Blind Pursuit

by Michael Prescott

The photo still clutched in her left hand.

  * * *

  Gund found the manila folder at the rear of the drawer, plucked it out of the cabinet, flipped it open.

  Empty.

  All the breath hissed out of him, and he stared at it, just stared.

  It couldn’t be gone. He always kept it in this folder. Always.

  Unless this morning he’d forgotten. Left it in the bathroom or the bedroom ...

  No. He remembered returning it to its hiding place. Would never leave it in plain sight. After all, what if someone were to break in and find it—

  Break in.

  Annie.

  The skin at the base of his spine tightened. The muscles of his shoulders bunched up with new tension.

  She’d followed him earlier tonight. Had she come here afterward? Had she gotten in somehow and gone through his things? His most private, most personal things?

  His gaze, ticking restlessly, stopped on the desk lamp.

  The pull chain shivered, as if still vibrating from a violent tug.

  Slowly he reached out, touched the unlit bulb.

  His finger jerked away.

  Hot.

  That lamp had been on just seconds ago.

  He shut his eyes, his last tissuey strand of self-control shredding, unraveling under irresistible pressure.

  His hand dipped into the side pocket of his jacket, closed over the grip of the Taurus 9mm pistol.

  He removed it. The blued barrel gleamed in the harsh glare of the overhead lamp.

  The safety, when switched off, made a distinct click, loud in the room’s stillness.

  * * *

  A sob rose in Annie’s throat. She choked it back.

  That noise she’d heard—it was a gun, wasn’t it? She didn’t know, couldn’t be sure, but the sharp click reminded her of the sound a gun made on TV when the actor prepared to fire.

  If he was armed ...

  Even weaponless, Gund ought to be more than a match for her, but she might have an outside chance. She’d watched Erin perform some defensive moves learned in that martial-arts class. Might be able to duplicate one or two of the simpler maneuvers.

  But if he had a gun, a loaded gun—well, she couldn’t fight that. Could only plead or scream, and somehow she didn’t think either response would save her.

  A slam of metal from the corner of the room punched through her thoughts. For a disoriented second she was sure it was a gunshot, but no, of course not, it hadn’t been nearly loud enough.

  The cabinet drawer banging shut. That was what she’d heard.

  Then silence, filled only with Gund’s rapid, shallow breathing, audible to her even under the desk.

  He must have discovered that the photo was missing.

  What next? Would he search for it? And if he did, would he start here or in another room?

  Uselessly she pressed herself tighter against the desk’s rear panel.

  A soft thud. The floor shuddered.

  He’d moved the file cabinet to look behind it. Which meant he was searching the den first.

  The desk was the only other hiding place in the room. He would look here next.

  She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to cry, but suddenly she was certain she would die in a few seconds.

  Gund’s shoes marched into view, directly before the swivel chair.

  The chair was pulled away.

  Teeth clenched, eyes squeezed nearly shut, Annie watched through a blur of tears as Gund began to kneel.

  From the bathroom next door, a shatter of glass.

  Gund grunted—a subhuman interrogative sound—then bolted upright and pounded out of the room.

  Annie started breathing again.

  A reprieve. She didn’t understand it, but she’d been granted a reprieve.

  She dived forward, wriggling out from under the desk.

  * * *

  Gund had her now.

  Hiding in the bathroom, the stupid bitch. The next place he would have looked.

  His hand was hot, the pistol icy against his fingers.

  Two quick strides, and he pivoted into the doorway, hit the light switch.

  On the floor, a bar of soap and a spray of glass shards.

  Perched on the counter, fur bristling, an alley cat.

  No Annie in sight. Just some damn stray that had jumped through the open window and knocked the glass soap dish off the counter—

  The open window.

  But that window didn’t open, ever. It was sealed shut.

  Gund blinked, then realized the glass had been removed from the frame.

  Annie had gotten in that way. Maybe escaped that way, too. Maybe heard him coming and left as he entered via the front door.

  With a snarl he lunged for the window. The cat hopped onto the toilet tank with a frightened screech, then slipped outside.

  Gund thrust his head into the passageway, glanced up and down its length, the pistol extended before him and ready to fire. He would shoot her regardless of the consequences, shoot to kill even though the noise would bring a dozen cops to the scene.

  In his mind he pictured himself placing a single, perfectly centered bullet between her wide, terrified eyes.

  “Filth,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

  But she wasn’t there. No one was there. The passage was empty save for the cat, gazing up at him curiously, a furred ink spot with a green luminous gaze.

  Gund swung the pistol toward the stray, almost enraged enough to waste a shot on that worthless target, and the cat, sensing danger, wheeled abruptly and vanished into the shadows.

  Gone. Like Annie herself. Gone.

  * * *

  Annie struggled to her feet, stuffed the photo in her pocket—evidence, she thought vaguely—then padded to the window of the den.

  She unlocked it, tugged it open a few inches. The friction of the stiles against the casting produced a teeth-jarring squeal that froze her in terror.

  Helpless, she waited for Gund to pound back into the room, drawn by the noise.

  He didn’t appear. Hadn’t heard, obviously. But if she forced open the window any farther, he was sure to come running.

  The only other exit was the door to the hallway, and Gund was out there.

  But maybe the hall was clear. She had to chance it. No alternative.

  Soundlessly she crossed the room, then peered past the door frame, shaking in expectation of the gunshot that would take her head off like a clay target in a shooting gallery.

  No shot. No Gund. The corridor was empty.

  In the bathroom, a snarl of anger.

  That was where he’d gone.

  All right, then. Down the hall. Now, while she had an opportunity.

  She stepped fast but lightly, urgency balanced with caution. The hallway was carpeted—some cheap short-nap stuff, but thick enough to muffle her footfalls.

  A screech from Gund’s lavatory. Cat noise. Absurdly she wondered if Stink was in there, if he’d come to rescue her, like Lassie.

  Not Stink, of course. The alley cat. Must have slipped in through the window, broken something, diverted Gund.

  At the bathroom doorway now. She would have to cross in front of the open door. That was bad, very bad. Gund couldn’t help but see her.

  Risking a peek inside, she felt a rush of hope. Gund’s back was turned to her as he stared out the window into the passage.

  Go.

  Past the doorway in a silent flash of motion, and then she was safely on the other side, hugging the wall.

  From the bathroom another enraged growl, terrifyingly close, followed by an explosive crackle of glass.

  Thud of footsteps. He was coming out.

  Ahead of her, an open door. She ducked into Gund’s bedroom and prayed he wouldn’t come this way, prayed he would return to the den and give her time to escape.

  * * *

  Gund spun away from the window, animal growls erupting from his throat, fury and shame overriding a last effort at restraint.
>
  He struck out with his fist. Smashed the bathroom mirror. Cymbal crash of impact. Cascade of silvered shards. A hundred reflections of himself spilling to the floor.

  Out of the bathroom, bellowing. Down the hall to the den. Was she under the desk? No.

  Where the hell was she?

  Wait. The window. Open a crack.

  It had been closed a half minute ago, when he’d left the room.

  She must have tried to get out that way while he was distracted by the cat. But she hadn’t succeeded, obviously. She was still somewhere in the apartment.

  “Boss?” he whispered, a chilly, feral gleam in his eyes.

  The answering silence mocked him.

  He left the den at a run.

  * * *

  Annie considered escaping through a bedroom window, but it would take time to go out that way, and time was one thing she was sure she didn’t have.

  The hallway was empty again, Gund back in the den. The doorway to the living room was two steps away.

  Chance it.

  She dashed across the hall, into the living room, brightly illuminated now and somehow rendered more dismal in the glare.

  Gund was a sad man with a sad life, but she felt no twinge of pity.

  Behind her, a bestial roar.

  Insane, she thought as she darted among the sparse furnishings on her way to the front door. He’s completely insane.

  And he was coming this way.

  From the hall, the mounting racket of his footsteps. He would be inside the living room in seconds.

  She reached the door, fumbled for the knob, her hand slippery with perspiration, fingers sliding on the smooth metal.

  Get a grip, Annie, she ordered, unconscious of any pun.

  Her hand found purchase. The knob turned, the door popped open, and she was outside, shutting the door behind her, then sprinting down the paved walk, into the street, the macadam a dark blur under her racing feet, the corner straight ahead.

  Backward glance. Gund wasn’t behind her, not yet.

  She’d been sure he would see the door swing shut.

  But maybe he hadn’t gone directly into the living room. Maybe he’d looked in the bedroom first.

  Gasping, she turned the corner, flew past a line of parked cars, and then her Miata was beside her and she was digging in her skirt pocket for her keys.

  Abruptly the wire fence of the auto lot clanged with a violent impact—the Doberman, leaping at her, slavering wildly, releasing a crazed volley of barks.

  “Shut up!” she gasped, hating the dog, its insane ferocity reminding her of Gund.

  She found her keys—no, wrong ones; those were the spares she’d taken from Gund’s kitchen. Thrust her hand into her pocket again, the dog howling, a banshee wail.

  Was Gund in the street by now, seeking her out? Would he hear the noise, connect it with her? Was he running here at this moment?

  She fished out the right set of keys this time, unlocked the car, flung herself inside.

  Which key was it? Too many on the ring. House key, mailbox key, shop key, office key ...

  The dog attacked the night with long ululant wails. Gund must have heard it, must be on his way.

  Garage-door key, storage-locker key, luggage key ...

  Car key.

  She tossed a split-second glance in the rearview mirror, expecting to see Gund round the corner, but the street remained empty and still.

  Key in the ignition. Twist of her wrist, the engine firing. Headlights on, and she spun the wheel hard to the left and tore free of the curb.

  Her foot slammed down on the gas pedal. The Miata shot forward, outracing its own headlights.

  Shaking all over, fighting for breath, Annie sped north, toward the lights of downtown—and the police station.

  49

  Eyes shut.

  Jaws clenched.

  A bead of sweat traveling slowly down her cheek, her neck, the curve of her breast, disappearing finally inside the waistband of her shorts.

  Erin, kneeling on the floor, naked from the waist up, gripped the central coupling nut of the sillcock in the cellar wall and tried again to loosen it with a counterclockwise turn.

  Her leg was chained to the spigot. She had no hope of defeating either of the padlocks securing the chains, not without tools or the means to make some. And Oliver had removed everything useful.

  Her only chance at mobility and self-defense was to disassemble the sillcock. If she could detach the spout-and-handle component from the horizontal pipe feeding into the wall, one end of the chain would fall away, and she would be free.

  But the job was hard, maybe too hard. At first she hadn’t even found purchase on the nut. Her fingers had slipped, as if greased, over its smooth contours.

  That was when she’d stripped off her shirt and removed her bra, the bra Oliver had so thoughtfully packed for her. She’d unhooked one of the adjustable straps, an inch-wide ribbon of Lycra, and wound it around the nut, forming a tight rubber skin.

  The wrapping improved her grip considerably. Even so, the nut continued to resist her efforts.

  She bore down harder, straining with both hands to rotate the damn thing counterclockwise. The muscles of her arms and shoulders, still painfully sore from her ordeal outside, screamed in protest.

  “Come on,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Come on.”

  She felt an instant’s slippage.

  But was it the nut that had moved or only the bra strap, sliding on the metal?

  She wasn’t sure. She tried again.

  And again she felt it. Unmistakable now.

  The nut was turning.

  Only a fraction of an inch at a time, each small victory costing her an agony of effort, but it was turning. It could be loosened. Given time, she could unchain herself from the wall.

  And then ...?

  She didn’t know. She would still be locked in a windowless room, behind an impregnable door. But at least when Oliver returned, she could fight.

  Fight—and die, almost certainly.

  But fight nevertheless.

  * * *

  “May I help you?”

  The sergeant on duty at the lobby desk studied Annie with a cool, level gaze.

  “Yes, please. I need to talk to Detective Walker.” Annie spoke rapidly, struggling to keep her voice under control.

  “This some kind of emergency?”

  “Life and death,” she blurted out, then wondered if it sounded melodramatic.

  The sergeant showed no reaction. “Walker’s gone home,” he said with irritating matter-of-factness.

  Of course he had. She should have assumed as much, but fear had rattled her; she wasn’t thinking clearly.

  “Could you give me his home number?” she pressed.

  “We don’t normally give out that information.”

  “Please.”

  He hesitated, then flipped through a Rolodex file and produced a card. “Use that phone over there. Press nine for an outside line.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  She hurried to the far end of the desk, stood leaning against it as she turned an unused telephone toward her and dialed.

  Two rings ... three ...

  What if Walker didn’t answer? What if he was out of the house? It would take too long to explain everything to some other cop. She—

  The fifth ring was cut off. “Walker.”

  “Michael, it’s Annie. Annie Reilly.”

  “Annie?” Concern in his voice. “What’s happened? How’d you get this number?”

  “The desk sergeant gave it to me. I’m at the station. I need your help.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, don’t worry about me, it’s Erin, I know who’s got Erin!”

  “Slow down, Annie. Take it easy.”

  “I can’t take it easy, he’s got her, don’t you understand?”

  “Who’s got her?”

  “My assistant at the shop. His name is Ha
rold Gund.”

  “Gund?”

  She spelled it. “I hired him six months ago. I thought he was okay. He’s not. He’s crazy. And he’s got a copy of our portrait—the photo you looked at—the photo of Erin and me.”

  “Where?”

  “It was in a file cabinet in his apartment.”

  “How do you know that? Did he show you?”

  “Of course not. I broke in, I searched—”

  “You what?”

  “Damn it, just listen to me.”

  “You broke into his apartment?”

  “Yes. I broke in.”

  She glanced behind her to see if any of the cops had overheard. No one was paying her the slightest attention.

  “I broke in,” she said again, more softly. “Searched his apartment. Found the photo, which I guess he stole from me when I had the prints at my shop. Don’t you get it? He wanted her picture. He’s obsessed with her.”

  “I don’t understand. What made you suspect this man Gund in the first place?”

  “He lied about where he went on his lunch hour. So I followed him after work. He drove into the desert. He’s got a ranch, somewhere southeast of town—I found a spare set of keys.”

  Vaguely she realized she was not relating these events in any logical order, but she couldn’t seem to organize her thoughts. Panic kept squeezing her throat shut, making it difficult to speak.

  “A ranch?” Walker asked, sounding dubious.

  “Yes. A ranch. I’ve got the keys. He’s keeping Erin there.”

  “You don’t know that. You didn’t see her.”

  “I saw the photo. I have it with me. His fingerprints are probably all over it. What more do you need?”

  “Annie, you’re in the photo, too.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe it’s you he wanted a picture of. Maybe he’s got a crush on his boss. Nothing more sinister than that.”

  “Oh, Christ ...” Disappointment thudded down on her like a dead weight. “You don’t believe me.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You still won’t help me. Still.”

  Suddenly she was crying, though she hated herself for it. Crying, her back turned to the cops, hoping they couldn’t see.

  “Annie,” Walker said gently, “what do you want me to do?”

  “Arrest him. Arrest Gund.”

  “He’s not charged with any crime.”

  “There’s the photo,” she said desperately. “It’s my property. He stole it, didn’t he?”