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  "Since when did this game have to make sense?" Kreiger shrugged. "My guess is Delcastle found out she was ready to turn and sent one of his tough boys to bring her in. Maybe that's what Clemmons was trying to warn her about, and why she spooked. Make sense enough for you?"

  Dave said, "It's only been ten minutes since she called. She can't have gotten far."

  They got into the car.

  Cathy watched the two men circle the parking lot, guns drawn, looking for her. They were crouched, their postures alert, and they looked ready to shoot anything that moved. She didn't want to believe what she was seeing, but she had to. Somehow the man in the red hat had found her. And he meant to kill her.

  For perhaps three minutes, as she watched, she kept expecting to hear the sound of sirens and see the blue lights of rescue stab through the night. But gradually the truth came to her: the police weren't coming. She had called the police and these men had come instead. Somehow her phone call had been diverted, or traced, and the very man she had started out fleeing from had come straight to her . . .

  Or maybe they were the police. The thought flitted across her mind, and she wanted to hold on to it, to infuse it with some hope. Maybe they were undercover, maybe there were things she didn't understand, maybe if she stood up now and called out to them they would put their guns away and take her to a bright, busy police station where she would be safe and everything would be all right. But maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they would start shooting. Maybe they would come over and tell her everything was going to be all right, and then put a bullet in the back of her head and hide her body in the trunk of her car and drive it into a river.

  Think, Cathy, Jack would have said. Don't take foolish chances. Be safe.

  So she crouched there, watching, while the blond-haired man stood across the street and seemed to stare right at her. Her fingers were pressed to her lips and her heartbeat was shaking her whole body. Although she knew they couldn't possibly see her from there, she expected the blond man to start moving toward her at any minute, and she was too frightened to even run away. She wanted to sob out loud with despair and frustration but she dared not make a sound, she tried to not even breathe. Terror burned in her chest and tears clogged up her throat as she huddled there behind the bush, praying they would go away.

  She didn't know how this had happened, she didn't know who they were. She didn't want to know, she didn't care. Jack was the mystery buff in the family; he read all the crime novels and watched the cop shows. He would have had a dozen theories about what was going on. Jack could analyze things, reason them out, make sense of the most tangled sequence of events. But Jack wasn't here. And Cathy had to do the best she could.

  Even when the two men got in their car and drove away, she did not relax. She did not move. They were looking for her, she knew that. Maybe they would think to check the school, maybe they wouldn't. But if she moved, they would surely find her.

  She made herself wait a full ten minutes, until she was sure they wouldn't return, then she got in her car. She did not give in to tears, or to the nausea that was threatening to choke her, or to another attack of convulsive trembling. She simply put the car in gear, and drove away.

  ********************

  Chapter Five

  After fifteen minutes Dave knew they weren't going to find her. Perhaps he had known before they even started to search; anyone who had eluded police twice was not likely to be found on a cold trail with a ten minute head start. What puzzled him—and perhaps it was the only question he hoped to answer with the search —was why. Why call for help and then run before it got there? She said someone was after her. Had he found her? If he hadn't, why hadn't she called again? If he had ... if he had, it was a pretty sure bet they would never know what happened to her, assuming Kreiger was right about the kind of people she was involved with.

  Dave hoped she hadn't been caught, because he needed to know what happened to her. He needed to know a lot of things, and only she could give him the answers. If the need had not been so fierce, so desperate, he would have given up the chase five minutes after leaving the shopping center parking lot.

  Kreiger murmured, "Either the lady has picked up some professional tricks, or she's got some professional help. We're not going to find her."

  Dave said, "Looks that way." But he would rather deal with a professional than a scared amateur any day. Amateurs were unpredictable, irrational, and more times than not motivated by things a lawman couldn't understand. It was hard to think like an amateur, and being able to think like the enemy was sometimes the only advantage the good guys had. This woman was beginning to look very much like an amateur, and that disturbed him.

  Dave pulled into the overgrown drive of Two Mile Church, a gabled wooden structure that fifty years ago had been the subject of more paintings and photographs than Carmel and Big Sur put together. But weather and neglect had taken their toll, and except for the occasional teenage couple looking for romance, and the patrol cars that used it as a turnaround point, no one ever came there anymore.

  Dave made the horseshoe turn and put the car in neutral, facing the road. "This is the end of my leash," he said. "Windsor County will pick it up from here. We've got a strict policy about crossing county lines without authorization." And he looked at Kreiger, knowing what the answer would be before he spoke. "Are you authorizing?"

  Kreiger said, "Let's go back to the station. I'll take it alone from here."

  Dave kept his voice neutral. "That's a lot of lost time."

  "And you're wasting more of it."

  "All right, Kreiger," Dave said quietly. "Why don't you just stop wasting everybody's time and tell me what's going on here? Because you sure as hell--"

  Dave heard his own call letters in the murmur of background static from his radio, and he knew it could only be one thing. He snatched up the microphone.

  "Yeah, Dispatch, what've you got?"

  "An i.d. on the woman from the shooting." Anne's voice returned. "The car is registered to Cathy Hamilton, Lynn Haven, California. No warrants, no arrests, no violations. Occupation . . ." Now Anne's voice took on a puzzled tone, "school teacher."

  A cold, sinking feeling formed in the pit of Dave's stomach. "Stolen?"

  "No report. We’ve got her DMV photo. We need you to come take a look, but the description matches."

  Dave stared at Kreiger. "Shit," he said.

  Kreiger's face remained absolutely expressionless—unsurprised, unconcerned, unreactive. It could have been carved from wax.

  Dave said softly, measuring each word as it was spoken, "We've got the wrong woman. It's not Laura at all. We've got the wrong woman."

  Kreiger said nothing.

  "Dave, do you copy? Do you have anything?"

  Dave pushed the button on the microphone.

  "Copy, Dispatch. We're coming in."

  He shoved the car into gear and left a spray of dust behind as he pulled onto the road.

  **************

  Cathy was lost. With a peculiar apathy that had to be the beginning of deep shock, she registered the fact and didn't care. The winding country road she followed was dark and empty, and looked as though it could go on forever without once intersecting with civilization. She wasn't sure whether she was going north or south, toward the freeway or away from it. Once, another car had appeared on the road, and she had taken a reckless left turn to avoid it—then because she was afraid the driver might have seen the maneuver and followed, she'd turned right at the first chance. Even if she had known where she wanted to be, she couldn't have retraced her steps to get there.

  She glanced at the gas gauge. Still a quarter of a tank. Her throat was dry. This far out in the country there were no guarantees about all-night service stations. There were no guarantees about service stations at all. What if . . .

  But she didn't let her mind finish that question. There was a far more urgent question, and it had been rising up on the edge of hysteria, like waves of swelling and receding bile
, periodically since she had climbed back into the car and started the engine. Why? Dear God, why is this happening to me?

  What had she done, what did those people want with her, who were they, how had they found her? What had she done to deserve any of this?

  Fortunately, Jack used to say with a twinkle in his eyes, we hardly ever get what we deserve. Cathy felt a sudden hysterical urge to laugh, and suppressed it violently. No hysteria, no tears. She had to concentrate, to think. Jack was depending on her now. The children . . .

  But no. She couldn't think about the children now. She couldn't think about any of that. She had to concentrate.

  She glanced again at the gas gauge, and then at the speedometer. Twenty-five miles per hour. Her foot was barely on the gas pedal and she hadn't the energy to press harder. Her control over the car was a fragile thing as it was, just as fragile as her control over her senses. She dared not push any harder.

  The landscape on either side of her was tangled and dark, narrow embankments crowded with undergrowth and scrub trees. If there were houses back there she would not be able to see them from here. She needed help. She needed directions. She needed to stop and gather her thoughts and think what to do.

  Up ahead she saw the profile of a building, tall and weatherbeaten, its wooden steeple leaning drunkenly, sickeningly familiar. She had been this way before. She was going around in circles.

  Stop it. Get hold of yourself. You can't just keep driving around using up gas, not even knowing where you are or where you're going. You've got to get out of here, away from this town, away from this county, away from whoever is chasing you. Find the interstate, get away from here, then call the state police or ... no, just keep going. Find Jack.

  Last year she had driven to San Diego for a conference. Jack knew she had absolutely no sense of direction so he had made sure she had a stack of maps with details for every leg of her journey. And her phone. He had made sure she had her phone.

  She swept her hand inside the driver-door pocket and released a breath of relief. They were still there. A map of California. A map of the Western United States. A map of San Diego. A map of Northern California, with county road details.

  Cathy pulled into the cleared-out spot that served as a drive in front of the church, and put the car in park. Around her the churchyard was a study in shadows and darkness, one blending into the other to form blacker shades of gray. Anything could be hiding in those shadows. The windows of the church were black slashes in a scarred gray facade, gaping like open mouths. Anyone could be inside, watching her. Scrub pine and tangled vines formed a living barrier on three sides. The night was deathly still; there was no sound above the car engine, but she strained to hear what wasn't there, to see what wasn't visible.

  She tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in her throat. Every nerve in her body felt like a live wire, acting and reacting to stimuli that weren't even there. Her heart was beating too fast, and the nausea of residual terror was thick in her stomach. A thousand eyes were watching her from the darkness, she could feel them. A thousand sounds, muffled by the hum of the engine and the roar of her heartbeat, conspired in the darkness as danger moved closer with every breath. She couldn't stay here. She couldn't.

  Don't panic. Jack's voice again. Panic is your worst enemy. Calm down. Think.

  This time, when she tried to take a breath she almost completed it. Her hands were cold and damp, but they weren't shaking quite as much as they had been a moment ago. She took the maps from the door pocket and shuffled through them until she found the one for Northern California. She spread the map over the passenger seat, but she couldn't see in the dark, and she dared not turn on the interior light. She fumbled around in her purse until she found a pen light, useful for reading theater programs in the dark. She could not remember the last time she had been to a theater. There was no life, no memory before this blind flight into hell… She pushed the button without much hope, and was rewarded with a faint beam of light. Holding her breath, she focused the light on the map.

  She tried to remember the last road sign she had seen, a road number or street name, the last town she had passed through . . . Portersville. Wasn't that the name of the elementary school where she had hidden? She couldn't remember another town name. She tried to trace her route from Lynn Haven, but it was hopeless to try to figure out where she was now. What she needed to do was find the most direct route to the interstate and memorize it. She had to focus, concentrate. Jack was depending on her. She could do this.

  She took another breath and brought the wavering light up to the index portion of the map. If she could only find Portersville . . .

  Suddenly there was a sharp crack against her window, and a blinding light stabbed her eyes.

  **************

  By the time they returned to the office, the Internet had delivered every public record that had ever been made of Cathy Hamilton. Birth certificate, college graduation, employment records, credit reports.

  “She’s got a Facebook page.” Mark, a rookie officer who handled the computer with the same kind of deadly dexterity with which most men on the force handled their weapons, brought up a new screen. He generally worked days, but he had come in and grimly taken his place at the computer less than thirty minutes after word went out about the shooting.

  Dave, standing over his shoulder, stared at the open, friendly face of the woman on the screen. Twenty nine years old. Dark curls. Pretty. The picture was the same one as the staff photo from her school. Jesus Christ. A Facebook page.

  Mark clicked the mouse and the screen was filled with snapshots—Cathy Hamilton at the beach, helping a small boy and girl build a sand castle; Cathy Hamilton with a dark haired young man who looked remarkably like her—her twin, Jack—toasting the camera with tropical drinks; Cathy Hamilton surrounded by a stage full of young people dressed in white shirts and black trousers, holding various musical instruments.

  “She’s a housewife,” Dave said flatly. “Our informant is a housewife with kids and a Facebook page.”

  “Actually, no,” Mark said. “Her status is single. Those are her brother’s kids. She moved in to take care of them after their mother left.”

  “Christ.”

  Hayforth said thoughtfully, "Well, that explains a few things anyway. Like why she ran."

  "Yeah, I'd say so." Dave went back to his own desk, sinking into his chair wearily. He felt beaten, drained, finished. "And like the fact that this whole operation's been one screw up after another from the word go. An innocent citizen stops to make a telephone call and two people are dead." He took up a ball point pen, absently bouncing the tip on his desk blotter. "Great public servants, huh?"

  He tried not to play the what-if game; that kind of mental self-torture was for the rookies. But tonight it kept sneaking up on him. What if she had picked another phone booth? Would the real Laura have eventually shown up? Would everything have been played out exactly the same, or would Toby still be alive? And what if they had had a better description of Laura? What if they— hell, what if he—hadn't been so quick to assume? A simple operation, a thousand variables.

  All she wanted to do was make a phone call. How could something so easy go so very wrong?

  Kreiger said, "Not so innocent."

  Dave looked up at him, slowly. The pen struck the blotter again. And again. Kreiger was standing at the next desk, bent over a fold-out map of the county that was spread over the top of the desk. Those were the first words he had spoken, except on the phone, since they'd returned to the station.

  Hayforth looked reluctant as he agreed, "He's right, Dave. We don't know for sure that she wasn't a plant. That she didn't take Laura's place, or that she isn't Laura and the whole thing is some kind of setup."

  Dave said again, “Christ.” And the word tasted bitter on his tongue. Because Hayforth knew it wasn't a set up, just as Dave knew it, deep in his gut where a man was never wrong. Cathy Hamilton was a twenty-nine year-old school teacher from a little to
wn down the coast that nobody had ever heard of, whose only crime had been to stop in Portersville at one-thirty in the morning to use the phone.

  Kreiger said. "Whether she is or not, it doesn't matter now."

  The pen hesitated above the blotter, but Kreiger's attention had turned to the map of the county that was stretched over the wall . "She picked up that phone," he said, without glancing at them. "We've got to assume she's walking around right now with a head full of information that she doesn't need —and we do."

  It was information, Dave acknowledged to himself, that could get her killed.

  He demanded quietly, "Who's after her, Kreiger?"

  Kreiger met his eyes then, coolly. All pretenses were dropped between them; he recognized the challenge and met it. "I don't know. You want a guess, it's one of Delcastle's men."

  "If anybody knows she's not Laura, it would be Delcastle's own man. Why would he want to kill a stranger?"

  He turned back to the map. "Who said anything about killing her? He may just want what we want—information."

  "She said he was trying to kill her. On the phone."

  Kreiger shrugged. "She's scared. What does she know?"

  The tip of the pen struck the blotter, hard.

  Hayforth looked at Dave. The two men had worked together for ten years; it wasn't hard for them to guess each other's thoughts.

  Hayforth said, before Dave could cut him off, "Your report can wait until morning. Go home, get some rest. It's out of our hands now."

  Dave didn't lift his eyes from the pattern of dots on the blotter. The chief was right. It was out of his hands; nothing he could do. The answers he needed, if they came at all, wouldn't be coming from Cathy Hamilton, and they wouldn't be coming tonight.

  He said, "Toby's folks. Are they flying in?"

  The chief nodded. "It'll be some time in the morning." He hesitated. "They want to take the body with them, back home."