cell number.
He listened to it ringing. Tried not to think about what would happen later if the cops investigated Ryder's phone bills, checked out the numbers called on this date and wanted to know why Ryder had called Clyde.
One ring. Two…If it got to the fifth ring, it would go on message. Did Clyde have the phone off? Joe waited, growing cross. Turn your phone on! Turn it on, Clyde!
Or was Clyde looking at the incoming number and, not recognizing it, wondering with his usual annoyance if this was some unwelcome sales pitch?
Three rings, four. Desolation drowned Joe. Maybe he should ride home to the farm with the driver of the pickup. Better that than the city pound, than a cage, dry cat kibble, and forced adoption or the gas chamber.
"Damen," Clyde said gruffly, just before the fifth ring.
"I'm in San Jose," Joe said. "I need a little help here. No money for a cab, or a bus ticket," he said, hoping to get a laugh out of Clyde.
No laugh. Only a long silence. A heavy, demoralizing silence.
"Clyde? I'm at the San Jose airport. I need a ride. Do you think-"
"We're on our way," Clyde said before Joe could grovel and beg. "We just passed Gilroy."
"How did you…? What're you doing in Gilroy?"
"Hold on," Clyde said none too sweetly. There was some muttering, then Ryan came on. "Joe, are you all right? Where are you, exactly? Where at the airport? How do we find you?"
"How did you…?"
"Dulcie figured it out. How will we find you?"
He gave her directions from the A tunnel entry. "I am, at the moment, in the bed of a 1999 Honda pickup. Green, with three wooden crates tied in the back, and smelling of horses. If the pickup's gone, I'll be…" Rearing up, he looked around short-term parking for a likely retreat. "I'll be near the shuttle stop, under a bench. Did this number show on your screen?"
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