by Simon Wood
“Like what?”
She picked up her lemonade and sucked on the straw. “A number of people—ex-Genavax employees—felt that Genavax was falsifying its data. Its fast-track progress rang alarm bells.”
“Being able to do human tissue testing from the beginning would allow that.”
“Well, a couple of ex-Genavax workers I got in touch with through the website confirmed the suspicions, but didn’t know how the company was doing it. They gave me what they could, and I was getting even more when I got into that fight with your boss. I shouldn’t have let her catch me asking about illegal practices.”
“You never mentioned any of this before I accepted the job. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted a reason to check out the company, and with you on the inside, I had a direct line to the heart of the beast.” Sarah looked impressed with herself.
“Sarah, I’m your husband, not your mole. They tried to kill me.”
“And I’m a reporter. I had to know.”
“You put me at risk.”
They were silent; neither wanted to let the rift escalate into an argument that would spoil their reunion. Terry got proceedings moving again.
“Is Genavax why you were hiding?”
She shook her head.
“Is it the women on the list?”
“Yes.”
“Are they tied to Genavax in some way?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“C’mon, Sarah. You have to. You’ve been skulking in the shadows for nearly a month, and people have been killed. I was nearly killed.”
Sarah moved in close and checked over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being listened in on. Terry noticed they were under Kirsten’s watchful eye, but she wasn’t within hearing distance—the ambient mall noise was too great. Sarah went to speak, but instead, her grip tightened on Terry’s hand.
“What is it?” he asked.
Sarah’s gaze was fixed on something. Terry craned his neck to see. Holman and Deputy Pittman were cutting a swath through the mall worshippers from the main entrance. They separated to go around the concession stand in the center of the mall. Terry cursed.
Sarah whipped her head around to face Terry, her expression murderous. “You told them,” she hissed. “I can’t believe you told them.”
She shook off his hand and stood.
“I didn’t.” He reached for her, but she recoiled. “Believe me.”
Holman and Deputy Pittman had been striding, but they stepped up their pace to a jog when Sarah stood.
“I thought I could trust you.”
“You can.”
Holman and Deputy Pittman broke into a run, and Sarah bolted. Terry raced after her, but kept a watchful eye on Holman and Pittman. Kirsten flew out of El Tiburon, screaming for Terry and Sarah to stop. Shoppers stopped and stared in prairie-dog fashion.
Sarah clipped shoppers and chairs, knocking them aside to escape. Terry couldn’t believe what was happening. He was concussed by the enormity of it all. Life didn’t happen this way for people like him. Holding a marriage together shouldn’t be this dramatic. What the hell was he doing?
Unfortunately for Holman, he’d taken the long way around to intercept Sarah, and he wasn’t going to make it. He crashed into a mother and child, getting tangled up in the stroller. All three went down heavily—Holman the heaviest.
Deputy Pittman wasn’t as impeded as her boss. Although weighed down by the array of cop toys hanging from her belt, she cut Sarah’s lead. Sarah wasn’t far from the four pairs of glass doors at the south exit, but the deputy would get to her before she reached the doors.
Terry couldn’t let Deputy Pittman take Sarah down. He didn’t want Sarah thinking he’d betrayed her, not when he was this close to holding on to her. He had to stop the deputy.
Deputy Pittman closed in, preparing to tackle Sarah from the side. Sarah glanced back and from the look on her face, she knew she was screwed. Her look of desperation nearly split Terry in two, but it spurred him on not to let her down. He kicked a chair out of the way, giving him a clear run at the deputy.
Deputy Pittman was within arm’s reach of Sarah. Terry made his move. He dropped into a soccer-style sliding tackle. He struck the mock-marble floor and accelerated on the highly polished surface. He stuck his feet out, chopping Deputy Pittman at the ankles. She crumpled, collapsing on top of him. Sarah smashed through the doors, flinging them wide.
Deputy Pittman flailed on top of Terry, fighting to get to her feet. Terry rolled the deputy off him then rolled on top of her and used her as a springboard to get up. He spotted Holman steaming toward him like a force-ten gale. Deputy Pittman got to her knees, and Terry booted her in the backside, pitching her forward.
He blew through the same doors Sarah had and raced after her. She’d just crossed the crosswalk and was disappearing into the field of cars in the south parking lot.
“Sarah!” he bellowed. “Wait up!”
She threw a glance in his direction, but kept on running.
“Sarah!”
“Sheffield, stop!” Holman ordered, blasting through the doors with Deputy Pittman at his side.
Terry charged across the crosswalk and into the parking lot. He called Sarah’s name again. She didn’t look back this time.
He heard Holman shouting his and Sarah’s names. The sheriff and his deputy had their weapons drawn but not aimed. They were way behind. There was no way they would catch up and he couldn’t imagine them opening fire in such a public place.
Sarah threaded her way through the parking lot, but an endless family pouring out of a minivan halted her. The human obstacle allowed Terry to catch up. When she took off running again, he was on her heels.
“Sarah,” he panted. “You’ve got to take me with you.”
“I can’t.”
“You’ve got no choice.”
“Damn you, Terry.”
Terry was at full pelt, and his lungs burned. He hadn’t realized how out of shape he was until he had become a fugitive. Only adrenaline and fear gave him the fitness of an athlete.
“Sarah, what is this about?”
“You want to know now?”
“I want to know what I’m running from.”
They raced between a long row of vehicles before darting down a pedestrian path that separated the cars from the people. With Sarah ahead by a few feet, they charged across yet another crosswalk. She made it across fine. Terry didn’t.
He didn’t see the Toyota, just as the Toyota didn’t see him until it struck him. The sedan wasn’t going fast, but the impact sent searing pain up his thighbone and into his pelvis. His legs shut down and he went sprawling.
Sarah stopped at Terry’s scream. Her face was a mixture of frustration, shock, fear, and concern as her eyes flitted between him, Holman and Deputy Pittman, and her escape. Terry saw the emotions ripple across her face as she struggled with a decision. He made it for her.
“Go.”
She hesitated.
“Go,” he repeated.
She glanced at the sheriff and deputy. “In my home office. If you want to know what this is all about, it’s in my room.”
Sarah didn’t need telling a third time and she darted off, never looking back. As the thudding footsteps of Holman and Deputy Pittman slapped the asphalt around him, he heard a car scream to life and saw it peel off out of the parking lot. He knew it was Sarah. He’d lost her again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Terry just lay there where he had fallen. Deputy Pittman aimed her gun at the back of his head. It was getting to be a habit for her.
The Toyota driver was upset. She was pissed as hell at the damage Terry’s body had done to her car. She wanted justice. She wanted to sue. She jabbed a finger at Terry. “I want to press charges. I want this son of a bitch in jail. Look what this idiot has done to my car. Look!”
Terry looked and so did Holman and Deputy Pittman, who let the woman rant. Terry found it hard to see th
e damage he’d done to the Toyota. The car was at least a decade old. The sedan was blue—once. Now it was a sliding scale of shades and the original color was hard to determine. And if Terry had put a dent in the front of the car, it was lost among the others the car sported.
The woman threw her hands up and stared into the clear sky. “Why, God? Why do this to me? Am I not a good servant?”
God didn’t answer her, but Holman did. “A good servant of God wouldn’t have hit someone crossing a crosswalk.”
“But he was running,” the woman said, recovering from being knocked from her high horse.
“Running, walking, crawling—doesn’t matter. In a crosswalk the pedestrian has the right of way. The driver doesn’t.”
“But—”
Holman silenced her with a raised hand. “And a good servant of God wouldn’t have expired tags.”
The woman glanced at her license plate. Her mouth flapped in reply, but the words didn’t come, only a blubbering noise.
“Now, I think you should get into your car, consider what you’ve done, and see how you can fix things so this doesn’t happen again.” Holman spoke in a condescending fashion that adults usually reserved for disobedient children. “Deputy Pittman, please escort this lady to her car and make sure to get some details in case we need to talk to her at a later date.”
Deputy Pittman guided the woman to her driver’s side door while the woman delved for her license. Holman stood frowning over Terry. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head.
“Are you hurt?”
Terry throbbed from his feet to halfway up his side. He had the urge to use the bathroom, but to do what, he wasn’t sure. His bladder and bowels kept changing their minds. He took comfort in the fact that nothing appeared to be broken.
“I’ll live.”
“Can you stand?”
“With help.”
Holman stuck out a hand and Terry took it. The sheriff hoisted him to his feet. Terry put weight on his bad leg and it went numb instantly. He struggled to maintain his balance and tottered. Holman caught and steadied him. Pins and needles raced up and down Terry’s leg and side. Nausea turned his stomach inside out.
“I don’t think you’re going far,” Holman said.
Shocked and white-faced, the Toyota driver dove into her car and hightailed it out of there with a screech of tires. Deputy Pittman closed her notebook and came back to Terry and Holman.
“Deputy Pittman, he can’t walk. Bring my car around.”
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
Holman wrinkled his face and shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not just yet, anyway. Mr. Sheffield has a few questions to answer.”
Deputy Pittman jogged off in the direction of the north parking lot, and Terry became aware of the crowd of onlookers that had built up since the incident. They were treating the lull in proceedings as an intermission between acts. Holman brought the show to an end.
“C’mon people, move it along. The carnival is over. Move about your business, please.”
At the fringes, people broke off and dispersed, but a core still expressed their constitutional right to free assembly. Holman grimaced, and that did the trick. His displeasure cleared the hardcore fans. Terry wondered where he could get a stare like that.
A few minutes later, Deputy Pittman returned with Holman’s cruiser. Both officers eased Terry into the back of the car. He was glad to be off his feet and stretched out across the seat. All compassion ended the moment he was in the cruiser and the doors were shut.
“What the hell were you playing at back there?” Holman shouted, pointing in the direction of the mall.
Deputy Pittman drove the car toward an exit.
Terry fought fire with fire. “What the hell was I playing at? I was having a meal with my wife. What the hell were you playing at? My God, I can’t believe you tapped my phone.”
“We didn’t tap your phone.”
“Didn’t you? So you’re expecting me to believe you just happened to come across us?”
“We didn’t tap your phone, because we didn’t have to. Since you told us that your wife had contacted you, Deputy Pittman has been following you.”
Deputy Pittman smiled into the rearview mirror and waved at Terry. She made a left onto a side street, parked on the side of the road, and switched off the engine.
“Why were you following me?”
“To find your wife,” Holman said.
“Well, you did a bang-up job, didn’t you? Because she’s right by my side now, thanks to you two clowns.”
“Mr. Sheffield, you came to us,” Deputy Pittman said.
“I know, and I also told you when she was back in contact.”
“Do you have any idea the world of crap you’re in?” Holman demanded. “We’ve got obstruction of justice, assaulting an officer, wasting police time—and that’s just for starters. There’s a lot more I could throw at you if I decide to.”
Terry stared at the world outside the car. “Sarah isn’t missing anymore. I don’t know what your interest is in her now.”
Losing his patience, Holman said, “Mr. Sheffield, your wife names five murdered women in her notes.”
“So does the telephone book,” Terry snapped, “but I don’t see you hounding AT&T.”
Holman ignored the wisecrack, but Terry couldn’t ignore Holman’s remark. The sheriff knew about the murders, which made Terry wonder what else he knew. Terry’s surprise must have shown.
“Did you think I wouldn’t check out the names?” Holman asked. “We’re a small unit, but we’re not dumb, Mr. Sheffield. And by the look on your face, you know the women on your wife’s list were murdered. Why don’t you tell us what you know?”
Holman had really sucker-punched Terry. He hadn’t expected Holman to do his job and follow up on the list. He didn’t really see any way to bluff his way out. He knew he was already blushing. There was nothing for it; he would have to come clean—to a certain extent. He had to be careful. He didn’t want Holman knowing that Oscar was part of his private investigation. His friend shouldn’t have to face Holman’s wrath—or else who would be around to call Schreiber?
“You know as much as I do,” he said.
“I doubt that,” Deputy Pittman said, pursing her lips.
Terry ignored her. “The women on Sarah’s list were all killed by the same method.”
“And don’t pretend that this doesn’t have anything to do with your wife,” Holman said. “She’s at the heart of this mess.”
“Why has your wife been tracking the murder victims?” Deputy Pittman asked.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.”
Holman frowned. “At best, your wife is a material witness. At worst, she’s an accessory. We want to speak to her.”
“Mr. Sheffield,” Deputy Pittman said, “tell us where she is. If we can speak to her, we can find out what’s going on, and she might even help us find a murderer.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?” Holman demanded.
“She didn’t tell me where she was going.”
“I thought your wife had come back,” Deputy Pittman remarked.
“She isn’t missing,” Terry said disdainfully, then continued more humbly. “It’s just that I don’t know where she’s staying.”
Holman sighed. Everyone was silent for a few minutes while they all tried to think of something to say. It allowed time for tempers to cool. Holman spoke first.
“Do you have any idea where Sarah might be?”
Terry wished he did even more than they did. He shook his head.
“What did you two talk about?” Deputy Pittman asked.
Her tone was supportive; her face, caring. It was the first time she hadn’t been confrontational with Terry. It felt like she was a friend.
“We asked each other how we had been.” Terry half smiled. “Original, eh?”
Deputy Pittman smiled too. “You must have asked where she’s been this whol
e time, right?”
“I did. She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why?” Holman asked.
“Because she thought it was too dangerous.”
“Damn, I wish you would let us in,” Holman said.
Terry shrugged.
“What’s too dangerous?” Deputy Pittman asked.
“The story she’s working on.”
“Is it linked to Alicia Hyams and the other women?” Holman asked.
Terry could feel them clawing the information from him, but he didn’t mind. The more time they wasted on him, the farther away Sarah was getting.
“I believe so,” he said.
“Christ,” Holman muttered.
“And she told you this?” Deputy Pittman asked.
“Sort of. Some I’ve worked out for myself. Some she told me.”
“Does she know who’s doing this?” Holman asked.
“I think so.”
“Did she tell you?”
“No.”
“Because it’s too dangerous?” Holman suggested.
Terry nodded.
“Do you have any idea who it is?” Deputy Pittman pressed.
Terry did have a good idea who it was—the man who’d laughed at him on the phone without saying a word, the “friend” who wanted to get in touch with Sarah and knew that she was in hiding. But that man was just a voice on a phone. He had no face or name.
“I don’t know who it is, but I do think I know why Sarah went into hiding. I think the killer blames Sarah for something she did.”
“Something she did to the killer?” Deputy Pittman asked.
“I think so. I think the other murders were showpieces to draw Sarah out.”
“And she took the bait,” Holman said.
“Yes. And I also believe the killer’s been in contact with her—feeding her bits of information. But once he showed that he could get to her, I think she panicked and fled.”
“Do you have anything to back this up?” Holman asked.
“Gut feeling. Coincidence. All the women died the same way Alicia Hyams did.”
