by Tami Hoag
Mitch held himself rigid. He wanted to nail the son of a bitch now, tackle him and beat him senseless for striking Megan. But he would wait. Let him get in the truck and drive out. Count on Dietz and Stevens to stop him at the east entrance. Dietz and Stevens, whose biggest busts had been drunks and petty drug dealers. This asshole was the key to finding Josh. If they had him in their sights and let him get away . . . He was halfway back to the truck. Once he was in the truck, he could be gone.
In a heartbeat the decision was taken away from him. Megan turned and flung herself at the man. He wheeled and caught her head-on, and together they tumbled into the snow.
Mitch launched himself down the hill, fear and fury driving his legs, bellowing out of his lungs. “Freeze! Police!”
Megan's breath left her in a rush. She gasped for more as she struggled to free herself from Wright's grip, from the damned sheet, struggled to get her legs under her. The blindfold came off, but Wright's grip never loosened. He pushed to his feet, dragging her up in a headlock and bringing his gun up hard into her temple. He half dragged her, half pushed her toward the truck, snarling in her ear.
“Tell him I'll kill you! Tell him I'll kill you!”
“Tell him yourself, asshole,” she snapped. “Kill me and you're a dead man right here.”
“Bitch!”
He jerked her sideways, his forearm tightening against her windpipe.
“Drop the gun!” Mitch shouted.
He came to a halt ten feet from them, the Smith & Wesson in position, cocked and ready, his finger itching to take the slack out of the trigger and blow the bastard's head open like a rotten watermelon. But he couldn't chance a shot; Megan was too close, too good a shield. The nose of a black nine-millimeter was biting into her temple. Mitch knew if he did the wrong thing, made the wrong decision, she would be dead. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away. The image of Allison dead and Megan dead alternated in his mind like freeze-frame shots. Allison lying on the gray linoleum, her blood spreading out in a pool. Megan lying crumpled in the snow, her blood soaking it like cherry syrup on shaved ice.
“Drop it!” he bellowed. “You're under arrest!”
Wright pulled Megan another half-foot toward the open door of the truck. The engine was rumbling, waiting.
“You'll never get out of here in that truck,” Mitch yelled. “I've got unmarked cars waiting on both entrances.”
“Tell him he doesn't play fair,” Wright whispered.
Megan cut him a glare out the corner of her eye. “Fuck you.”
She let her legs buckle abruptly. Her dead weight jerked Wright off balance, giving Mitch the opportunity to charge. Wright shoved Megan into Mitch, sending them staggering backward in the snow. Firing blindly in their direction, he vaulted into the cab of the truck.
Mitch rolled Megan beneath him, shielding her, flinching as the bullets struck within inches.
“It's Garrett Wright!” Megan shouted.
Mitch raised himself up on his hands and knees over her. “Are you hit?”
“No! Go nail the son of a bitch!”
He lunged to his feet as the truck lurched into motion, tires spinning in the fresh snow. The back end fishtailed, swinging toward Mitch, who grabbed the side panel just as his feet were knocked out from under him. His hands slipped as he struggled for a better hold, and the Smith & Wesson clattered into the bed of the truck. Then the pickup slid the other way, dragging him in its wake.
As it straightened out, Mitch heaved himself up and over the side, rolling into the bed with a grunt of pain. Instantly, he spotted his gun and dove for it. Scrambling into a crouch, he lurched toward the cab, then grabbed hold of the roll bar.
“Stop the truck, Wright!” he shouted, pounding the back window with his gun hand. “You're under arrest!”
Wright responded by jerking the steering wheel, throwing Mitch sideways. They slid into a curve off-balance, rocking violently, the right side wheels coming up off the ground. Mitch was thrown back in the other direction. He grabbed again for the roll bar, brought the Smith & Wesson up, and fired through the back window. The bullet cut cleanly through it but shattered the windshield into an intricate spiderweb of cracks.
“Stop the truck!” He smashed the bullet hole with the butt of the pistol, cracking the safety glass and bending it in.
Wright twisted around and fired over his shoulder, the bullet sailing wide as Mitch ducked sideways, aligning himself directly behind his man. Still holding the roll bar with his left hand, he reached in through the broken window with his right and jammed his gun up behind Wright's ear.
“Stop the goddamn truck! You're under arrest!”
Wright twisted the wheel sharply to the left and gunned the engine. The pickup roared off the path and into space as it sailed off an embankment. Shouting a curse, Mitch dropped to his knees. He jammed his gun inside his coat and grabbed hold of the roll bar with both hands.
The truck landed bucking, then skidded sideways and slammed into the trunk of a tree. Mitch bounced around the bed like a ball in a game of bumper pool. A wedge of snow-flecked sky flashed across his vision as he was thrown, then solid white, then color burst behind his eyelids when he landed.
He was on his feet and drawing the gun out before his vision cleared. He ran for the truck, trying to spot Garrett Wright, wondering if the crash might have knocked him out. Gunshots answered the question for him—three quick rounds that sent him diving for cover behind a fat spruce tree.
He crouched there for a moment, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch a glimpse of Wright from between the branches, but it was too dark. Staying low, he crept ahead from spruce tree to hardwood, moving toward the truck. It had come to rest in a small oasis of trees. To the south and east was nothing but open ground. To the west was a fifty-yard sprint to the thick woods that blanketed the hillside. If Wright was going to run, west would be his only option.
Mitch darted behind another tree, his eyes on the truck.
“Give it up, Wright!”
Silence. The wind. The groaning of the trees.
Taking a deep breath, he ran low for the passenger side of the truck. No shots. Nothing but the hiss of the pickup's wounded radiator. Slowly, Mitch straightened. The cab was empty. Through the windows he could see Garrett Wright running, no more than thirty feet from the edge of the woods.
“Damn, you're too old for this, Holt,” he muttered, gathering his strength. Then he pushed away from the pickup and ran. He expected Wright to fire on him as he crossed the open ground, but no shots came. He charged up the bank, plunging into the trees and brush, leading with his gun.
A flash of movement among the tree trunks to the north sent Mitch in that direction. A bullet chipped a tree a foot to his left at the instant the sound of the shot reached him. He dropped to his belly and waited, scuttling sideways, ignoring the sharp broken branches that poked at him through the snow. His hand caught hold of something soft and warm. He jerked back instantly, thinking it was something alive, but it was a black knit ski mask.
“Wright!” he shouted. “Give it up! You can't win!”
A game. A goddamn game. That was what he called destroying people's lives. The hell if he would win this one.
Another shot zinged toward him. Mitch zigged right and ran on, returning fire. He caught another glimpse of Wright, a darker shape among the shadows, then he was gone again, leaving Mitch swearing.
The muscles in his legs and back were burning. The cold night air came into his lungs like needles. The toe of his boot hit something and he went down hard. As he stood, a bullet cut through the left sleeve of his parka, nicking his arm and spinning him sideways.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” He ducked behind a tree. The wound stung like hell, but it wasn't debilitating and it wasn't his gun hand.
Carefully, he eased his head around the tree trunk. No sign of Wright. An aura of light limned the crest of the hill. Beyond the last of the trees lay the Lakeside neighborhood. Hannah and Paul's ne
ighborhood. Garrett Wright's neighborhood. Garrett Wright, who taught psychology and worked with the Sci-Fi Cowboys and drove a Saab. Who would ever have looked at him and wondered if a madman lurked beneath the neatly pressed surface?
Another flash of movement cut through the falling snow. Mitch gave chase, keeping his eye on Wright's back as he hit the cross-country ski trail that ran along the lip of the hill. Mitch hit the path seconds after him.
“Wright! Stop! You're under arrest!”
His quarry ducked left and disappeared into a stand of snow-laden spruce trees. Praying he wouldn't be running into a bullet, Mitch bolted after him. On the other side of the trees the houses of Lakeside stood on their oversize lots, lights glowing softly in windows. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the yards for Garrett Wright. A shadow moved along the next house to the north. Just a shape along the back wall of the garage, running through an open back door.
“Freeze, dammit!” Mitch shouted, charging through the drifts, never taking his eyes off the door as it swung shut two seconds before he reached it.
He lowered a shoulder and hit the door running. It burst open with an explosive crack!, the wood frame splintering. Mitch's momentum carried him straight into Garrett Wright. They went down hard, skidding across the concrete floor, Wright grunting as his breath left him.
“You're under arrest, you son of a bitch,” Mitch snarled, rising up above him, his lungs working like a pair of bellows. He held the Smith & Wesson half an inch from Wright's pale face, the barrel quivering like a rattlesnake tail. “Game's over, Garrett. You lose.”
CHAPTER 39
* * *
DAY 11
9:51 P.M. 19° WINDCHILL FACTOR: 6°
What's going on?” Karen Wright stood in the doorway that led from the garage to her kitchen, her expression pale and horrified.
“It's a mistake,” her husband said. He lay facedown on the concrete floor of the garage, his hands cuffed behind his back. He twisted his head around to glare up at Mitch, who stood with the Smith & Wesson still trained on him.
“Yeah,” Mitch snarled. “It's a mistake—and you made it.”
Karen's big doe eyes brimmed with tears. She twisted her hands in the bottom of her baggy pink sweater. “I don't understand! Garrett hasn't done anything! He doesn't even speed!”
Mitch spared her a glance. He had read many cases where a woman had lived with a man for years, oblivious to the fact that he led a secret life as a rapist or murderer or child predator. That was undoubtedly the case with Karen Wright. She had been working at the volunteer center, mailing out fliers in the effort to find Josh, while her husband had been playing his sick game. Still, she would have to be questioned to see just what she knew and what she didn't, to see if she could corroborate or destroy her husband's story. Mitch couldn't imagine she would hold up very well. She didn't look very resilient.
“Garrett, what's this about?” she cried. “I don't understand!”
“I'm sorry, ma'am,” Mitch said. “If you could just wait inside—”
“Garrett!” she sobbed.
The big garage door was up, a huge open window to the street, letting in the wind and the snow, affording a view of the cruisers coming up the block with Mitch's Explorer right behind them. The vehicles turned in the drive. There were no lights or sirens. Mitch had given specific orders for silence when he had called the dispatcher on his cellular phone. No mention of a code or a crime, just a specific request for Noogie, Dietz, and Stevens, and one other patrol car to report to 91 Lakeshore Drive.
Wright's own house. Mitch supposed he had thought to take the Saab in the garage and escape, but there would be no escape. Tonight, justice got the win.
Megan sat in the Explorer and watched as Noogie escorted Garrett Wright to a police car. She stared at the face of the man who had beaten her, tormented her, tormented them all. No more than four feet away, he turned and looked right at her. No emotion registered on the face that was cast half in shadow, half in the grainy light that shone down from above the garage door. He simply stared at her. Then Noogie clamped a big hand on his shoulder and stuffed him down into the car.
Megan shivered. She couldn't seem to stop shaking, and it wasn't from cold. Noogie had bundled her up in wool blankets and left the motor running and the heater blasting. She had refused to let him call an ambulance. She had no intention of being whisked off to the emergency room without knowing that Mitch had caught Garrett Wright . . . without knowing that Garrett Wright hadn't shot him.
Dietz and Stevens came out of the garage, one at either elbow of Karen Wright, holding her upright as she sobbed. Wright's eerie whisper floated through Megan's head—we . . . we . . . we . . . Never I, always the plural. But she couldn't picture Karen as the other half of the team. There had been too much contempt for women in that disembodied voice. You're just another stupid bitch!
She jerked at the memory of the blow that had followed.
“Dammit, Megan, you belong in the hospital!”
Mitch had pulled open the passenger door and was scowling at her. But it wasn't anger she saw in his eyes.
“I had to know,” she whispered. “I had to see that you got him.”
Something twisted hard in his chest as he looked at her. Her right eye was blackening. Her lower lip was split and swollen. That son of a bitch had pounded her, yet she sat there with her chin up and defiance shining behind the tears in her eyes.
“I got him,” he whispered. Stroking a hand over her hair, he leaned into the truck and coaxed her head to his shoulder. “We got him.”
He shuddered at the thought that the outcome could have been very different. She could have been killed. He could have lost her. But she was here and alive. Relief left him feeling a little shaky.
They were both blinking furiously as he pulled back. He sniffed hard. A crooked smile canted his mouth.
“You're a hell of a cop, Megan O'Malley,” he murmured. “Now let's get you to a hospital.”
11:47 P.M. 17° WINDCHILL FACTOR: 0°
Did he tell you where Josh is?” Hannah asked.
Mitch had told her to sit, but she couldn't. She prowled the family room, her arms crossed tight. Her pulse was racing off the chart. She probably should have been lying down, but she needed to move and to keep on moving until Mitch gave her the answer she needed. And then she would sprint out the door and run to Josh. Conversely, Paul sat at the end of the couch, bent over with his head in his hands, seemingly unable to move or speak.
The call had come nearly two hours before—Mitch telling her Garrett Wright had been arrested and that he would come by the house himself to explain. She had asked him to notify Paul at his office, then waited, stunned and numb.
Mitch looked at his boots and heaved a sigh. “No. So far he isn't talking.”
Mitch had asked him to show a little compassion, tell them if Josh was alive at least, but Garrett Wright held no compassion. He met Mitch's gaze straight-on, nothing showing behind his cold, dark eyes, his fine features blank, devoid of emotion.
“Garrett Wright,” Hannah muttered. “You're certain . . .”
“There's no doubt in my mind,” Mitch said. “He's been toying with us all along, teasing us with clues. He meant to use Megan—Agent O'Malley—to make his point tonight, to show us all how superior he is, but he danced a little too close to the flame this time. I chased him down myself, Hannah. He's our man—one of them, anyway. Whether Olie Swain was connected, or someone else, we don't know yet.”
Mitch refrained from telling them a Harris College student named Todd Childs had been brought in for questioning. Nothing had come of it yet. Nor did he make any mention of the fact that he had issued a bulletin for Christopher Priest to be brought in. The professor hadn't returned from St. Peter, if that was where he had gone. The St. Peter police were checking motels to see if he was among the motorists stranded by the storm.
“My God, Garrett Wright.” Hannah shook her head. It seemed inconceivable. He was their neighbor.
Karen's husband. A teacher at Harris. He had called her just last night and given her the name of a family counselor. “Why?”
“I can't answer that, honey,” Mitch murmured. “I wish I could.”
“Why would he hurt us?” she said as if Mitch hadn't spoken.
“Because he's a lunatic!” Paul shouted, vaulting up from the couch. “He's insane!”
And he was trapped in a nightmare. This couldn't possibly be happening. Garrett Wright arrested. No. It couldn't be Garrett. He couldn't stand for it to be Garrett.
“Anybody who would do this kind of thing has to be insane!” he insisted. He turned away from the fireplace, where a photo of Josh stared out at him from a cherry frame on the mantel. On the VCR shelf in the entertainment center sat a stack of Josh's video games. Everywhere he turned were reminders. Inside his head, Josh's voice echoed and echoed. Dad, can you come and get me from hockey? Dad, can you come and get me from hockey? Dad, can you—
“I can't believe this,” he muttered. He stared at the carpet, afraid to look anywhere else. He couldn't stand the reminders of Josh. He couldn't look at Mitch Holt. He especially couldn't look at Hannah. He couldn't think about Garrett Wright. Guilt and panic and self-pity clogged his throat. “I can't believe this is happening to me.”
No one heard him.
Hannah's attention was on Mitch. He looked as if he had run to hell and back, hair disheveled, coat open and hanging crooked on his shoulders. One sleeve was torn at the biceps, bleeding goose down. The strain of the night sharpened the angles of his face, darkening the shadows, deepening the lines. The worst of it was in his eyes—regret, sympathy, empathy.
“You think Josh is dead, don't you?” she said softly.
Mitch sank down into a wing chair. They had all prayed for this case to end, but no one had wanted it to end like this, with no sign of Josh, with one of their own neighbors in custody, with Megan in the hospital.
