Blind Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

  “She probably has enough of the medicine left from the last refill of her prescription. As for the watch ... Maybe she bought a new one you don’t know about. Or maybe she just forgot. Or she wants to get away from schedules and deadlines for a while.”

  “Schedules and deadlines are her life.” He heard despair in her voice.

  Walker hesitated, then sat beside her. The mattress springs creaked, and the Smith .38 in his armpit holster rubbed against his ribs.

  “Maybe,” he said slowly, “she needs a temporary break from her life. All of us do now and then.”

  “She flipped out? Erin?”

  “That’s putting it a little strong. Look, Annie, it sounds to me as if your sister subjects herself to a lot of pressure. A place for everything and everything in its place. Never late for an appointment, never irresponsible, never out of control. It’s hard to maintain that kind of discipline day after day.”

  “Not for her. That’s just the way she is.”

  ‘Then there’s this to consider. She’s a psychologist. The mental-health professions have among the highest rates of”—suicide, he nearly said, but checked himself—“burnout. Dealing with other people’s problems all day can get pretty grim. Erin simply may have needed some time off.”

  Annie looked at him, and he saw stripes of wetness on her cheeks. “I talked to her on the phone yesterday. We made a lunch date. She didn’t sound depressed or overworked or stressed out. She was fine.”

  “You don’t know what she might have been hiding.”

  “We don’t hide stuff from each other.”

  “Everybody hides something.”

  “Not us.” Anger flashed in her eyes. He thought of gemstones catching the light. “We’re close. We’ve always been. Ever since ...”

  The spark died then, and her eyes were glassy and cold.

  “Since ...?” Walker prompted.

  She gazed at her restless hands. “Since we were seven years old. We lost our parents, you see. We were orphaned together.”

  Gently he touched her arm. “How did that happen?”

  “Fire.” The word a whisper.

  He didn’t know what to say. The question that came out of his mouth was safely factual and meaningless. “Was this in Tucson?”

  “No, in California. Small town called Sierra Springs, where we were born. We moved to Tucson after the fire. Our aunt adopted us. Aunt Lydia.”

  “Your mother’s sister?”

  “Yes. She lived here in town.”

  He picked up on the singular pronoun. “Alone? No husband?”

  Her gaze ticked toward him, then away. “Lydia’s husband ... died.” Peculiar hesitation there. “Years before. So Lydia had to raise us on her own. She worked two jobs. It was rough on her.”

  On her. Walker almost smiled at the way she put it. “I’d say you and Erin were the ones who really had it rough.”

  “Yeah, well ... it was a long time ago.”

  The unnatural pause in her statement about Lydia’s husband intrigued him. Lydia, he thought. Lydia what?

  “Did you take your aunt’s last name?” he asked casually.

  “No. Reilly was our father’s name. Albert Reilly. We wanted to keep it. Even though ... I mean ...” She swallowed. “We just wanted to keep his name, that’s all.”

  Defensiveness in her tone, which he didn’t understand.

  “Our aunt was Lydia Connor,” she added. “You might have heard of her.”

  He frowned. “I don’t think so. What makes you say that?”

  “Just because ... Well, she was local, you know. Lots of people knew her.” Evasiveness now. Strange.

  “I take it your aunt is no longer living.”

  Annie blinked. “She passed away six years ago. Cancer. How did you know?”

  “You told me on the phone that you had no family.”

  “Oh. That’s right. No family ... except Erin. She’s all I’ve got left.” She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead and fixed him with her green gaze. “You’re not going to help me, are you, Detective?”

  “Michael.”

  She would not be charmed. “You haven’t answered my question ... Michael.”

  Here was the bad part. The words he hated having to say.

  “Let me explain the situation,” he began slowly. “In order for Tucson P.D. to initiate an investigation of a missing adult, certain requirements have to be met.” He disliked talking this way, as if quoting from the rules-and-procedures manual. “If the person is believed to be mentally unstable, or is elderly and easily confused, then we have a basis for pursuing the matter. Or if there’s some evidence of foul play or suicide or accident.” He showed her his hands, palms out. “In other words, there has to be a justification for the use of police resources.”

  Frustration smoldered in her face, rising slowly to a white heat of fury. “And in this case there isn’t?”

  “I don’t see any reason to suspect that a crime has been committed or is likely to be. It’s not illegal for an adult to pack up and leave town. It may be irresponsible, inexplicable, but it’s not a crime.”

  “Damn it, she’s disappeared!”

  Abruptly she was on her feet, glaring down at him from a sudden advantage of height. Her small hands were balled into fists at her sides, the knuckles squeezed white.

  “I told you Erin isn’t irresponsible or impulsive or emotional. I’m the emotional one, for God’s sake. I get moods, I get crazy—but not Erin. She’d never walk out on her patients or ... or on me.”

  Her rage died with the last words. As she turned her back to him, he saw fresh tears tracking down her face.

  He rose, put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She was a small woman, perhaps five foot two; at five-eleven he all but towered over her. But there was strength in her, wiry strength in her thin, sinewy arms, and a nervous tension that held her body stiffly upright even now, in this storm of feeling.

  He watched her face, blushing with the shame of uncensored emotions, and her hands, fingers interlocked and twisting, knuckles and tendons rippling under the smooth, taut, lightly freckled skin—he watched, and he wished for something to say, some reassurance he could give.

  Then, looking at him from behind a skein of mussed hair, she whispered, “Please, isn’t there anything you can do?”

  He hesitated, avoiding her gaze like a coward. “Officially ... no.”

  “But unofficially?”

  His caseload was crowded enough as it was. This woman, Erin Reilly, obviously had left of her own volition. Ridiculous for him to offer any assistance—certainly not this soon, when less than twenty-four hours had passed.

  But Annie was still watching him, the anguish in her eyes not easy to look at.

  “Unofficially,” Walker said quietly, both angry and amused at himself for softening his resolve, “I can do a little more. Not much. But a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can contact airport security, have them look for her car in the parking lots. It she left it there, we know she took a flight out of town. Same with the bus and railroad stations.”

  “What else?”

  Walker gave her credit for persistence. “Does she have any favorite places to visit, any particular hotels she likes?”

  Annie thought hard. “She goes to conferences in Phoenix fairly often. Stays at the Crown Sterling up there. And she went to San Francisco last year. What hotel was it? The Fairmont. She said she wanted to go back someday.”

  “The clothes she packed were a little skimpy for San Francisco in April, but it’s a possibility. Any chance she would return to the town where you grew up? Sierra Springs?”

  “I doubt it. Wouldn’t be hard to check, though. There’s only one motel there. The Sierra Springs Inn on Route Forty-nine.”

  “I’ll fax Erin’s M.V.D. photo to all three places.”

  “Can you put out an A.P.B. on her?”

  “I’m afraid not. She isn’t wanted for anything. As I said, leavi
ng town’s not illegal.”

  Annie frowned. “It ought to be.”

  Walker squeezed her arm. “Later, if she doesn’t contact you or resurface within a reasonable time period—say, forty-eight hours—there might be more I can do. Start tracking her credit card purchases, for one thing. That may lead us right to her.”

  “Or to whoever’s using her cards.”

  “There’s no reason to keep assuming the worst. Your sister will be fine. You’ll probably hear from her soon. For all we know, she may have called your office within the last hour to explain.”

  “I don’t think she can call. And I don’t believe she left of her own free will.”

  “Then somebody went to a lot of trouble to make it appear that way.”

  “Yes.” Annie’s face was grim. “Somebody did.”

  Walker knew of nothing he could say to that.

  19

  Erin was opening a can of tuna fish for dinner when the idea came to her.

  Slowly she disengaged the manual opener from the rim of the can and lifted it toward the light. The cutting blade was sharp. It could serve as a file.

  Last night she’d concluded that her only hope of defeating the bolt on the cellar door was to pry it open with an ice pick or similar tool. Now she wondered if she could make what she needed.

  Rummaging in her suitcase, she found her comb. Eight inches long, with a hard plastic spine the color of tortoiseshell.

  Might work. Just might.

  Did she dare try it now? She still had no clear idea of the time, but to judge by her appetite, it must be at least seven o’clock.

  Her abductor had said he would be back in the evening. He could return at any moment.

  Or not for hours. Or not at all.

  Risk it.

  * * *

  Gund arrived at Erin’s apartment building at 7:15.

  He’d closed the flower shop forty-five minutes earlier, dropped off the floral centerpiece at Antonio’s Restaurant, then grabbed a fast-food meal at a drive-through window. Eating as he drove, he’d headed south to Broadway, then east toward the edge of town.

  The ranch wasn’t far. He would get there by eight at the latest. But first he had to retrieve Erin’s epilepsy medicine.

  He parked the van and got out. Briskly he walked to the lobby door, the same door Erin had buzzed open last night. Her own keys let him in this time.

  The lobby was empty. He ducked into the stairwell and hurried up the four flights of stairs, encountering nobody along the way.

  On the top floor he peered into the corridor and saw a man in a business suit unlocking an apartment door. Gund waited until the hall was empty, then left the stairwell and proceeded directly to Erin’s apartment.

  Key in the hole, twist of the knob, and the door swung open.

  The living room lights were on. Annie must have neglected to turn them off.

  Unless—disturbing thought—unless she was still here. But she couldn’t be. Her meeting with the police detective had been scheduled for 4:15. It couldn’t possibly have lasted three hours.

  Even so, he paused in the doorway, listening for voices within the apartment.

  Silence.

  Down the hall the elevator pinged, signaling someone’s arrival. The noise prodded him into the apartment. Softly he shut the door.

  Safe. And unobserved so far.

  Now just get the medicine and depart.

  Despite his haste, residual caution made him pad quietly through the living room to the apartment’s interior hallway. To his right were Erin’s bedroom and, next to it, the den.

  He froze.

  In the den—Annie.

  She sat at Erin’s desk, hunched over the computer keyboard, reading text on the amber monitor.

  Her back was turned to him. She hadn’t seen or heard him yet, didn’t suspect she was not alone.

  But if she did discover him ...

  No way he could talk his way out of it. He would have to kill her.

  His pistol and stun gun were in the van. But he could do the job with his bare hands. Grasp her by the chin and give her head a swift sideways yank—

  He could almost hear the crackle of snapping bone.

  No. It wouldn’t come to that.

  All he had to do was get what he’d come for and leave. Annie would never know he’d been here.

  The bathroom was to his left. He crept inside, grateful that the overhead light had been left on. Soundlessly he eased open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet and scanned the shelves.

  There. Top shelf. Small plastic bottle, white label.

  Leaning against the counter, he reached up and closed his fist over the bottle.

  Tegretol. Two hundred milligrams.

  He pocketed it, turned toward the hall, and from the den there came the sound of a footstep.

  * * *

  Annie shut off the computer and stood. Pain jabbed her temples; stress and fatigue had brought on a headache.

  Long after Walker’s departure, she had lingered in Erin’s apartment.

  No reason to stay, except she’d felt a desperate need to be close to her sister. Pointlessly she had wandered through the neat, uncluttered rooms, touching the walls, reading the titles of books on the shelves, smiling briefly as she fingered a carved ironwood turtle she’d given Erin as a birthday present a few years ago. The smile had seemed to hurt her mouth; she’d found herself biting her lip as if in pain.

  “Erin,” she’d said to the lonely space around her, “where are you?”

  The ticking of a clock had been the only reply.

  In the den she’d noticed Erin’s computer, the keyboard covered by a dust shield. Erin kept a journal on the hard disk. Walker had recommended reading it for clues to her state of mind.

  A waste of time, most likely; still, no option could be overlooked. And Annie had known of nothing else to do.

  Sitting at the desk, she’d booted up the word processing software. With a vague feeling of guilt about invading her sister’s privacy, she’d begun to read the journal. The earliest entries were dated two years ago; the file was forty pages long.

  She’d assumed the journal was personal, but quickly discovered she’d been wrong. It was concerned almost exclusively with the progress of Erin’s patients. Little about her private life was included.

  Even so, Annie had read it all. She’d sat there staring at the amber monitor for two hours. And she’d learned nothing.

  In Erin’s notes there had been no hint of any intention to stop work or leave town. Quite the contrary, in fact. The last entry, dated April 16, had concluded: Tony still resisting; try sentence-completion Wed.

  Wednesday was tomorrow.

  No, Erin hadn’t been planning to abandon her patients. But Annie had already known that.

  Grimacing, she rubbed her forehead.

  Aspirin. She needed aspirin. Major headache coming on.

  Wearily she wandered down the hall, into the bathroom.

  The door to the medicine cabinet hung open. Funny. She thought she remembered Walker closing it.

  She looked inside. Allergy pills, antacid tablets, antibacterial ointments ...

  Then she frowned, suddenly alert, headache and exhaustion forgotten.

  Where was the Tegretol?

  The new refill of Erin’s prescription had been kept on the upper shelf. Walker had studied it, then put it back—and now it was gone.

  But it couldn’t be gone.

  Had Walker only pretended to replace the bottle? Had he taken it for some reason? No, ridiculous. Removing property from the premises without permission must be illegal. Anyway, why would he want it?

  She looked through all the items on every shelf of the cabinet. No Tegretol.

  The bottle had disappeared. And the cabinet had been left open....

  As if someone had been here. As if someone had taken the pills.

  Crazy thought. She’d been in the apartment the whole time. Nobody could have broken in without her hear
ing it.

  But maybe there’d been no need to break in. Maybe the intruder had used Erin’s keys.

  Maybe it had been Erin herself.

  No, impossible, unthinkable. She was imagining all this. Of course she was.

  Yet even as she told herself as much, her gaze crept to the far end of the bathroom, to the shower stall and the blue shower curtain hanging limply from the rod.

  The curtain was translucent, but the glow of the ceiling light barely reached into the stall. Someone could be hidden behind it.

  And suddenly she felt with unnatural certainty that someone was.

  “Erin?” she whispered. “Erin, are you there?”

  She took a step toward the curtain.

  Every instinct shouted at her not to touch it, not to draw it back and expose whatever—whoever—might be concealed on the other side.

  Another step. She was within reach of the blue plastic folds.

  Her hand closed over the edge of the curtain.

  Don’t, a panicky internal voice warned.

  A jerk of her shoulder, and she threw aside the curtain.

  Hooks scraped noisily on the rod. The curtain accordioned against the tiled wall.

  No one was there.

  Annie exhaled a slow sigh.

  Nerves. That was all it had been. Just nerves getting the better of her.

  She turned away from the shower, then glanced back to reassure herself that it was empty. A soft chuckle briefly startled her before she recognized it as her own.

  Nobody had come here to steal the Tegretol. The stuff was missing for some perfectly ordinary reason. Perhaps it simply had fallen off the shelf to the floor, then rolled out of sight.

  She stooped, looking under the sink and behind the door.

  Nothing.

  But in a corner a blue-green sparkle caught her attention. A small turquoise stone, catching the light of the overhead lamp.

  The stone bothered Annie, though she wasn’t sure why. She picked it up, studying it with a frown.

  Then she realized what was troubling her. Erin never wore turquoise. Disliked it intensely, in fact. Always had, ever since childhood, despite the gem’s ubiquity in Arizona.

  So what was it doing here?

  Well, other people had used the bathroom. Friends, neighbors, anyone who’d dropped by for a visit. Presumably one of them had lost the stone, which might easily have fallen free of a gem-inlaid boot or purse.