Run the Risk (24 page)

“What about lately, Mrs. Finley? Did you know about what he was involved in?”

“I've already answered these questions.”

“And you lied.”

She looked up at me; her eyes held the weight of something heavier than grief.

“Were you part of your husband's plans involving the parade?”

“I wasn't involved with my husband at all.”

I recognized the look in her eyes. I'd seen the same reflection in my husband's eyes once, a very long time ago. It was what love looks like when the light has been replaced by deceit.

“Tell me about the temporary employee Sweeny,” I said.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Lying won't help either of them or you.”

She glanced at me defensively for a moment, trying to steel herself against the question, then the protective shell she was hiding in began to fracture and fall apart around her like a collapsing building.

“We were only together a few times . . . that's all.”

“When was the last time?”

She held back from answering, then an exhausted breath let out what was left of her resistance.

“Night before last.”

“Where was this?”

“Where we always went, a motel on Colorado.”

Harrison glanced at me.

“The Vista Palms.”

She nodded silently. “I went to end it . . . that's why I went.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she buried her face in her hands. Apparently she had failed in her task.

“Was Sweeny a part of what your husband was doing?”

She shook her head.

“Why an affair with Sweeny?”

“Because he meant nothing to me, because I was angry. Because I wanted to hurt my husband. Do you need me to draw you a goddamn picture?”

She almost imperceptibly shook her head. “What have I done?”

“Your husband wasn't killed because you slept with Sweeny,” I said.

Her haunted eyes had the look of an animal locked in a cage.

“How do you know . . . how do you know why anything happens?” she whispered.

I slipped a photograph of Lacy and the sketch of Gabriel out of my pocket and laid them on the table in front of her.

“Have you seen either of them?”

She looked at them and shook her head.

“They already showed me those.”

She reached out and picked up the photograph of Lacy and stared at it. “She's the girl who's missing.”

“She's my daughter.”

Her eyes met mine for a brief second, then she looked away as if in shame and covered her mouth with her free hand to suppress a gasp. I took her by the arm and sat her down.

“Do you know anything about your husband's involvement with the environmental group that can help me?”

“I . . .”

“Anything?”

Mrs. Finley flinched as if I had just struck her with the back of my hand. She drew her knees up to her chest and began to rock gently back and forth in the chair. She began to say something, but the words silently slipped away.

I looked at Harrison, then returned the photograph of Lacy and the sketch of Gabriel to my pocket. I glanced around the shuttered house and anger began to rise inside me. I had wasted precious time chasing down a tawdry infidelity while a madman had my daughter. I wanted to grab Mrs. Finley and shake her out of her stupor. She wasn't to blame for what was happening, but she was sitting in front of me and at the moment, that was enough.

I started toward the door but stopped.

“You can take the nails out of your windows, Mrs. Finley. If you knew something that could have helped me, you would already be dead.”

Whether from the flush of anger or the stale, lifeless air, I felt light-headed and rushed out of the house onto the porch. I took several deep breaths trying to regain my equilibrium, but the ground still fell away from under my feet. Harrison's hand gently landed on my shoulder and guided me to the squad, where he sat me down and placed my head between my knees.

“Long, slow breaths,” he said softly.

With each breath the world began to settle back into place beneath me. I became conscious of his hand on my shoulder and his fingers gently stroking my neck. God . . . I couldn't remember the last time I had been touched by anyone. I wanted to lean into his hand and disappear into his touch. To be held and told that everything would be all right. I ached for it the way someone afraid of the dark craves the light. But instead, each stroke of his fingers was like a fresh wound opening in my heart, reminding me of what I had and what I was losing.

I slowly raised my head and sank back into the seat. Harrison withdrew his hand as if retrieving a long-lost heirloom that had been misplaced for many years.

I glanced back toward the house. The door was already bolted again. Mrs. Finley's shadow passed across one of the windows. I imagined she was slowly walking from room to room, holding the machete in her hand, checking all the windows to make sure that the nails were in place.

“I wonder if she's protecting herself from death or from love,” I said softly.

Harrison glanced uneasily at me, though his eyes appeared to look no further than his own shuttered past.

“The impulses are not so distinguishable from one another,” he said.

He looked back at the house, seeing something entirely different.

“I was thinking,” he said, the skin around his eyes drawing into lines as he formed a thought. “I was thinking it was Gabriel who tipped off the motel clerk about Sweeny. He knew about the affair, all he had to do was follow her right to him.”

I nodded in agreement.

“If you're right, he could have killed him anytime, but he let us deliver the bomb,” I said. “We're toys to him, his private playthings.”

The ringing of my phone filled the car like a scream. I had never believed in the view that physical objects could embody evil, or good, for that matter. But the sound of the phone ringing now carried dread with it. It was as if he were reaching out to me, his fingers brushing the fabric of my blouse. I let it ring four times, taking a breath to settle my racing heart. Let the mother grizzly loose, I thought. Don't let him control this. I pressed the button and answered.

“Yes.”

“Lieutenant.”

Hearing his voice was like stepping back into a recurring nightmare. I closed my eyes. Every muscle in my
body tensed as if I were desperately trying to stop myself from sliding over a cliff.

“You're going to be very busy tonight,” Gabriel said. “I have great plans for you and your daughter.”

I felt the ground slip away beneath me as I slid over the edge and began to fall.

“You have eight minutes to get to the corner of Marengo and Wallis. There's a school there. If you're late, I'll sever one of your daughter's fingers. If you're not alone, I'll cut off two.”

His voice slipped away like a snake moving into the grass, then the line went dead.

“Get out of the car,” I said to Harrison.

He turned to me in surprise, then understanding appeared in his eyes like a rising sun.

“He wants you alone.”

I nodded.

“I have eight minutes.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“I'm not writing the rules. Now go, please.”

Harrison shook his head. “I can't let you do this.”

“I don't have time for debate. Get out.”

Harrison opened the door and reluctantly stepped out. I slid behind the wheel and started the car as a surge of adrenaline raced through my body like a jolt of electricity. My heart began to pound against my chest like an angry fist on a table.

“Set up a three-block perimeter around the corner of Marengo and Wallis. Make sure there isn't a cop inside that line. If there is—” The rest of the words caught in my throat. “You got that?”

“I'll take care of it,” Harrison said.

I glanced at my watch; thirty seconds had passed since the call. I hit the lights and the siren and stepped on the gas, spinning the car 180 degrees, and headed north. I was fourteen or fifteen blocks south of Wallis and four or six blocks east of Marengo, if I remembered my streets correctly.

I passed through intersections, barely taking notice of headlights swerving to the curb to avoid my flight. I was like a horse wearing blinders. Fragments of images sped past in a blur of color and vague shapes. A car horn pierced the din of the siren. I glanced right and saw the flash of a white sedan slide to a stop inches from the passenger door of my squad before it vanished into the rearview mirror.

Rounding the corner onto Marengo, I saw a woman pushing a shopping cart step out into a crosswalk. She was wearing a pink jacket, white pants, and bright red lipstick. Her skin was dark, cocoa brown, and she had the round, pleasant figure of a recent arrival from Mexico or El Salvador. There was no stopping.

“No, no!” I yelled, but she heard nothing.

By the time she saw what was about to happen, it was already set in stone. She raised a hand toward her mouth as the front right side of my squad tore the cart from her and sent it tumbling into the air. Time froze for an instant as I looked into her astonished face, then shot forward as a plastic shopping bag landed on the hood, splitting open, sending tiny white grains of rice skittering across the windshield like flakes of blowing snow.

I pressed my foot to the floor and silently counted out the blocks as they sped past. Five more . . . four.

Do it, go . . . go.

Three blocks south of Wallis I passed a squad setting up the perimeter at the intersection. Whatever sliver of hope I had that Gabriel had given me an opening vanished. A squad parked at an intersection was a useless gesture and I felt pathetic for the feebleness of my ability to strike back at him.

A blue pickup pulled out into the intersection in front of me and I let out a scream. The truck jerked to a sudden stop as I slid around it, my rear wheel bouncing off the opposite curb as I swerved back into the middle of Marengo.

“You son of a bitch!” I yelled, pounding on the steering wheel.

My resolve began to spiral away into the madness that
was engulfing me. A single, careless driver, one misstep, and my daughter would be . . . I let it go.

At the corner of Wallis, I slid to a stop and turned off my lights and siren. I looked at my watch. Did I have time left? I couldn't remember. Fifteen seconds, maybe . . . maybe less.

“Please” slipped out like a prayer of thanks, and then I looked around to orient myself.

There were no pedestrians on the street, no one visible in a parked car. Across Marengo was a bus stop bench, and beyond that, the parking lot of the school. On my right, a city park extended for a square block. At the far end, a couple was walking a dog.

I felt alone and vulnerable. Why did he want me here? I hadn't had time to consider it as I drove, but now I couldn't avoid the question. I looked up and down the block, searching for a reason for my presence. What was unique about this block? What was different about it from the one to the north or west? Nothing appeared out of place, nothing appeared to be anything other than ordinary.

The din of the sirens wailing began to lift and I heard the faint sound of a phone ringing in a phone booth across the street.

That was why I was here. He knew he was being listened to on my phone and he wanted to talk alone. The cat with its mouse.

I sprinted across the street and picked up the receiver. It was wet with heavy dew, cold like the hand of a corpse.

“You're late,” Gabriel said.

His voice held the sharp edge of annoyance.

“No!” I said desperately.

I glanced at my watch, trying to determine how long it had been ringing before I noticed it.

“I had the siren on, I couldn't hear it. I was here.”

“Are you pleading with me, Lieutenant?”

“I'll do anything you want.”

“You're a whore.”

“I'm a mother.”

“Is there a difference?”

There it was: the X on the map of his life that marked where it all began. God help us. If it were being played out on a stage, it would have the weight of a Greek tragedy instead of the horror of a nightmare.

“You wanted to talk to me alone?”

“I could kill you right this moment.”

I quickly scanned the windows of the school building. For an instant I could feel the crosshairs of a scope moving across my face, but the fear passed. He wasn't that kind of a killer. He was a preacher of death and I was part of the ritual. He wasn't finished with me.

“If that's what you want, go ahead.”