Be Mine (42 page)

“That was stupid, Molly.”

“I was scared.”

“I’m scaring you?”

“I think you want to hurt me, because I hurt you, the way Amy did.”

He began shaking his head. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“But I thought--”

“I told you, Amy was a mistake. You’re smarter than she was. I’d
never hurt you, understand?”

“Yes,” she lied.

She only understood that he was a deranged murderer and she would
die if she didn’t get away from him.

“I’ve got plans for us. Big plans. All part of my surprise.”

“Are you going to let me go?”

“Don’t ask me that. I’ve got something for you. A surprise. It’s in
the glove compartment.”

She didn’t move.

“Your surprise is in the glove compartment. Open it.” She hesitated,
then touched the door but didn’t open it.

“Go ahead, Molly.”

She opened it and saw a small box.

“Open it.”

Tears filled her eyes. It dawned on her. She knew exactly what was
inside before opening it. She knew.

“Go ahead.”

It was a small velvet-covered box with a gold hinge. She pressed her
thumb on the lid, snapping it open to a diamond engagement ring.

“Oh God.”

“It’s for you.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, swallowing the horror of
knowing that this was Sydowski’s missing ring. The one Cliff had bought to give
her the night he’d planned to propose. The night he was murdered.

“See how things have worked out for us, Molly? We belong together.”

She couldn’t form words. Her heart raced.

“Give it to me. I’m going to put it on your finger.”

No. God. No. She snapped it shut, replaced it, and closed the glove
compartment. He reached into his jacket and in less than a second a .40-caliber
Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol was pressed against her head. In feeble
defense, Molly held up her hands and leaned away.

“Please don’t.”

“Get me the goddamned ring, Molly.”

“All right. Please put the gun down.”

The gun went back into his jacket, out of her reach. She passed him
the ring box and he worked out the ring.

“Hold out your hand.”

Molly’s extended left hand trembled. She turned from him, unable to
stop shaking. He snatched her hand and forced the ring on her finger. He slid
it on roughly, then sighed as he pulled her hand close, examining his work.

“I’m so happy, Molly. I worked so hard. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Tears rolled down her face as she searched the ocean, the smell of
the berry farms fading with her hope.

It was a majestic place to die.

SpaceGuard Systems
was headquartered at
Long Beach, California, in a ten-story building, where its dark blue windows
reflected a palm-framed sky over the ocean. From that site, SpaceGuard
monitored a network of satellites orbiting the earth, transmitting data on the
cars rented by Golden Pacific Luxury, and forty other companies from San Diego
to Seattle.

Within seconds of the SFPD’s request, Rona Cortez, a dispatcher at
SpaceGuard’s control center, entered the code for the Mercedes 450 SL, rented
on the credit card of Simon Lepp.

A red blip began pulsating on Cortez’s computerized map. It
displayed longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates. She locked on the
California zone, south of San Francisco, adjusted her headset, and sat up.

“Vehicle now on Highway 1, eleven miles north of the Santa Cruz
County line, traveling southbound at sixty-two miles per hour,” she said into
her mouthpiece. She had the ability to disable the vehicle from her keyboard
but she’d been advised to refrain. Law enforcement agencies were scrambling to
marshal resources for an arrest involving a hostage situation.

Cortez’s line was patched to a San Francisco emergency
communications operator. He immediately alerted dispatchers at the Santa Cruz
County’s Netcom Center at De Laveaga, and the California Highway Patrol’s
Golden Gate Communications Center, known as GGCC, which alerted the Monterey
Comm Center. Monterey relayed data on the suspect vehicle to all units in the
region. Down the coastline, the San Luis Obispo Comm Center made an immediate
request for air support.

The helicopter assigned to the Highway Patrol’s Coastal Division is
based at the Paso Robles Municipal Airport, which is situated amid golf courses
and sedate rolling farmland. Two flight officers hurried to the tarmac and
clicked through their preflight inspection. Less than six minutes after the
call, the new Eurocopter AS350 A-Star lifted off, its blue, gold, and white
colors of the California Highway Patrol contrasting against the sky as it
thundered north to Santa Cruz.

The alert also was received by the Highway Patrol’s chopper out of
San Francisco with Sydowski aboard. And as promised, the information went to
Tom Reed, who was in the KKGW’s news helicopter, which banked and pounded
south.

On Highway 17, about twenty-five miles south of San Jose, Floyd
Grimshaw, an independent hauler from Illinois, had a world of trouble on his
mind. The woman at the other end of his hands-free speakerphone was crying.

“Tillie, Tillie, listen to me, darlin’.” Grimshaw failed to get a
word in edgewise to his wife back in Skokie. It was pissing him off to the
point of distraction as he rolled southbound by the golf course.

“I don’t believe it, Floyd. She knew too much about you.”

“I’m telling you, Reb Denny put her up to it. You know Reb from
Portland, he’s the biggest damned joker. Probably had a big old bet going with
Harley and those guys from Texas. He gave her our number, told her to call you
and let on like she’s my girlfriend and you’re my ex. It’s pretty funny
really--”

“It’s not funny, Floyd--”

“Tillie would you just listen--”

“No, you listen--”

The six-hundred-horsepower Detroit Diesel of Grimshaw’s Freightliner
growled as he shifted gears for his approach to the Fishhook interchange. He
was pulling a tanker trailer fully loaded with nine thousand gallons of
gasoline to deliver to gas stations in Aptos and Rio Del Mar. Taking the
southbound off-ramp to begin the sweeping turn, Grimshaw heard thumping in the
sky.

“I’m serious, Floyd, I found a woman’s T-shirt in your cab when you
got back from Knoxville last week. You gonna blame that on Reb Denny?”

The pounding grew louder. Glancing up, Grimshaw saw the police
chopper as he was merging onto Highway 1 southbound near Emeline. What’s going
on? At that moment on his blind side, he glimpsed a silver car streaking to
beat the gap he was narrowing with his lane change.

“God Almighty!” Grimshaw jerked the wheel, yelling at the speeding
car. “You ain’t going to make it! You ain’t--” The rig swerved, brakes
screeched, he braced for the collision as metal sparked against the guard rail.
“Son of a--” The truck jackknifed, Grimshaw’s tractor was pinning the car
against the guardrail, both of them sliding. The big tires began shredding, the
tanker trailer vibrated, began bucking, until it broke free from the hitch,
toppled onto the asphalt, and started to roll.

A short drive south, near Soquel, Santa Cruz County Sheriff’s Deputy
Mike Fuller, with the patrol division’s B-Team on second watch, was at the top
of his shift when his radio crackled with a Code 3.

A bad wreck at the Fishhook.

He hit his lights and siren and came upon the scene in minutes. A
tanker rollover across Highway 1’s southbound lanes. Arriving at the same time
as the first responders, a fire engine and a California Highway Patrol cruiser,
Fuller saw the tanker truck’s driver rushing between his overturned trailer and
his tractor. It had vise-gripped a silver sedan’s doors between its grill and
the guardrail, blocking the passengers’ escape through the car’s doors.

The highway patrol unit closed the oncoming northbound lanes while
Fuller used an emergency turnaround to come up behind the scene and block
southbound traffic. He got out and jogged toward the site. The shaken driver
hurried from the crash to Fuller and firefighters. His T-shirt was stained with
blood webbing from his head, but he appeared to be all right.

“They just came up on me! I had to swerve! I’m fully loaded with
gasoline and I’m leaking, get everyone back!”

“Wait by my car, sir. We’ll have the paramedics look at you,” Fuller
said, glancing at the scene in the distance.

He could tell from the tail configuration the car was a new
Mercedes. The airbags had deployed. Two people were inside. Fuller could see
their heads moving. They were trying to free themselves. They had no way out.
The woman in the passenger seat was screaming, her cries drowned by more sirens
wailing and whooping from every direction. An ambulance and more fire and police
vehicles were arriving.

A couple of helicopters were already putting down now about seventy
yards off. Fuller thought he’d heard transmissions over his shoulder mike but
was concentrating on the scene. “We got to get them out!” he yelled to
firefighter Will Peterson, who was standing next to him, shouting commands into
his radio.

Fuller began moving toward the Mercedes some fifty yards away.

“Wait!” Peterson yelled over the chaos. “No one can go down there!
No one!”

“We got trapped victims!”

“One spark, one charge, and the whole area goes. First we need a
perimeter to push everybody back! Way the Jesus back! The leak and vapor
buildup down there is extreme. We’ve got to ground against a static charge,
then foam the whole area.”

Peterson nodded at the people who were running to the scene from the
police and press helicopters, waving at them to stay back.

“Mike, you’ve got to keep these people back!”

But the woman’s distant screams ripped into Fuller. His stomach
twisted. Seeing that wreck. Seeing those people alive, inside a time bomb. It
was more than Fuller could stand.

The man behind the wheel was trying to kick out the windshield.
Fuller took stock. Help was coming fast but it might be too late. Fuller
couldn’t bear another moment. He ran to his car for a fire blanket and a rubber
baton. As he gathered them, his car radio blared a Netcom repeat of a Code 6
and a network-wide alert for ROPE to look out for and stop a fleeing multiple
homicide suspect believed to be on the northern outskirts of Santa Cruz ...

“... occupants described as white male, Simon Lepp, and white
female, Molly Wilson, silver Mercedes 450 SL, rented from Golden Pacific
Luxury, California license ...”

Fuller took in the details, then rushed to the pinned car, ignoring
Peterson’s warnings because he believed he could get them out through the rear
window.

One of the men from the helicopters, Tom Reed, was running ahead of
the other, Walt Sydowski, as they followed Fuller. Sydowski flashed his star to
Peterson as he and Tom ignored the firefighters’ warnings to keep back.

As they neared the Mercedes, the woman’s screams increased over the
sirens and additional choppers. “He’s going to kill me!” The man was kicking
hard at the car’s windshield when it all suddenly focused for Fuller.

This was more than a wreck.

Fuller knew.

The Code 6. Silver 450 SL, a Golden Pacific Luxury plate frame
around the California license. White male Simon Lepp. White female. “He’s going
to kill me!” Molly screamed.

Fuller heard the windshield pop.

Lepp scurried out from behind the wheel, over the hood, yanking at
Molly, who tried to resist. Finally, he pulled her out of the vehicle.

“Stop, police!” Fuller shouted over the noise. Dropping the blanket
and baton, he hopped the guardrail behind the car.

“Hold it right there, Lepp!” Sydowski came around Fuller from
another angle.

“Simon, it’s over. Let her go!” Tom yelled.

Lepp ignored them, slid his arm around Molly, who struggled as he
hurried her down the road. The air reeked of gas, the fumes were choking,
making their eyes tear. As they moved deeper into the “ignition zone,” Molly
glanced over her shoulder at Tom, Sydowski, and Fuller, her eyes pleading.