“I’m guarded up to my eyeballs,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the patrol car in the driveway. “You can save me again tomorrow. Right now, go home and get some sleep.”
Still, he lingered in the doorway, darkness and rain behind him.
“That thing we talked about,” he told her. “I was serious.”
“Me too,” she said.
When he was gone, she tried to get some rest. But the rain lashing against the windows and the wind roaring off the sea were the perfect formula for insomnia.
The next morning, she prowled the apartment restlessly, exhausted and hyperalert, listening to rain batter the roof, while fielding occasional calls from Baxter, who knew the basics, and DJ, who didn’t, but still felt bad about the way she’d learned of Lee Howard’s death. Even Lieutenant Blazer called. He had nothing new on Dowell, but insisted that she notify police dispatch when she was heading into Savannah.
Baxter told her not to come in to work. “If you’re safer out there, stay out there.”
The idea of not working sent panic rising in Harper’s throat.
“It’s not safe anywhere,” she insisted. “And I’ve got work to do.”
She showered and dressed for work, and then paused in front of the closet.
The shoulder holster was right where she’d shoved it the other day, on the top shelf. Slowly, she took it down, and pulled it on. She lifted the pistol from her bag, and snapped the clip into place. The metallic click was strangely satisfying.
After checking the chamber, she slid the gun into the holster under her arm and secured it. She pulled a light jacket on over the top.
“I can do this,” she told herself.
There was no way Martin Dowell could stay on the loose for long. Luke was right: This wasn’t his territory. He didn’t have the same contacts here he did in Atlanta, and half the law enforcement in the state was searching for him. Eventually, they’d find him. All she had to do was keep her head down. And live through this.
For some reason the lyrics to “Revolver Road” went through her mind, sung in Allegra’s pure voice. Now the night grows dark and the hour grows cold. Meet me on Revolver Road.
She thought again about last night—the conversation in the bar. She was convinced she knew who the killer was, but it seemed less important than it had last night. Still, she’d have a word with Baxter.
She headed for the door, dialing the number the lieutenant had given her for police dispatch as she walked.
A woman’s voice answered, “Traffic investigations.”
“This is Harper McClain. I’m heading in now.”
“Come in via Abercorn Street,” the woman told her crisply. “A patrol unit will be waiting there.”
Outside, the rain was still falling hard. The weather system seemed to be settling in over the coast. Flooding was predicted. She dashed across the muddy drive to the Camaro, feet splashing as she waved at the patrol car.
Over the drumming of water against metal, she faintly heard the deputy start his engine. She backed in a half circle and pulled up behind the patrol car. The county deputy led her across Tybee’s quiet streets, escorting her all the way to the far edge of the rain-soaked marshes, watercolor gray in the misty light. He peeled off a mile or two before she reached the city and turned back, leaving her alone.
As the dispatcher had instructed, she headed for Abercorn. Right as she reached it, a police motorcycle unit pulled out in front of her, gesturing for her follow.
On the dash, the scanner crackled into life, “Traffic unit one-five-seven.”
“TU one-five-seven go ahead,” the dispatcher said.
“Package collected. En route to agreed location.”
“Copy that,” the dispatcher said.
The package gripped the wheel, following the motorcycle as it splashed through streets that were beginning to flood.
The rain was starting to take its toll in other ways, too. Some tree branches bent so low from the weight of water that the long fronds of Spanish moss touched the ground. The motorcycle cop nimbly avoided the worst streets, leading her to Bay, where traffic was moving quicker.
Normally, she parked in the lot behind the newspaper building during the day—the street meters out front were cripplingly expensive—but the cop gestured for her to pull over directly in front of the main entrance. A guard stood waiting outside, water dripping from his hood.
The traffic cop stopped, his engine growling, and waited while she emerged from the car and hurried inside with the guard. As she walked, Harper cast quick glances down the street but spotted no barrel-chested, gray-haired men.
Then the guard closed the door and the street disappeared.
Even though she’d only been outside for seconds, water dripped from her hair into her eyes as she ran up the stairs, her scanner buzzing with fender benders, downed branches, and other rainy-day chaos.
The newsroom was humming with activity.
On a high from having his name on a front-page story that had been picked up by the wire services, DJ ran to intercept her.
“You okay?” he asked, searching her face.
“I’m fine, I promise,” she said.
She wasn’t at all certain it was true, but he took her at her word.
“Baxter wants me to work with you for the rest of the day. She says it’s going to be busy and you’ll need the spare hands.” He was jittery with energy.
“Welcome to the dark side.” Harper set her scanner on her desk.
“Where do I start, boss?”
Picking up the newspaper that lay on her desk, she flipped it over to the Lee Howard story, and thumped it with her finger. “Follow up on this. Find out more about the victim: call the Atlanta FBI office, see if you can get his biography or a photo, doesn’t matter how old. You might be able to get that from the motor vehicles office. Find out about his record, any commendations. And his family. Was he married? Kids?”
It was a job she normally would have done herself, but she couldn’t face it.
“Gotcha,” he said. He spun back to his computer, fumbling with the phone in his haste.
He was getting down to work when Baxter appeared from the back room. Spotting Harper, she strode across the newsroom, blazer flying.
“You’re alive,” she said.
“For now,” Harper replied, grimly. “DJ’s looking into Lee Howard,” she said. “We’ve got to decide how much to report about Dowell.”
“Well, he’s on the loose and he’s a convicted killer evading parole,” Baxter said. “That should do.” She gave Harper a penetrating look. “Are you sure you’re up to this.”
“I can handle it,” Harper said, curtly. “What about the Rayne case? The housemates were at each other’s throats last night at the bar.”
Baxter made a dismissive gesture. “If one of them confesses to murder we’ll find space for it. For now, Dowell’s our big story. Keep your mind on that.”
It wasn’t hard to do. News of Dowell’s escape was getting around. The state police issued a defensively worded statement claiming that Dowell had been working with them on a high-level investigation. They also released a more recent image of him than any Harper had been able to find. It was clearly and without question the man she’d seen on Bay Street the night before.
When Harper called Blazer for an update that afternoon, he was confident they’d find him. “His face is all over the TV news,” he told her. “He can’t hide forever.”
The problem was, he could hide for now.
The Dowell case kept her busy but whenever she had a break, she called Cara’s number. Each time it went straight to voice mail.
She wondered where the actress had gone after leaving the Library Bar the night before. Surely not out to the house at Tybee. Not after those scenes.
There was no point in contacting Hunter or Allegra—the two of them clearly viewed her as untrustworthy now. She’d have to wait until Cara got in touch.
When her phone rang
at around three o’clock that afternoon, she snatched it off the desk. But it wasn’t Cara’s name on the screen. It was Paul Dells.
Harper didn’t answer right away. She was sorry, now, that she’d gone on that date.
Maybe she was being foolish. Dells had money, charm, and wit. She liked him. The only problem was, whenever she tried to imagine herself dating him, it just didn’t work. She couldn’t see herself dressing up to go to expensive restaurants with him. Having him always choose the wine. Meeting his friends, with their designer clothes. Talking about anything except murder. It just didn’t work. She’d never fit into his life. There was too much blood on her shoes.
But she knew in her heart that wasn’t the real the problem. The real problem was, Dells wasn’t Luke.
With a sigh, she stood up and headed out of the room for some privacy and hit answer.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey yourself,” Dells said. “I’ve got some leads on furnished apartments downtown. I thought we might go look at them this afternoon if you don’t mind getting wet.”
“I can’t today,” she said. “I’m working on a story. I won’t get out of here until late.”
He wasn’t put off. “Tomorrow then. Before you go to work. Meet me for lunch.”
Harper braced herself. “Look,” she said, slowly, “I have to tell you the truth. I don’t think now is the time for the thing we started the other night.”
There was a pause.
“I see.” His tone cooled. “You’ve had second thoughts.”
“I have.” She drew a breath. “Paul, I like you a lot. And I think this is probably a terrible decision. But I honestly don’t see how it would work. We’re too different. Besides, right now, my life is such a mess—”
“You don’t have to make excuses,” he cut her off, crisply. “I understand how this works. I’ve done it enough times myself. You don’t owe me anything. But, the offer on the apartment stands separately from all of that. For your own safety. I can email you the addresses and arrange for you to go on your own.”
He was being so reasonable, but she didn’t miss the hurt underlying his words, and suddenly she felt guilty, and she wanted nothing more than to get off the phone and back to work.
“Thank you for everything,” she said, hurriedly, “but right now I’m fine.”
“McClain, don’t make rash decisions because of what happened between us,” he insisted. “Nothing matters as much as your safety. Anything you need, call me.”
He’d gone back to using her last name and for some reason it stung.
“Paul, I am sorry about this,” she said. “I warned you from the beginning I wasn’t sure I was ready.”
“Don’t worry about me, McClain. I’m a big boy. Just watch yourself out there. Oh, by the way. This dead FBI agent. Does it have anything to do with Martin Dowell?”
Harper hesitated only briefly. But he was Channel Five now. And that’s all he was.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Ask the detectives.”
* * *
It was a long day on no sleep. By nine o’clock, she sat at her desk with her head resting on her hand, watching the rain pour down the windows, thinking about Lee Howard’s lifelong guilt. And how it had cost his life.
In the mist and the dark, the Savannah River was invisible. She could see no farther than the street directly below. The old stone warehouses had faded into ghosts of themselves. Parts of the city were flooded now, but the highway out to Tybee was still clear. The marshes were good that way—a giant sponge, absorbing the rain. If this kept up, though, even the wetlands could be overwhelmed. The island would be cut off.
Everyone at police headquarters had been running their tails off all day dealing with the weather. But she couldn’t go home without knowing the latest about Martin Dowell.
She stood up so suddenly, DJ glanced at her in surprise. “I’m going to police headquarters.” Picking up her scanner, she weighed it in her hand, then handed it to him. “Keep an ear on this.” She grabbed her bag. “I’ll have my phone with me. Call me if you hear anything.”
“Code four in particular,” he said.
She shot him a look. “Learn the other codes, DJ.”
“I have a list,” he called after her, but she was already halfway across the newsroom.
Downstairs, she stood impatiently by the door waiting for the guard to go outside first. He donned a raincoat, then splashed out in grim silence, looking both ways before motioning for her.
Harper ran for the car, keys in her hand. She moved fast but she was soaked by the time she got in. The rain was relentless.
This time, she didn’t call the police to let them know she was on the move. They’d find out soon enough.
Still, as she crawled through the city streets, avoiding the lanes she knew by now were submerged, she watched the rearview mirror intently. Nobody was behind her. The streets were deserted. Even the tourists were staying inside.
She parked in the fire zone close to the sturdy brick police building and dashed through the pouring rain for the door, her boots sloshing through the water, the gun pressing against her ribs.
Dwayne looked up from the front desk as she walked in. “Lord. Look what the cat dragged in,” he called as she dripped across the lobby on the flatted cardboard boxes someone had placed atop the old linoleum flooring to soak up the water.
Harper didn’t smile. “I need a word with Luke Walker or Daltrey,” she said.
Dwayne had known her since she was twelve. He heard the edge to her voice.
“They’re both upstairs. Hang on.” He dialed quickly. “Detective, I’ve got Harper McClain down here.” He listened and said, “You got it.” When he hung up he gestured at the security door. “She says go up.”
After he released the security door, Harper hurried through, her boots skidding on the floor as she raced down the dark back hallway that always smelled damp even on the driest day, and was worse than ever now, and up the wide, scuffed stairs to the next floor. When she reached the landing, Luke and Daltrey were already walking toward her.
“Is there any news?” she asked. “I’ve been going crazy sitting in the office.”
Luke’s worried expression told her the answer even before he spoke. “We’ve got nothing.”
Seeing her face fall, Daltrey explained, “The storm’s slowing everything down. Martin Dowell’s got too much sense to go out in this. He’s holed up somewhere.”
“We’ve got warnings out statewide and into South Carolina and Florida as well,” Luke told her. “If he moves we’ll find him.”
Biting her lip, Harper nodded, slowly. But she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. How was she was going to make it through another night sitting with a gun, waiting to be killed?
“He doesn’t care about warnings,” she told them. “We’re giving him too much time.”
Hearing the panic in her voice, Luke stepped toward her. “We will get him, Harper.”
“I know you will,” she said, but her voice was uneven.
Luke glanced at Daltrey. “I don’t like her being alone out there tonight. What does Blazer think?”
“He thinks she’s safer out there than she would be in the city,” Daltrey told him. “There’s a county unit sitting outside her door all night.”
Still, he shook his head, every muscle tight as a wire. “I still don’t like it,” he said. “I’m going to talk to Blazer.”
Daltrey leveled a warning look at him. “You do you, Walker. But the lieutenant has a plan, and he believes that plan is working.”
“Luke, don’t.” Harper reached out, and then stopped herself. Her hand fell back to her side. “I’ll be okay.”
Luke held her eyes for a moment, and then nodded reluctantly.
She wondered whether he’d show up at her door again tonight. And if he did, whether she’d be strong enough to send him away twice.
Daltrey’s phone buzzed. She glanced down at it, and then turned to Luke. “We ne
ed to go. The coroner needs to talk to us.”
The three of them walked down the stairs together in somber silence. At the front door they stopped.
“Call dispatch before you go home tonight,” Daltrey told Harper. “Take the escort.”
“I won’t forget,” Harper said.
As Daltrey pushed open the door and walked into the wall of rain, behind her back, Luke caught Harper’s hand for just a moment, out of sight.
“Dowell’s going to make a mistake,” he assured her. “They always make mistakes.”
As Harper walked to her car, she hoped he was right.
Because it seemed to her that Martin Dowell kept proving everyone wrong.
32
After leaving the police station, Harper drove cautiously back toward Bay Street. Three times she had to slam on the brakes to avoid oak branches blocking the road. She’d just stopped at a red light when her phone rang. Sure it was Baxter wondering where she was, she pulled it from her pocket.
But it wasn’t Baxter. It was Hunter.
“Harper, thank God.” His voice had a high, nervous pitch. She could hear the wind through the phone, howling like someone in pain.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. “What’s wrong?”
“You’ve got to get out here.” He gave a gasping, unfunny laugh. “I thought we were fine, you know? I thought we’d get through this. But we won’t. Cara’s lost her mind.”
The light turned green but Harper stayed where she was, windshield wipers thumping hard. “What’s happening?”
She could hear muffled sounds through the line. Raised voices. Someone—Allegra?—was crying hysterically.
“Stop it,” Hunter shouted so loudly it made Harper jump. “Put down the gun.”
Then very clearly, Cara’s voice, screaming, hysterically, “He trusted you. And you—”
Someone covered the receiver and she couldn’t make out the last words.
“Just hang up!” It was Allegra’s voice. “Hang up and help me!”
The phone went dead. Harper stared at it for just a moment, then shook herself and dialed Luke’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “You okay?”
Revolver Road Page 25
