Say You're Sorry

by Karen Rose

  “Yes,” he hissed triumphantly. “I did it.”

  Plus, a fire was a handy way to keep all the cops busy. So they’re not looking for me.

  About two miles later, he passed through another group of trees. Slowing down, he tossed the woman’s purse into the thicket. He hadn’t wanted her to have her phone or her ID. Her car could be too quickly identified that way and he needed a head start, until he could find somewhere to dump this car and get another.

  At the same time, he didn’t want anyone tracking her phone, either. So he’d taken care of both problems.

  He checked his rearview mirror, relieved to see no one behind him. No one followed him. Except . . .

  His heart stopped. Just . . . stopped.

  “Holy fucking shit.”

  MACDOEL, CALIFORNIA

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:15 P.M.

  “You shot the gun out of his hand?”

  Daisy was getting damn tired of answering this question. Danton had asked. His daughter had asked. His daughter’s husband’s cousin—a park ranger with EMS training—had asked. This time it was the sheriff from the next town up.

  “Yes, sir, I did,” she said, not taking her gaze off Gideon, who was being settled onto a stretcher by the park ranger/EMT. From the corner of her eye she saw the sheriff’s deputy moving to pick up the gun, which still lay in the middle of the road. “Don’t touch it!” she shouted, finally looking away from Gideon, who was actually smirking at her.

  The deputy straightened his spine and glared at her. “Who are you to be telling me how to handle a crime scene?”

  “I’m nobody. But he’s Special Agent Reynolds with the FBI and that gun may have been used in other crimes.”

  “What she said,” Gideon called out.

  She gave him an irked look even as she gently pushed his hair away from his eyes. “You need to keep still. Plus you’re not helping anyway.”

  Although he did look a lot better. Sammie Danton had done a good job stopping his bleeding and applying a dressing. At least Daisy thought it was a good job.

  But you let him get away.

  Fuck off.

  “Daisy?” Gideon tugged on her sleeve.

  She blinked down at him. “Sorry. What?”

  “Call Molina again,” he suggested. “Hopefully she’ll answer this time.”

  Daisy did as he asked, dialing up his boss with his phone.

  “What is it, Agent Reynolds?” a woman snapped.

  Daisy had heard her voice before, that morning when she’d overheard Gideon and the woman discussing what had been done to Trish . . . so matter-of-factly.

  Which is how they cope, she reminded herself.

  “This isn’t Agent Reynolds,” Daisy blurted out. “This is Daisy Dawson. Gideon’s been shot, but he’ll be okay. He asked me to call you.”

  “Is he conscious?” Molina asked sharply.

  “Yes. We’re waiting for the helicopter.” Sammie’s husband’s cousin—the EMS guy—had immediately radioed for one.

  “Where are they taking him?” Molina demanded.

  “To UC Davis.”

  “Let me talk to Reynolds. Please,” she added in a tone of forced courtesy.

  Daisy put the phone to Gideon’s ear. He was securely wrapped in blankets, but he was still shivering. “She wants to talk to you.”

  Gideon rolled his head to get closer to the phone. “I’m a little . . . indisposed at the moment.” A few seconds ticked by as he listened, then gave his boss the CliffsNotes account of what had happened. “Please tell the sheriff that your team is coming to deal with the crime scene.” He rolled away from the phone. “Give the phone to the sheriff.”

  Daisy did, nodding politely when the sheriff met her eyes with a bit of apology.

  “Yes,” the sheriff said into the phone, “we’ll make sure the scene is secure as long as someone gets here soon. There isn’t much traffic through here this time of year, but it is the only road and we’re blocking it off.” He handed the phone to Daisy. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Yes?” Daisy asked.

  “You’re going with him in the helicopter.”

  “Yes. I’d planned to.”

  “You will. Call me when you get to the hospital.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll call you.” She heard the sound of the helicopter’s approach. “His ride’s about to land. I need to go.”

  “Miss Dawson,” Molina said, her tone still terse. “Thank you for stepping up and protecting Gideon the way you did.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ending the call, she called good-bye to the Dantons, who waited beyond the helicopter’s landing range. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen tomorrow,” she told them. “If it’s one of the other agents who goes to Portland, will you still help them?” she asked Sammie.

  Sammie nodded. “If you vouch for them, sure. I’ll be going anyway. I need to try to find Eileen. If she’s hurt . . . I just need to make sure she’s okay. My husband’s already said he’ll go with me, so Dad doesn’t have to worry.”

  Daisy gave Mr. Danton an abrupt hug. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “We didn’t do anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done,” he murmured, patting her back. “Call us. Let us know you’re okay. Go on now. They’re ready to load you up.”

  “I will.” She’d turned for the helicopter when the sheriff tersely ordered his deputy to secure the scene, then got in his squad car and took off in the direction they’d be going.

  She glanced up at the EMT who was helping her up into the back of the rig. “Is he clearing a path for us?”

  The man shook his head. “No, he just got a call from Dispatch. A guy just knocked out an old lady at the rest area and stole her car.”

  “Mr. Beige Chevy?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

  “Sounds like. There’s a car vaguely matching that description parked off the road across from the rest area. But it has the same license plates, so probably.”

  “Probably? It’s a beige Chevy with a shot-up windshield and shot-out back window. How hard can it be to ID it?”

  “It’s on fire. Gas tank exploded. He got away in the stolen car.”

  “Then they can catch him,” she said with relief. “Hopefully they’re better shots than I was and they actually flatten his tires.”

  “There’s no way they can get off a better shot than you did,” Gideon said with a pride that made her smile. Until the EMT spoke again.

  “I don’t think anybody’s gonna be shooting at that car, ma’am. There’s a child in the backseat.”

  Any color still in Gideon’s face drained away. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

  Daisy’s stomach pitched. “Oh no.”

  They’d seen what the monster had done to Trish. What would he do to an innocent child?

  GRASS LAKE, CALIFORNIA

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:15 P.M.

  He threw on the brakes and turned around to see big brown eyes staring from the child’s car seat strapped in behind him.

  His heart simply stopped. “Holy fucking shit,” he repeated in a whisper. “It’s a kid.”

  A toddler, to be exact. Wearing pink. So probably a little girl.

  What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  Just drive. Fucking drive. Ditch the car as soon as you can.

  But it’s going to get cold tonight. I can’t just leave her. Alone. What if some pervert steals her?

  You fucker. You stole her.

  Not on purpose! And I’m not going to hurt her.

  Idiot. Just. Drive.

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor, peeling out with a squeal of tires. “What the hell now?”

  But the kid didn’t answer.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:15 P.M.


  Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Zandra Jones squinted at the driver’s licenses mounted on the inside of the cabinet door, barely close enough for her to see. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.

  She’d been repeating the women’s names in her mind, over and over again.

  Because I’m going to get out. I’m going to tell someone who they were. That they’re dead. Because I will get out.

  She had no idea how she’d make that happen. But she would. She was not going to end up as an addition to his collection of trinkets. And licenses.

  She’d get out and she’d make sure this monster paid for his crimes. And she’d make sure the families of all the women he’d killed got closure. So they could grieve.

  Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.

  Her gaze faltered on the next license, then flicked to the freezer against the wall. A sob started to rise and Zandra battled it back. She couldn’t cry or she’d suffocate, saving him the trouble of killing her. But the bastard hadn’t even buried the poor girl. He’d just shoved her in a freezer. Like he’ll do to me if I don’t find a way out.

  Resolutely Zandra redirected her attention to the display of licenses. Martell, Kaley. California. With the horseshoe crystal hanging from the hook below it.

  And the very last one. Hart, Trisha. California.

  Then she began again. Again and again until she had them memorized. Because these were fewer than a third of the names in the cabinet. She’d memorize every one that she could. Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.

  Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.

  Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.

  And again and again.

  And if he came back and showed her more of the licenses in the cabinet?

  I’ll memorize them, too.

  WEED, CALIFORNIA

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:20 P.M.

  “There,” he muttered, slowing to turn right. It was a lonely parking lot—a viewing area for Shasta—and there was only one vehicle parked there. A Ford F-150. That was an engine he knew well. There was an ancient one at the airfield, owned by the old man. Nearly twenty years old with more than two hundred thousand miles, it still ran like a dream.

  He’d learned to hot-wire the thing before he could legally drive.

  Finally, something was going his way. Slowly he pulled into the lot, looking for the driver. Ah, there he is. Standing at the edge of the lot, staring off toward the mountain, was a middle-aged man with a camera around his neck.

  And probably a cell phone in his pocket. He’d call the cops to report the theft of his truck in a heartbeat. And I’m all outta rocks.

  But he did have a car. In a pinch, it was a very good weapon.

  But the man hadn’t done anything. Not like the guests he brought back to his home.

  He has a vehicle you need.

  But . . . that’s . . . wrong.

  He laughed out loud. Literally. Wrong? Hell, yes. All of this was wrong. “I’ve got a fucking baby in the goddamn backseat.” Which was so far past wrong.

  He glanced in his rearview. The child was so quiet, it was unnerving. The kid just stared at him with wide brown eyes. Then she stuck her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes.

  And went to sleep.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

  Well, at least she was quiet. She could be screaming and breaking his eardrums.

  The man moved forward a few feet, climbing to stand on top of the low rock fence around the parking lot. He lifted the camera to his face and adjusted the lens. Then stepped off the fence and turned around, looking down at his camera as he replaced the lens cap. Walking toward his car.

  If you’re going to do it, then do it now.

  God.

  Pointing the car toward the man, he rammed his foot on the gas, narrowing his eyes until they were almost closed. Because he didn’t want to see—

  A thump had him gasping. He’d done it. He’d taken the guy out.

  Cautiously he backed up until he could see the man on the ground. The guy rolled over, arm stretched over his head, hand grasping at the asphalt.

  Not enough. He needed the man unconscious. Not dead. Just unconscious.

  So he backed up, closed his eyes, and punched the accelerator once again, flinching when the car made contact. Carefully he nudged the car backward far enough to see the man. Who was no longer moving.

  Oh God. He drew a breath and shuddered it out, then looked around to be sure no one else had seen. There was no one there.

  There might be security cameras, but it didn’t matter. He’d changed his whole look that morning while waiting for the Fed and Daisy to emerge from the hotel. Plus, the cap he wore would hide his face.

  Cautiously he slid from the old woman’s Honda and approached the man, who lay still. He was breathing, so that was good. Crouching beside him, he rolled him over so that he could take his wallet out of his pants, then got his car keys and phone.

  No identification. No tie to the truck. No way for him to call to report the theft if he did wake up.

  Hurry. Before the word got out and the cops set up roadblocks. Although he hoped all emergency personnel were tied up with the fire he’d set in his car.

  He got back in the car and parked it over the man’s unmoving—but still breathing—body. It would hide him from view and even shelter him from the wind. In case he survived long enough to be saved.

  All right then. He locked up the old woman’s Honda and started for the man’s truck. Then . . . stopped. And turned to look at the back window. Where the baby sat, sound asleep.

  How had the kid slept through that? Would she even cry to tell someone she was in the car if help did come?

  What if she froze to death? What if animals came and attacked her?

  She was like Mutt had been. Helpless. Defenseless. Innocent.

  “Fuck me,” he muttered, going back to the car, opening the back door, and unbuckling the straps that held the car seat in place. He yanked the car seat out, baby and all.

  “Holy shit, kid. You weigh a frickin’ ton.” He unlocked the man’s truck with its old-style key. No fobs for this guy, which was good. Because key fobs could be tracked by the cops. He’d read that in the forensics magazine he had delivered to his Kindle each month.

  It was always good to keep ahead of developments that could land him in prison.

  Opening the door to the backseat, driver’s side, he shoved the baby onto the floorboard, car seat and all, wedging it between the back of the driver’s seat and the back bench.

  The kid woke once, stared up at him, then made a snuffling sound like she was about to cry.

  “Uh, no. Just . . . no.” He ran back to the Honda to see if there was a diaper bag, and sure enough, there was a pretty pink bag with bears printed on it. He grabbed it, locked the car, and ran back to the truck, frantically searching for something to keep the kid quiet.

  “Oh, good.” He pulled out a pacifier, which was exactly what the kid wanted. She sucked on it contentedly and he let out a sigh of relief.

  He’d figure out where to leave her on his next stop.

  Weed, California, was the next town. It had shopping centers where he’d find another car to steal and somewhere he could leave the kid. That would be best.

  You should have left her in the Honda. The thought scratched at his mind as he drove away in the man’s truck.

  No. I couldn’t have. She doesn’t deserve to be abandoned.

  The voice in his head turned sly. Like your mommy did to you?

  He gritted his teeth. “She did not abandon me,” h
e said aloud. “She died.”

  But the effect had been the same. She’d been gone and then . . .

  Sydney had come.

  Sydney had come and stolen everything good in his life away.

  Sydney had ruined everything.

  Just like she ruined me.

  TWENTY

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 5:30 P.M.

  “Karl, stop pacing.” Irina glared at him across the waiting room. “You are making Daisy crazy.”

  “I’m fine,” Daisy protested. Brutus was nearly bald from being petted, but a dog’s fur would grow back. She was pretty sure. God, I hope so. Poor Brutus. But Gideon was going to be fine, too. It wasn’t a serious wound. They were just going to stitch him up.

  “Way to blame it on DD, Ma,” Sasha said, her arm around Daisy’s shoulders protectively. “Stop projecting your feelings onto her.”

  “Fine,” Irina admitted. “You are making your wife crazy, Karl. Please sit down.”

  Karl sat next to Irina sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to help it.”

  “Our Gideon will be fine,” Irina assured.

  Whether she was assuring Karl or herself was anyone’s guess, Daisy thought with a fond smile for the woman who’d been a mother to Gideon. Irina had been a mother to her, too. She reached over Sasha to pat Irina’s arm. “Of course he’ll be fine. He’s getting worked on by the best vascular surgeon in the place.”

  So Molina had told them and Daisy didn’t dare question her. But she didn’t blame Karl for pacing. They’d all engaged in some form of stress management. Sasha’s choice was chocolate and Daisy had been all too happy to share her bag of M&Ms. She’d ask for more, but all the sugar had her feeling slightly sick. Or that could have been the stress, because even though she told herself that Gideon would be fine, he’d been in surgery for almost two hours already and it was supposed to have been a quick repair, an hour tops.

  “If he’s so damn good,” Rafe grumbled, “what’s taking him so long? It was a damn through-and-through.”