Time of Departure (5 page)

Sam knew what was coming next. He shot me an imploring look. I pretended to relent. I forced myself to smile broadly, and before the senator's tortoise-paced wits could digest my initial reaction, I unleashed a bit of mischief on both of them.

“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate your confidence.” I moved pointedly closer to Sam and leaned into his big comfortable frame. My move forced him to drop an arm around my shoulders. “But, you know,” I continued, injecting a hint of Marlene Dietrich throatiness into my delivery, “I couldn't have done it without Sam. He's the best mentor any young attorney could ever ask for.”

Senator Spotts opened his mouth, and then closed it. One of his eyebrows notched upward.

I noticed a few nearby guests were looking at us strangely.

Sam must have noticed, too, because he quickly disengaged his arm and clapped the senator on the shoulder. “Ernie, I almost forgot! My daughter made one of those Pavlova desserts you're always raving about! She wants your opinion. She's in the kitchen.”

Sam's daughter, Suzanne, was twenty-two, highly intelligent … and gorgeous.

“Sure.” The senator tore his eyes away from my cleavage. “How is she, anyway? Your daughter … uh…?

“Suzanne.”

“Suzanne. What's she doing these days?”

“Senior year at UF.”

As they were leaving, Sam bent close and whispered to me. “Thanks, Claire. Now please explain that last little move to my wife!”

I looked around. Diana was standing inside, watching us through the sliding glass door.

*   *   *

After an apology to Diana that had her choked with laughter, an excellent meal, and several utterly forgettable conversations, I was ready to head home. Sam walked me to the door.

“Thanks, boss. It was a great evening.”

“Until a certain senator showed up.”

“A minor blip,” I replied. “I had a good time, really.”

That was mostly true. I've never really felt comfortable making small talk in forced social environments. I also despised the way certain untalented people tried to take advantage of Sam's hospitality to grin their way to prominence. “Self-pimping,” as one observant journalist had labeled it. I'd been watching a few operators working the group tonight.

I glanced past Sam toward the living room, where Ernie Spotts was holding forth to a captive audience.

“You might be in for a late night.”

Sam looked resigned. “Never fails. If it wasn't Ernie, it'd be some other gasbag.” He checked to make sure no one was watching, and then gave me a hug. “You'd better hope that fool doesn't start spreading stories about us, young lady!”

“Are you afraid of Diana?” I was smiling.

“You can wipe the smile off. That kind of gossip would only fortify the opinions of certain office dinosaurs. We both know who they are.”

“Sam. I can handle—”

“I'm not just talking about prosecutors. There are more than a few Neanderthals in the police as well. Ask me. How do you think they feel about reporting to an Indian?”

Sam was full-blooded Seminole.

“This isn't exactly the Land of Enlightenment, Claire. In some ways, not much has changed since I started practicing back in the '80s. You're young … you're female … you're good looking … and you're giving directions to men who are years older than you. You need to watch your back.”

There was a moment of silence between us, and then I grinned.

“I'm good looking?”

He laughed. “Get out of here!”

 

5

As I rode the elevator down to the lobby, it hit me.

That uncomfortable feeling that I was walking along the edge of a precipice.

I'd been experiencing the feeling off and on all my life. It was always the same … a tightening in my stomach, a strange vibration in my body, increased pulse, and—I sometimes suspected—increased blood pressure.

And, always, an uneasy feeling that something was about to happen.

I had never told anyone about it. Not even my mother. Not even on my worst day. I imagined that if I'd said anything, she'd have told me it was just an attack of nerves. I might have come to the same conclusion long ago if it were not for one nagging problem: For me, the feeling never came before a court appearance, or before a jury address, or—during my college days—before a make-or-break final exam.

For me, it came only when there was no apparent reason for it. I just kept getting this feeling that something was about to happen … and then it didn't.

It was damned exhausting.

I exited the elevator, crossed the lobby, and left the building. My car was in the visitors' lot. I keyed the remote on my key chain. The parking lights blinked their usual welcome. I opened the driver's door, got in, and put the key in the ignition.

As I reached for my seat belt, my front passenger door jerked open and a beefy thug with a shaved head leapt at me. I had a glimpse of a vicious-looking knife in his right hand just before I made a panicked grab for my door handle. I got the door open a few inches before he lunged across and yanked it shut.

“Not smart, lady!” His voice was a gunmetal rasp, and his breath stank of beer. He eased back, holding the point of the knife against my throat. “Drive!”

“If it's money you want—!”

“Money?… Fucking bitch! Don't even recognize me, do ya?” Thick fingers grabbed my chin and twisted my face toward him. He pushed close, breathing his fumes straight up my nostrils. “Look at me!” he yelled.
“Look at me!”

“I think I recognize you.” I forced calm into my voice. “I don't remember your name. I'm sorry. I get a lot of cases.”

He released my face. “Bitch!” The point of the knife pressed harder against the skin of my throat. “Five years in Starke, fighting off the cornholers, and all I am is some fucking number to you?” He switched the knife to his left hand. He twisted my ignition key. The engine started. “Now …
drive
!”

I put my left hand on the wheel. He relaxed slightly but kept the knife in position. I shifted my right hand toward the gearshift, moving slowly so he wouldn't cut my throat, but also trying to delay while my mind raced, attempting to work out what to do. I was pretty strong for my size, and I'd taken some self-defense training, but I knew I was no match for this brute in such a small space. He outweighed me by a good seventy-five pounds.

My right hand collided with his thigh. “You'll have to move if you want me to put the car in gear,” I said, using as reasonable a tone as I could muster.

He shifted his leg.

At that instant, there was a flash of movement in my side-view mirror, and the passenger door flew open. Strong hands seized my attacker and yanked him violently out of the car.

I kicked my own door open and dived for the pavement. As I gathered myself to get up and run, I heard the impact of a blow hitting flesh. Peering under my car, I saw two pairs of feet facing each other. There was a cracking sound, a grunt of pain, and my attacker's knife dropped to the ground.

I lurched to my feet, ready to sprint for the lobby of the apartment building, just in time to see the same older man who'd been watching me in the courtroom drive my assailant's head into the tailgate of a nearby pickup. There was a sickening crunch, and the man disappeared from view.

I inched around my car. My assailant was lying on the pavement. The older man was kneeling next to him. He seemed to be checking his vitals.

Evidently satisfied with his investigations, my rescuer stood up. “You're okay?”

I felt my throat and examined my fingers. No blood. “Yeah,” I said shakily.

He yanked a cell phone out of his pocket. He thumbed a number, listened, and then started talking. “My name is Marc Hastings. I'm standing in the parking lot at Collingwood Towers. Some creep just attacked Claire Talbot … that's right, your prosecutor.” He listened, his eyes locked on mine. “No, she's fine. Just a bit shaken up. But her attacker's going to need an ambulance.… Yes, of course. Thank you.” He disconnected.

I looked at him. Harrison Ford, Annie had called him. Maybe. This old guy sure had the moves. Then I was struck by another thought:

This time, when my body had told me something was going to happen …
it did
.

*   *   *

I sat in the front passenger seat of the squad car as Detective Sergeant Jeff Geiger made his notes. My savior, Marc Hastings, whose name I had first learned when he made the 911 call, was sitting behind me.

I'd met Geiger several times over the years. He was in his late thirties, fresh faced, and dress-down cool … or so he thought. I still hadn't made up my mind about the man. My senses always told me to be wary of him, but I'd never worked out why.

A uniformed officer sauntered toward us. Behind him, paramedics were loading my assailant into the ambulance. The officer passed a card to Geiger through the open driver's-side window. “Guy's a parolee.”

Geiger studied the card. He looked at me. “Daniel James Calder. Know him?”

I recalled a sordid trial, an audio recording of a rage-filled voice mail message, and the partly reconstructed face of a weeping, terrified woman on the witness stand. It seemed like a lifetime ago. I nodded wearily.

“I got him the full five for breaking his ex-wife's face.”

Geiger sighed. “Another dissatisfied customer.” He made a show of checking his ultracool TAG Heuer Monaco watch, flipped his book closed, and said, “Okay, Ms. Talbot, you know the drill. Come in tomorrow and we'll take a statement. I'm on at four.”

I thought the “Ms. Talbot” formality was a bit odd, but then there was a stranger in the car.

Geiger shifted his attention to the man sitting behind me. “You, too, Mr. Hastings. Can you drop by our office tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Geiger passed his business card over the seat. “Pretty gutsy, by the way. Taking on the guy like that.” The words “at your age” were implied but unspoken.

“I used to be on the job.”

“Yeah? Guess you haven't lost your touch. How did you happen to be here? Just right time, right place?”

“Something like that.” I sensed from my rescuer's tone that he wanted to end this conversation. He confirmed that impression with: “Are you done with us?”

“Yes, sir. For now.”

“Mind letting me out?” he asked.

Geiger pressed the security button under the dash, and the rear locks gave an audible click. “Times have changed since your day, Mr. Hastings. Everything's electronic.”

“I suppose that's good in some ways,” Hastings replied. “Not in others.” He opened the door and got out.

I followed suit. “I'll speak to you tomorrow,” I said to Geiger as I stepped out of the car.

Hastings stood waiting. “I'd better walk you back to your car.”

I decided to let him. “Thank you for coming to the rescue.”

“My pleasure, Miss—”

“Claire is fine.”

“Marc.
Marcus,
actually, but no one's called me that since grade school.”

“So you're an ex-cop.”

“Here in town. Before your time.”

“Interesting.”

We reached my car. I turned to face him. “When you made that 911 call, you knew my name and my job. That's not just from being in my courtroom that day, is it?”

He smiled faintly. “No, it isn't.”

“I'm guessing it was no accident that you were in this parking lot tonight. Am I right?”

He was silent for a second. “I left you a file.”

“I figured that was you. Why?” Uneasiness stalked my thoughts. I pressed him. “Why were you in this parking lot?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Have you heard of making an appointment?”

“Would you have given me one without knowing what it was about?”

He had me there. “Maybe … eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“Yes, eventually. After I'd had you arrested, I might have dropped by the lockup to ask you why you've been stalking me.”

“You would never have done that.”

“What?”

“Had me arrested.”

“You sound confident.”

“I am.”

I opened my car door. “I assume you want to talk to me about those missing women?”

“Yes.” He held the door for me while I slid behind the wheel.

I looked up at him. “That file made me sick.”

“It's made me sick for thirty years.”

“No, I mean—”

“You mean physically. You read it, you started to perspire, and you had to run to the washroom.”

My expression must have registered surprise and roiling suspicion, but he made no effort to explain. He just stood there … looking haunted.

I had a sudden, overwhelming feeling that I didn't want to hear any more. I had to get away from this man. I said, “Make an appointment,” and pulled my door shut. I started my car and drove away. I checked my mirror as I drove out of the lot. He was still standing where I'd left him … watching.

I drove two blocks and then, on an impulse, I took a right and circled back. I decided that if I could spot him getting into a car, I was going to follow him. When I reached a corner where I could observe the parking lot I'd just left, I saw him. He was standing on the far side of the lot, at least two hundred yards away, but I could see he was looking in my direction.

He waved.

I felt like a fool. For some reason, he had expected me to double back, and he'd been standing there, waiting.

He walked to a vehicle and got in. As it drove off, I saw that it was a white SUV.

Something about the man's movements nagged at me, but at first I was too distracted by what had just happened. After a few seconds, it dawned on me.

He had entered the vehicle on the passenger side.