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She opened the car door and, in the courtesy lights, noticed for the first time the blotchy brown stains on her arms and the front of her jeans. At first she didn't understand the significance, but suddenly it was horrifyingly clear. Blood. A dead man's blood had splashed all over her.

  Nausea choked her, hot and acrid. She tried to scrub away the stains with her nightshirt but realized that it, too, was splattered with blood. She pushed herself out of the car and stumbled to the telephone booth.

  She lifted the receiver and heard the dial tone. No charge for emergency calls. She dialed 911 with fingers so shaky they could hardly complete the movements. When a voice answered, " 911. What is your emergency?" she went weak and sagged against the booth for support.

  "Please," she whispered brokenly, "you've got to help me . . ."

  *****************

  Chapter Four

  In his fifteen years on the force, Dave Jenks had never met a DEA man, but he held a stereotypical picture of one in his head: long hair, scruffy beard, frayed jeans, and bloodshot eyes. In his fifteen years, Dave had never shot to kill before, either. This was a night for firsts.

  Scott Kreiger was so far to the right of Dave's preconceived image that it was almost comical. His hair was blond and neatly trimmed around the ears, thinning on top. He had a sallow, lupine face, and pale blue eyes that seemed to sink into the rest of his features so that they were hardly noticeable. Dave didn't trust a man whose eyes he couldn't read.

  Kreiger had a quiet, slow way of moving, and a cool voice with the trace of an Ivy League accent. He was put together well enough to stand in a high-priced department store window, and even his name sounded like it belonged to an investment broker. After twenty minutes in his company,the mild suspicion Dave felt had turned into an active dislike.

  "I want her whereabouts reported as soon as your men trace her," Kreiger was saying. "But I don't want her apprehended or interfered with in any way. Just keep her in sight. Is that understood?"

  They were in the chief’s office—or what served as an office in the small, utilitarian police station. The enclosure was little more than a plywood-and- glass partition in the center of the room, and clacking typewriters, ringing phones, and voices carried clearly from the other side. However, it had a door that closed and gave the illusion of privacy. Chief Hayforth had invited Kreiger back to the station to discuss the details of the case; Dave supposed it showed some measure of interagency cooperation that Kreiger had agreed. But he didn't sound as though he was cooperating; he sounded like he was giving orders.

  That Hayforth noticed this fact, and resented it as much as Dave, was evident in his expression as he said, "We don't have the manpower to mount that kind of undercover operation, Mr. Kreiger."

  "You don't have to. Just keep your black and whites moving. I’ll do the rest."

  Dave wanted to know why he wasn't doing something now. He wanted to know why they all weren't doing something. He wanted to know what a DEA man was doing in Portersville, California, and why he was working alone, and why he had stood by and let a young cop get shot

  through the spine for the sake of a phone call. He wanted to know a lot of things.

  But what he said was, "Who is she?"

  His voice had a flat, dull sound to it, as though he was bored, or very tired. He was neither. He guessed he was in some kind of shock, but he didn't feel that either. What he felt was a low and powerful rage that surged and receded in waves. The effort it took to keep those waves under control used all the energy he had to spare.

  Kreiger glanced at him. He seemed to consider whether or not the question was worth the time it took to answer, then replied, "We think her name is Laura. She's Delcastle's girlfriend, one of the best-kept secrets of the underworld. He guards her like the crown jewels. Now maybe you'd like to tell me what you boys know about her."

  Hayforth answered that one. "We had a call from an anonymous female yesterday morning. Said she had some information on a drug deal, and the details were coming through from a phone call at the booth on Ray Street at one-thirty. We were to pick her up there."

  "So, she was ready to turn." Kreiger wrinkled his forehead a little, as though he had smelled something unpleasant. "Dangerous business."

  Dave felt the wave rising again. He pushed it back. He tried to make his voice sound as offhand as Kreiger's, and didn't quite succeed. "How come heavyweights like Delcastle and the DEA are interested in a penny-ante drug bust in a town like this?"

  Again Kreiger fixed him with that faded, disinterested stare. "You call thirty-three million in import penny-ante?"

  Hayforth straightened a little in his chair. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Kreiger smiled thinly. "Looks like you boys stumbled into something a little over your heads. Not much goes on in a little town like Portersville, right? No need to keep an eye out for anything unusual. So what better place to kick off one of the biggest deals of the year?" He shrugged. "He would have made it, too, if the girl hadn't gotten nervous. Sometimes you just can't figure on the unexpected."

  Hayforth said tightly, "Are you telling me that you expect a thirty-three million dollar deal to go down in my town?"

  "Unlikely." Kreiger's voice .was negligent, almost dismissive. "My feeling is this was just an information relay. The actual transaction will probably take place somewhere more convenient."

  "Where?"

  "If I knew that, I wouldn't be wasting time here, now would I?"

  Dave listened with only part of his mind, not making much sense of the words and not really caring. He had changed his bloodstained trousers for clean ones, but he kept wiping his palms on the knees, as though he could still feel the dampness soaking through to his skin. It sometimes seemed as though if he closed his eyes and opened them again he would still be sitting in that parked car outside the mini-mart, drinking coffee and playing a stupid word game. At other times it seemed like a decade had passed since then, and it was hard to remember what the previous hour had been like.

  He said, "You knew what was going down. You knew about the woman. Why wasn't that place swarming with DEA men? Why did you let my partner walk into a trap? Why did you wait until two men were dead to step up and introduce yourself? Can you tell me that?"

  Dave was aware of a sharp look from the chief, but Kreiger's expression was impassive. He said, "I didn't know about the woman. Nobody did. I was following Clemmons, but lost him. I didn't even get there until too late."

  Dave smiled feebly. There was no mirth behind the expression, but it felt good to try. "Hell of a mess, huh, Kreiger? And you've got the balls to walk in here and tell us you're taking over."

  He got to his feet abruptly. "I'm going to see if DMV has got anything on that car yet."

  Kreiger said sharply, "I didn't order a trace."

  "Looks like there's a lot of things you didn't do."

  Hayforth stood. "Let it go, Dave. This isn't your case anymore."

  Dave opened the door.

  Kreiger took a step forward. He said quietly, "Maybe I didn't make myself clear."

  "You made yourself clear enough." Dave turned on him. The wave swelled and crested, and he couldn't hold it back. "You made it clear that a good man is dead and you're not interested in that. The only person who can tell us why is roaming around out there free, and you're not interested in that either. You've lost your suspect and your chance to bust a thirty-three million dollar deal, and what you've made clear, Mr. Kreiger, is that you've fucked up and you don't know what to do now. So if you'll just stay out of my way—"

  "Dave!"

  It was Anne, the dispatcher, and her voice, sharp with urgency, cut through the red haze of Dave's fury. She said, "Pick up on the emergency line. It's a woman who says she was at the shooting."

  Dave rushed toward the nearest phone. Kreiger followed, and Dave thought he was going to try to stop him, but all he said was, "Just listen. Let your dispatcher do the talking."

  Dave wanted to argue, but for once the oth
er man made sense. The woman was spooked already, and there was no point complicating matters.

  He said to Anne, "Find out where she is." and picked up a phone. Kreiger pushed a detective aside to get to another phone, and Hayforth listened in his office.

  There was no mistaking the terror in the woman's voice. She said, "Please, I don't know what to do. Someone is following me, a man, I think he wants to kill me—"

  Dave looked sharply at Kreiger, who didn't return the glance.

  Anne said, "Can you tell me where you are?"

  "I don't know! I'm not from around here, I—" There was a catching sound, like a sob, and a pause with only the sound of her breathing.

  Anne looked at Dave. She said, "Look around. What do you see?"

  "I'm in—in a phone booth. There's a Kroger and—and a shoe shop, and a Rosefield Pharmacy—"

  Dave signaled affirmation to Anne. Anne said, "What is your name?"

  "Please, I'm so scared — "

  Dave replaced his receiver. "I'm on my way."

  Anne said, "Listen to me. Stay right where you are. We're sending a car for you. Stay on the phone until they get there, okay?"

  Dave checked his weapon on the way to the door. Hayforth's voice didn't stop him. Kreiger stepped out in front of him. "Back to your desk, detective. I'll handle this."

  Dave looked over his shoulder at Hayforth. "Are you going to send a black and white, or am I going alone?"

  There was just enough hesitation to let Dave know that Hayforth was on his side. "You've got a report to make out."

  "I told you, you people are off this case. I'm not having any interference from the locals."

  Dave looked at Kreiger. "I couldn't give a shit about your case. I'm a police officer answering a 911 from a woman in distress, and I want to see you try to stop me."

  "I can."

  "And while you're trying, your famous Laura— and your drug bust —slip through your fingers. Get out of my way." He pushed toward the door.

  Kreiger caught his arm. It was a brief contact, stopped almost as soon as it was made, and for a moment the two men's eyes met in a deadlock. Then Kreiger smiled. "You're a real hardass, aren't you?"

  Dave said nothing.

  "I'll tell you what, detective. I'm taking you with me to meet the woman, but for one reason only. You've seen her; I haven't. She's probably seen you, and might trust you. No black and whites, we're not drawing any attention to ourselves. And we do this my way."

  Dave said, "We're wasting time." He moved through the door.

  ************

  Cathy said to the dispatcher, “Okay. Thank you. I will. I’ll stay on the phone. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “You’re going to be okay. Everything’s fine. I’ve got an officer on his way.”

  “Okay. Good. Thank you.” She leaned her forehead against the cool plastic casing of the telephone, weak with relief. The worst was over. Help was on its way. They were coming for her and she would be safe.

  The telephone booth was an old fashioned one, with a light that came on when the doors were closed. As she lifted her head and drew a shaky breath she saw that the blood splatters on her arms were clearly visible in the light. She began to scrub at them with the hem of her nightshirt, and suddenly she felt exposed, trapped, a vulnerable target to anyone who happened to pass by. How long would it take the police to get here?

  She tried to tell herself the maniac on the road was just that —a lunatic, an aberration, a crazy man who spotted a lone woman on the road and thought he would have some fun. She had outwitted him, and that was that. He wouldn't follow her, he wouldn't try to find her . . .

  But she hadn't outwitted him. She had escaped him through luck, pure and simple. She had been too startled to brake, too scared to think, and too stupid to know that trying to go around him at full speed was suicidal. The Honda had been narrow enough to squeeze by, and the shoulder had been wider than he expected. He must have been as surprised as she was when she got away. Could she expect to be that lucky again?

  “Ma’am? Are you still there?”

  Uneasily, Cathy looked around the deserted parking lot. What if he was angry enough to try to follow her? What if he figured out that she had turned left instead of right, and what if he drove by and saw her, pinned in the spotlight of this telephone booth . . .

  “Yes.” Her throat was dry. “I’m here.”

  Don't get paranoid, Cathy, she told herself. Things are bad enough without you going off the deep end . . .

  But a picture of Jack's face surfaced. It had that sad, puzzled, and slightly reluctant expression he sometimes got when forced to confront an issue he didn't like, or to take a stand that shouldn't have been right, but was necessary.

  They had been discussing gun control, one of those issues that had seemed to justify a passionate stand during their college years but that, as one grew older, often faded into insignificance. Jack had surprised her by saying, with that uncomfortable, wishing-it-weren't-so look on his face, "Sometimes the world isn't a nice place, Cath. Whether we like it or not, I guess we've got to be prepared for the worst."

  But her world had always been a nice place. And Cathy had never owned a gun.

  “I’m here,” she said. Unconsciously, she lowered her voice, as though it might be heard through the glass is she did not. “I’m here but—I don’t feel safe. There’s a light and—I need to wait in my car. I have to hang up.”

  “Ma’am, don’t hang up. I need you to stay with me, now. Don’t---“

  Slowly, she replaced the receiver.

  Cathy slipped out of the telephone booth and left the door open, extinguishing the light. Nothing moved on the street in front of her, but the parking lot was full of shadows. She was alone, vulnerable, and sometimes the world is not a nice place, Cath.

  If the man in the gray sedan passed by he would spot her car immediately. And if he got here before the police did . . .

  What if she hadn't described her location well enough over the phone? What if the police couldn't find her? What if . . .

  No. The police would find her. The dispatcher had told her to stay put. The police would come with sirens blaring and lights flashing, and then she would be safe. But in the meantime, she couldn't stand here in a dark parking lot, waiting for the worst to happen.

  She got quickly into the car and started the engine. Across the street, in the school parking lot, there was a fleet of buses drawn up behind the building. Cathy felt a little foolish as she wedged the Honda between two buses where, even if someone were looking, it would be hard to spot. But then she heard Jack's voice again. We've got to be prepared for the worst. She would be prepared. She would take no chances, not with what was at stake, not with Jack needing her, waiting for her . . .

  She got out of the car and walked around the side of the building, keeping well within the shadows. From there she could watch for the police, but no one could see her.

  She had barely reached the corner of the school building when the sound of an approaching car made her stiffen. Instinctively she crouched down, shielding herself behind a leafy bush as the car rounded the curve and the headlights flashed momentarily toward her.

  It wasn't the police. It was a blue sedan, slowing its speed as it approached the supermarket on the left. The car turned abruptly into the parking lot, and just for an instant, profiled by the glow of the overhead street light, Cathy could clearly see two men inside.

  "Oh, God," Cathy whispered. She brought a shaking hand to her lips and closed her eyes tightly, hoping that when she opened them the car would be gone, or it would be different and she would find that only her overwrought imagination had made her think she had seen it at all.

  She opened her eyes again, and the car was still there, pulling close to the telephone booth and stopping. And there was no mistake. The man on the driver's side was wearing a red fishing hat.

  ******************

  "Shit," Dave said softly. He stopped the car, but kept the engine run
ning. The parking lot was big, and dark and empty. If she had ever been here at all she was gone now. And who knew what was waiting for them in her place.

  Kreiger commented, "Looks like the lady can't make up her mind."

  Kreiger seemed unsurprised, which irritated Dave. Nothing seemed to ruffle the man, or disturb him in the least.

  Dave said, "She told Anne she was being followed. Maybe he caught her." He took up the radio microphone. “Dispatch, this is 23-1. Do you read?”

  Krieger said,"Or maybe this is a trap."

  Dave had been thinking the same thing since he had pulled into the lot and found it empty.

  Anne’s voice sounded tinny on the radio. “I read you, Dave. “

  “We’re at the location. It’s deserted. Do you still have the caller?”

  “She hung up. She got nervous and said she was going to wait in her car.”

  His eyes swept the empty lot. So did Kreiger’s.

  “The car isn’t here. I’m going to search the area. 23-1 out.” He replaced the radio mike.

  His heart was beating hard as he pulled out his weapon and got out of the car. Kreiger pulled his Glock out of his shoulder holster and followed.

  They circled the parking lot in silence, tense and expectant, pausing at every doorway and shadow. In the back, Dave covered Kreiger while he checked the dumpster and the loading dock. The muscles at the back of Dave's neck were knotted as they returned to the car. The absence of action loomed over him like a cocked gun.

  "Who was following her?" Dave said.

  Kreiger was gazing across the street, at the deserted school building. "I don't think Delcastle

  would send her out on her own. He would have had somebody watch her."

  "Then why is she running? If it's one of her own men, why is she so scared?"

  "Maybe she's not. Maybe she's been lying to you from the first, trying to draw you out."

  "Makes no sense." But Toby was dead. Dave swallowed hard.