Dark Justice

by Brandilyn Collins

  A picture of her? For one crazy second Emily hoped the man was for real. Maybe the San Mateo Sheriff’s Department had called them about the video. But how—? “What did he look like?”

  “Young guy with a buzz cut. Sounds like my cousins from Texas.”

  All air sucked out of Emily’s lungs.

  She dropped her laptop bag onto the hood of the car. Scrabbled around inside for her keys. “What’d you tell him?”

  “That you just left. And if he didn’t see your car, you’re already on the way home.”

  “He knows what kind of car I’m driving?”

  “Well, yeah, I told him what to look for.”

  No.

  Emily snatched up the computer bag and backed away from the Kia, shooting wild looks right and left. “Front parking lot or back?”

  “Front, I guess. Oh, you’re in the back?”

  Emily’s heart kicked at her ribs. “Ronnie. Tell me you didn’t give him my home address.”

  Silence.

  “Ronnie!”

  “I . . . I did. Sorry. I mean, he’s the FBI—”

  Emily threw the cell in her bag and ran.

  Chapter 26

  Sit down, dear.” Aunt Margie indicated the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast at the table. Mom was already eating and looking very happy about it.

  I couldn’t sit. My body couldn’t relax. And my pulse wouldn’t stop spinning. “Oh. It looks lovely. Can I . . . can we eat in front of the television?” I picked up my plate and fork. “I need to see the news.”

  Aunt Margie glanced at Mom, then gave me a meaningful look. “Why don’t you go ahead in there?” She pointed to her small living room. “I’ll stay here with Carol.”

  “Thanks.” She was right. I was so overwrought I hadn’t thought how the news might upset Mom. I swiveled and headed for the TV, around the corner.

  I put my food on the coffee table and yanked up the remote. “Where’s CNN?” I called.

  “Channel 20. There’s a guide sitting on the TV.”

  With trembling fingers I poked in the numbers. Nothing about the case on CNN. Or FOX. I surfed local channels, muttering, “Come on, come on.” I had to know . . . something. My daughter was out there. I just needed some piece of knowledge to make me think she’d be all right.

  I returned to CNN—and spotted the front yard of my house, surrounded by yellow crime scene tape.

  My legs sank me onto the couch.

  “. . . the home of Hannah Shire in San Carlos, California . . .”

  I watched, nerves fraying, as the female reporter intoned about blood drops of an unidentified person leading out my back door. “Police are concerned for the safety of Hannah Shire’s mother, who lives with her. Carol Shire is eighty-two and suffering from dementia . . .”

  My mother? The police wanted people to think I’d hurt my mother?

  A picture of Mom filled the screen. Someone had taken it at the night club where she used to go. She wore her purple hat. Her eyes were closed, one hand to her chest, and the other arm held wide in her form of dancing. Without context the photo made her look absolutely mindless. Rage flashed through me. I gripped the cushions of the couch.

  Dorothy, Mom’s caregiver, appeared on the screen next. She was standing on the sidewalk in front of our house, looking shell-shocked. “I just came to take care of Carol.” She gazed at the yellow crime scene tape. “Now . . . this.”

  “Do you think Hannah Shire had anything to do with the murder of Morton Leringer?” a reporter asked.

  “No. Absolutely not.” Dorothy shook her head. “I just want her and Carol to be okay. They’re nice people.”

  The screen switched to another reporter interviewing Sergeant Wade and Deputy Harcroft. “Sergeant, are you convinced Hannah Shire is responsible for the deaths of Morton Leringer and Nathan Eddington? As well as Deputy Williams, who was conducting surveillance on her house?”

  Wade shook his head. “All I can tell you is we have three homicide victims on our hands. And Hannah Shire and her mother are missing. I don’t know the complete truth of what has happened. I do know that we need to talk to Mrs. Shire as soon as possible.”

  “Deputy Harcroft, in case she’s watching what would you like to say to her right now?”

  Harcroft looked into the camera. “Mrs. Shire, we need you to come forward. We just need to talk to you. Wherever you are, please report to the nearest police station.”

  Right, they just wanted to “talk” to me. What about the flash drive and the video? The real story? No one was even mentioning it, including these two.

  The scene morphed to an interview with a coiffured blonde woman—maybe midforties?—identified as Cheryl Stein, Morton Leringer’s daughter. Good thing Mom wasn’t watching. It would remind her of her quest to find Leringer’s daughter.

  “We are devastated.” Cheryl lifted tear-filled eyes to the camera. “Whoever is responsible for my father’s murder will never know how much has been taken from us. How much has been taken from the world. Just two years ago we lost our mother to a stroke. Now this.” She swallowed hard. “One thing I can assure you,” her voice stiffened, “his entire family will use every resource we have to bring whoever’s responsible for his and Nathan Eddington’s deaths to justice—male or female. And we still not stop—I will not stop—until that’s done.”

  Male or female. My body went cold. She thought I’d killed her father and his employee. She really believed that. No telling what Sergeant Wade had filled her ears with.

  The camera moved from Cheryl Stein to a younger woman standing next to her. The reporter identified the second woman as Ashley Eddington, wife of Nathan. Ashley’s face looked hard and sun-browned, dark straight hair hanging past her shoulders. She clutched the hand of a little girl, about five. “I want answers too.” She looked into the camera, her eyes red-rimmed and defiant. “And I think that woman everyone’s looking for—Hannah Shire—has them.”

  Her voice held such hatred. My heart folded in on itself.

  “Like Cheryl said, we won’t stop until justice is done. If anyone out there has seen Hannah Shire, please, please call the police.” Sudden tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I’ve lost a husband. My daughter has lost her father.” Her face twisted. “That woman doesn’t deserve to live.”

  Oh, dear God, help me.

  The camera panned down to Ashley Eddington’s little girl. Her expression looked lost, her large eyes sad. She clutched a brown stuffed dog to her chest, his neck encircled with a red-and-white-checkered scarf. Across the back of the scarf I noticed black stitched lettering in all capitals. My gaze bounced away, then tore back to those letters.

  What did they say?

  Heat flushed my veins. I leaned forward, eyes lasering the TV. The camera pulled in for a closer picture of the girl. I gasped.

  The letters spelled RAWLY.

  Chapter 27

  Emily sprinted toward the back of the parking lot as fast as she could in heels. At the end was a knee-high wall she could climb over. Beyond it lay the parking area for the building facing the opposite side of the block. If she could just get there, maybe hide in the building . . .

  Her laptop bag bounced against her hip. She threw a hand over the thing to steady it.

  Behind her she heard a car coming down the drive on the side of her work building.

  Emily swerved to duck behind a car. She turned too close, hit the bumper, and went down hard. The laptop bag flew off her shoulder. She skidded against the pavement and ripped her pants at the right knee. The skin peeled away. She gasped in pain and gripped her knee. That hurt worse. She pulled her hand away. Her palm was bloody.

  Emily tried to breathe.

  She grabbed the laptop bag and slid its long handle over her shoulder and head so it wouldn’t fall off again. No way could she lose it—the video and encryption
message were inside. She huddled behind the car, listening. Her knee throbbed.

  The car she’d heard came closer, then stopped. Turned. Stopped again.

  A door opened and shut. She heard footsteps. Was it just someone coming to work late? Or was it him?

  Silence. Emily’s muscles were like stone, pulse whooshing in her ears.

  Still no sound. She leaned down to look underneath the car. All she could see was the pavement around the cars in the next few rows. She straightened and listened some more. What was he doing?

  Fingers against the car’s back bumper for support, she rose up halfway and leaned to her right to see around the vehicle. Nothing. She pulled up a little higher, craning her neck.

  There. In profile. In an instant she took in the lanky body, the buzzed hair cut. He was standing by her Kia, looking around.

  Emily dropped to the ground, panting. Now what? He had to know she was still nearby and would wait for her to come back.

  The footsteps started up again. Coming closer.

  Was he checking rows to see if she was hiding?

  Sweat dripped down Emily’s forehead, even in the chilly February air. She hung there, trembling, her knee aching.

  She looked around the car again.

  No sight of him. And no footsteps.

  Her heart beat like crazy. What if he’d seen her? He could jump out any minute. Then he’d drag her to his car—

  The footfalls sounded again. He was coming toward her.

  Emily leaned down to look under the back of the car—and spotted his feet at the front. She froze.

  He walked to the right, then disappeared. He must be checking between all cars in that row. If he came down one more row, he’d see her.

  She huddled against the bumper for a minute. Then crab-walked around to the left side of the car. All the way up toward the front. She peeked around the edge.

  No sign of him.

  She stilled. Was he walking down to the next row?

  Emily rose up more, peering over the hood. The man was at the end of the row, headed down to the next one—where she’d been hiding. She counted to three, then moved around to the front of the car.

  The footsteps neared until she knew he was behind the car, right where she’d been hiding. Then they faded again.

  There were two more rows he’d check. Then he’d come back.

  She leaned her head just above the pavement and watched for his legs.

  A forever minute ticked by. Two. Emily’s wrists burned, and her neck cramped. Where was he?

  Maybe he’d circled back. Would come at her from behind.

  When she couldn’t stay that way any longer, she heard him again. Coming toward her on her right. Close.

  If he came up right by this car, it was over. But she couldn’t risk rising up to look again.

  She crept around to the right side of the car. Flattened herself to the pavement again and saw his legs two cars over. Headed back up.

  Emily didn’t dare make a sound. She slipped around to the back, where she’d started.

  The footsteps soon stopped again. A curse word floated to her ears.

  Then another noise. A kind of punch, and a hiss of air. Seconds later the sounds came again.

  He was slashing her tires. Emily dropped her chin to her chest.

  Two more times she heard the sounds. Then nothing—until the click of the building’s rear metal door opening.

  He’d gone back to look for her in the building? This was her chance.

  She rose up to peer over the car, making sure he was gone. Then straightened all the way up and tried to run. But her hurt knee made her limp. Sucking in big breaths, left hand clamped against her laptop bag, she headed for the rear of the parking lot. When she reached the barrier she flung one leg over it. In that split second she glanced back at the building—and saw the man through the large stairwell window on the second floor.

  He was looking straight at her.

  Emily cried out and brought her other leg over the barrier. She took off limp-running toward the nearest office building. Where she would go, she had no clue. With her bad leg, no way she’d be able to outrun the guy.

  Behind her she heard the building’s door crash open and slam shut. Hard steps pounded toward her.

  Emily ran faster, heels smacking the pavement and tears squeezing out of her eyes. The footsteps drew closer—no time to look back.

  God, just get me to some people.

  An eternity passed before she reached the building. She slammed into its back door, wrenched to open it.

  Locked.

  Emily swerved away to run around the building. In her side vision she saw the man leap over the barrier. As she neared the corner of the building she heard the back door open behind her. Emily pivoted, saw a man exit. “Call the police!” she flung out her right arm toward the fake agent. “He’s chasing me!”

  “Wh—”

  She kept running.

  “Hey!” She heard the man call to her pursuer. “What are you doing?”

  The fake agent’s footsteps sounded nearer. He veered at a diagonal to run straight for her. “FBI!” The words pumped from his mouth. Emily saw him flash his badge toward the other man.

  He was going to catch her. And no one would stop him.

  She rounded the corner, running as hard as her bad knee would allow. As she passed the front corner, she knew the “agent” was close. She burst onto the parking lot and wove through rows of cars. At the street about 100 feet away was a bus stop, a large black man, and a mother and small boy waiting. Emily careened toward them, screaming.

  The man’s head jerked around.

  “Help!” She had little breath. “He’s trying to kidnap me!”

  The man took one look at the “agent” in pursuit and started jogging toward her. She met him halfway and almost fell into him. “Please. Get me . . . out of here.”

  “Stop!” The “agent” was a mere thirty feet away. “I’m FBI!”

  “He’s not!” Emily hung on to her protector’s arm. “His badge is fake!”

  The man looked down and saw her torn pants, the bloody knee. “Come on.” He headed her toward the street. Then called toward the woman waiting at the bus stop, “You got a cell phone?” She and her child were watching them, mouths open. “Call 911!”

  Her hand disappeared into her purse.

  The “agent” caught up and grabbed Emily’s arm. She gasped.

  “Stop.” The “agent” wasn’t even winded. His face was like granite, showing no fear in the presence of the other man, who was much taller. “This woman’s wanted for murder.” He stuck out his badge and FBI name tag with his picture on it. “Agent Rutger.”

  Emily cringed. The badge and picture tag looked so real. Were they? What if the FBI was part of this?

  She tried to break free. “I’m not, he’s lying! He tried to kill my mother!”

  The man’s gaze jumped from Emily to Rutger.

  “I’m telling you, back off.” Rutger pointed at the man. He gripped Emily’s arm harder. “Or I’ll have to bring you in too.”

  Emily yanked away. “He can’t bring you in. He’s a fake!”

  Rutger caught her arm again and clamped down.

  The bus was coming. One block up the street.

  The black man’s expression hardened. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

  “The police are coming!” called the woman at the bus stop. She held up her cell phone.

  Something flashed across Rutger’s face.

  “What, you don’t like that?” The man sneered at Rutger. “I thought the police and FBI were pals.”

  Rutger pulled at her, hard. Emily stumbled sideways.

  “Let her go.” The man shoved Rutger. “Now.”

  Brakes squealed. The bus was pul
ling up to its stop.

  “I said now.” The man smacked his hand over Rutger’s and pried the “agent’s” fingers off Emily’s arm. “Go get on the bus.” He jerked his head from Emily toward the street.

  She hesitated. What would happen to this man when she left?

  “Go!”

  She spun around and ran. “Wait, wait!” She waved her arm at the bus.

  Scuffling sounded behind her. Emily didn’t turn around. She reached the bus and threw herself up the steps.

  Heart jamming, her legs like water, Emily threw two dollar bills at the driver and skidded into a seat up front. Across the aisle the mother and son looked at her, wide-eyed. The driver stared at her through the rearview mirror.

  The bus door closed.

  Emily bent forward, trying to breathe. Her knee pulsed with pain. As they drove away she glanced toward the parking lot. The man who’d saved her was staring after Rutger, who was running back toward her office building.

  Air backed up in Emily’s throat. The agent—real or fake?—was headed for his car. And she knew what he would do.

  Rutger would come after the bus.

  Chapter 28

  RAWLY.

  I stared at the TV screen, mouth open. Could a stuffed dog be our “Raleigh”?

  “Hannah!” My mother’s voice trailed from the kitchen. “Isn’t your breakfast wonderful?”

  I pressed my hands to my cheeks. The TV switched from the news to commercials. The sudden loudness made my ears hurt. I punched the mute button.

  “Hannah!”

  “Yes, Mom.” I felt my mouth move. “It’s great.” My eyes lowered to my plate. I hadn’t eaten a bite.

  What was I supposed to do now?

  I started to rise from the couch—and dizziness hit. I sat back down.

  Somehow I had to figure this out. Was that dog what we were looking for?

  I’d never know. Because no way could I ever get close to it. Clutched in the hand of a little girl who believed I’d killed her father? Her mother wanting me dead?

  My gaze landed again on the plate of food. I hadn’t eaten in a long time. Or slept. I couldn’t go on much longer without fuel.