Now Caitlin heard the distant buzz of the car’s tires on the wet asphalt. She raised her head. The car had split the difference—maybe half-a-mile away. She leaned back, let the rain soak her face.
“And don’t call him Embower. He’s Chad Branford. The police know where he lives.”
Chapman nodded, took a deep breath.
Caitlin joined her, the bellows of their hard-working lungs the only sounds audible in the country night besides the falling rain and approaching car.
Angela broke the silence. “I read your book.”
“What?”
“In the playroom. I read Fallen Angels.”
Caitlin laughed. “What’d you think?”
Angela looked down at her wrist. “That men take what they want, and women don’t get anything but scars.”
Caitlin touched Chapman’s shoulder once, then stood up. “Scars just prove you lived through something, Angela. Get ready to go home.”
She walked into the road with her arms up. The headlights caught her, the vehicle slowed. One hundred feet away, she knew she’d made a mistake.
She stood there until Branford’s white SUV came to a stop, his bloody face glaring behind the steady beat of windshield wipers, then she ran around the passenger side and sprinted toward town.
She looked back, saw his headlights swing around. She left the road for the forest, heard his brakes squeak, and his door open.
“Caitlin,” he yelled. “Time to come home.”
She didn’t stop running. “Come and get me, Branford.”
The ground sloped downhill. She hit a patch of wet leaves, slipped, fell on her ass. The momentum took her another twenty feet. She came to rest at the bank of a creek.
I should be scared, she thought, her eyes on the treetops and the night sky. I should be terrified. Even as Branford scrambled down after her, one thought drove away Caitlin’s fear: At least Chapman will get away.
CHAPTER
84
“ROMAN, YOU’RE OUT.”
Mike rose from the holding cell bench. “Just like that, Detective? What happened?”
Maverick opened the cell door. “Greenwood’s father-in-law dropped the grand theft complaint. Funny thing, his nurse said he never made the call in the first place on account of his having a tube down his throat.”
“That is funny.” Mike followed the woman out into the hallway. “Maybe Greenwood talked some sense into the old man.”
“Who knows? We haven’t heard from Jerry since he blew up on the Chief this morning after having breakfast with a friend.” She handed him an envelope of his pocket things, then wheeled a rolling suitcase out from behind a counter. “Oh yeah. I went back to your hotel to let them know you might be staying with us instead. Oddly enough, the clerk already had your bag stowed behind the front desk.”
“Convenient.” Mike had checked out of his room and left fifty bucks and the bag with the kid fifteen minutes before Maverick had knocked on the door. “Guess they needed to turn the room around. As much as I appreciate the bellhop service, Detective, what about the breaking and entering at Branford’s place?”
“Call me Jane.” She pulled a cigarette out from behind her ear. “Technically, I didn’t get around to filing any charges yet. I couldn’t wrap my mind around how you slipped into Branford’s house without disturbing a thing but managed to give a camera the cleanest face shot I’ve seen in years.”
Mike held back his smile. “I’ve done some stupid stuff in my lifetime, Jane.”
She shook her head side to side. “Like impersonating an old man and calling in a stolen truck, or getting yourself arrested for breaking into a house on purpose? What the hell were you thinking?”
Mike reached for his suitcase. “No one here was going to look at Branford, not without probable cause.” He gave the tiniest of smiles. “But if he invited you guys into his house, you’d have to look around. So what did you find?”
Maverick walked toward the exit and opened the door with a chuckle. “You risked B&E charges just to make us look at Branford? You could have spent a year in jail for Caitlin Bergman, maybe more with your record.”
“I had to shake something loose.” He inhaled the fresh air pouring through the opening. “I’ve done time, Jane, and I’ve got enough regrets to fill a thousand photo albums, but I don’t have a lot of friends. Now are you going to tell me what you found or not?”
She lit her cigarette and stepped out into the parking lot. “Nothing.”
A light sprinkling of rain hit his face when he followed her out into the night. “Then why am I outside?”
Maverick walked toward a row of police cruisers. “You can thank your call to Lakshmi Anjale for that one. I don’t know what you said to the girl, but she spent the last few hours logged into Bergman’s financial database. And, as is her style, she called the station every five minutes in the last hour until we took her seriously. Turns out Branford owns the farm behind his house, all through another name tied to his pizza company. Also, it looks like the name Chad Branford is an alias.”
She opened the door of a detective special. “That and Angela Chapman turned up at a nursing home two miles past his place fifteen minutes ago, said she’d last seen Branford chasing your girl through the woods.” She pointed to the passenger side. “You coming?”
CHAPTER
85
CAITLIN DODGED BRANFORD for as long as she could, dipping in and out of the creek, up one ridge, down another, drawing him a rugged country mile from the road, but she lost the fight when he tackled her trying to climb uphill and lost consciousness shortly after. She woke once to the sound of swearing as he dragged her up a forty-five-degree incline, a welt pulsing on the back of her head.
She woke the second time on the floor of a moving car, in less pain, but with her hands zip-tied behind her, her ankles bound. She saw bench seating behind her, a bucket seat in front.
Branford’s SUV.
The canted view from the side window changed from dark, rain-filled night sky to the white siding of the farmhouse.
She heard him yell from the front, “Not like this.”
A chorus of sirens answered, proving Caitlin’s gamble had paid off. Angela Chapman had not only found help but rallied the troops. Caitlin pulled her knees in and pushed up against the door, her mud-and-rain-soaked pajamas now more skin than fabric.
“It’s over, Branford.”
The sudden thuds of cornstalks folding under the SUV drowned her weak voice out. She twisted around, saw Branford’s duplex surrounded by red and blue flashing lights.
“Your turn to live in the cage.”
Still no reaction. She raised her hands to the unlock button on the door but couldn’t override the child locks. She twisted her wrists, wiggled her feet. No give there either. She tightened her abs, pulled her legs through the loop made by her bound arms. Still zip-tied, but her hands were in front now.
They took another turn. Something hard hit her ankle, a portable hard drive, no case. It slid to the side and got caught in the passenger-side seat belt assembly.
She heard sirens in pursuit, shouts, a loudspeaker. “Branford, stop the vehicle.”
The SUV lurched forward, and he screamed his reply. “My name is Embower!”
Caitlin felt an impact, saw pieces of a chain link fence scrape past. The SUV took hits—rocks, not bullets. They’re not shooting him because you’re in the car. They won’t be able to help.
She got herself onto the bench seat, saw large piles of stone outside beyond the frantic windshield wipers.
“My name is Embower!” he shouted again, his eyes on the road.
Caitlin yelled back, “Sure it is, genius!”
His eyes flashed to hers in the rearview, manic.
He turned the wheel. Caitlin fell to one side, and the car came to a stop.
She worked her way back onto the bench. “There’s nowhere to go, asshole. Your moment is over.”
Out the windshield, she saw two cop ca
rs with an opening between them. Beyond the opening, nothing but darkness. The quarry.
He revved the engine, then smiled in the rearview mirror. “Our moment, Caitlin. Our moment is over. Gone with the tide, but what a story it will be.”
He gripped the wheel and the SUV screamed forward. Caitlin heard gunshots, the impact of metal on metal. A tire blew. The SUV swerved but didn’t slow. She threw her arms over the driver seat headrest, pulled her zip-tied hands against his throat and yanked hard. “My story’s not over.”
Branford didn’t fight and she saw why. For a few seconds, the headlights lit nothing in the darkness ahead. Then, the car tilted forward and the hi-beams reflected off the fast-approaching water at the bottom of the quarry.
The SUV’s grill met the surface first, but the windows stayed intact. The driver’s side airbag hit Branford. Bits of powder, metal, and fabric peppered Caitlin’s face and hands. The car’s rear dropped into the water and Caitlin fell backward—her hands, still around his throat as water started pouring in through the open driver’s side door.
The airbag deflated and she lost hold of him.
“No!”
Too late, he slipped out. The water filling the void came in fast, and the SUV sank inches in seconds. Caitlin jumped between the two front seats and pulled the door shut as the exterior water level reached just below window height. What little light remained came from the headlights shining into the aquamarine water and the instruments of the dashboard console. She reached up and tapped on the overhead lights.
Her jaw trembled, her hands shook. Think, Caitlin. Stay in the game.
The outside water level neared the roof, the indoor up to her waist. To open the door, she’d have to equalize the interior and exterior pressure. Only way to do that, break a window, wait for the car to fill, then swim out.
She beat her fists against the windshield. Pointless. She needed something solid, something with a corner.
The hard drive in the backseat.
Before she could turn, the overhead lights dimmed, then went out, followed by the console instruments, then the headlights.
“No,” she said, the water level now just below her bra line. “Please, no.”
The only answer, the popping of metal under changes in pressure.
She’d have to do without the light or do without light forever.
Leaning back between the seats, she squatted in the dark water and felt for the hard drive still wedged in the seat belt assembly, working her fingertips through the murk. She sat back onto the bench seat then bashed the hard drive’s corner against the rear passenger window. No cracking sound, no rush of water. She screamed and struck again. This time a torrent of water poured through the crack onto her lap.
She dove for the front and worked her way into the passenger seat. The back window caved with a noise like crumpling plastic, followed by the roar of a waterfall. The water level, last at her breastplate, rose to her chin in seconds. She took one final breath and pulled the handle.
The door opened and Caitlin frog-kicked her bound legs and hands through the aquamarine toward the distant lights of the surface. After fifteen feet, she broke through.
“Help,” she screamed before bobbing back under. With her feet still bound, she couldn’t tread water, had to settle for the dead man’s float. She turned her back to the air, let her hands and feet dangle beneath her. She exhaled again, threw her head up above the water.
“I’m here,” she said, grabbing another breath before she went back under.
A pale stream of light moved her way and a ringed shadow appeared in front of her. She pulled her head above the water, saw a white circular preserver, and grabbed for the edge with her fingers.
“She’s got it,” someone yelled.
Caitlin clung to the buoyant foam, coughed. “I’m here.”
A male voice came through a speaker. “We’re coming for you, Caitlin. Stay on the preserver.”
“I’m here,” she repeated softly. Just this once, she’d accept help.
She felt the hands before she heard the angry voice. “So am I.”
Branford pushed down on her shoulders.
Caitlin lost her grip and went under.
Ten feet down, his hands let go and his feet kicked Caitlin’s shoulders. His last act would be to drown her.
You don’t know how much time I’ve spent in the deep, asshole.
She reached up and grabbed his shoe. He kicked again, but Caitlin got his other foot, pulled down. Both sinking now, Caitlin got her hands around his head and put the zip-tie back to work. His body bucked against her, his hands fought against her grip, but she pulled back harder, and looked up. Once again, she saw the light of the world from the edge of darkness.
Not a bad sight, she thought. The end of my tunnel. At least I’m in control.
Her chest ached, her muscles gave way, her heart wanted to stop.
But Branford’s stopped first.
When she felt him go limp, Caitlin pushed off his shoulders with her hands, then off his head with her feet.
CHAPTER
86
Two Days Later
“ARE YOU SURE you should be up and about, Scott?”
Scott Canton lowered the guardrail of his hospital bed, smiled with the functional seventy percent of his lips. “If you can, I can.”
Only ten days into his recovery, Scott moved well, but his words took effort.
“Good,” Caitlin said, “’cause I won’t spend one more minute strapped in a bed.”
She leaned back on her crutches. They’d bandaged her ankles and wrists, sewn up the gash in her head. Nothing permanent except the nightmares.
Mike Roman wheeled a walker in Canton’s direction.
Scott accepted it and then waved him away. “At ease.” He got his weight over the walker, winked at Caitlin. “Let’s g—” He struggled with the g sound, then started over. “Let’s roll.” Ten feet down the hall, he pointed at a green space out the window. “Beautiful day.”
Mike beat both of them to the door, did the honors.
Scott looked to Caitlin. “He have to be here?”
“You try getting rid of him,” she said. “He’s like a stray dog I gave bacon to.”
Scott shot Mike a nod, pushed past. “Best kind of dog.”
Roman stayed by the door, giving them space. He’d been at the quarry when they pulled Caitlin out of the water, in the room when the cops questioned her, and by her side as much as she’d allowed since. For this conversation, she only wanted Scott.
By the time the invalids crossed the twenty feet to the stone bench, Caitlin smelled like a sweaty Band-Aid. She didn’t mind. She smelled alive and the view was nice. A path between two flower beds in full bloom meandered to a grove of birch trees centered on an ornate limestone cross. Singing birds mixed with the distant hum of a gardener mowing a field beyond the trees.
Canton tapped her knee. “Talk.”
Caitlin watched a flurry of green fly from the riding mower. “I killed him.”
“They say he drowned.”
She shrugged, felt a twinge of pain between her shoulder blades. “I choked him until the water took him.”
The mower finished a row, swiveled around for another pass.
Scott gave the expected response. “Self-defense.”
“I’m not worried about legal charges.” She met his eyes. “You’ve killed, Scott.” She looked over at Roman. “He’s killed. I’ve killed.”
Scott took a second, replied. “We’ve killed.”
She saw his mouth open wide in joy. “Jesus, did you just make a conjugation joke?”
He tipped his hat. “Teacher.”
Caitlin’s laughter joined his. Her many points of pain gave way to relief.
She wiped a tear away. “I’m gonna be so messed up.”
“So much more.”
She laughed again. “So much more messed up.”
The gardener finished another row, kept right on going. Nothing
stopped him.
Scott reached for her hand. “Therapy?”
She took the offer, squeezed him tight. Another tear fought its way out. “You know it.”
“You talk. You friends,” he said.
“Sure. You Tarzan, me friends.”
Scott didn’t look pissed, but he put extra prep into his next sentence. “You’re not alone, smart ass.”
“No,” Caitlin admitted, tears now rolling from both eyes. “I’m not alone now.”
He let go of her hand and pointed to his chest, then to Mike Roman. “You therapy, you talk, you friends.”
“Okay, Scott. I promise. Therapy, talk, friends, I promise.”
She had him crying now. He took another hard breath. “You help.”
“I’ll help myself, Scott. I will.”
“No, help her.”
“Her?”
He nodded. “Help her, Caitlin.”
She swallowed hard. “Chapman’s already gone. She’s with her parents, not that they’re still together. The police, the doctors, they’ll help her.”
He poked her arm. “They don’t know.”
“Shit,” Caitlin said. “If they don’t know, who does?”
“You do.”
Caitlin had spent nine days in Branford’s collection. Chapman, over seven hundred. She’d suffered multiple fractures from repeated abuse and showed signs of habitual rape and constant mental reprogramming. Caitlin hadn’t seen media coverage yet but knew the world of exposure the girl would endure.
She found a smile. “Okay, Scott.”
Mike Roman came closer. “Probably time to go.”
Caitlin turned and saw a throng of media badgering a pair of security guards.
Mike pointed across the field. “Help’s on the way.”
A BPD sedan drove across the grass, Jerry Greenwood at the wheel, Maverick riding shotgun. Mary Lubbers-Gaffney’s green Honda followed, windows open, radio blaring the Grateful Dead’s “Casey Jones.” Greenwood and Maverick got out.
“Don’t you hate reporters?” Jane said, before passing them to go on the offensive.
Greenwood knelt at Caitlin’s feet. “How are you?”
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