Nowhere to Run

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He’d spoken with such conviction, such absolute certainty. There was a gun. She simply hadn’t seen it. If he hadn’t killed Tommy Walsh, Tommy would’ve killed her.

  What if he was telling the truth? What if all along he’d been telling the truth?

  Everything I’ve ever said to you is God’s own truth.

  If he was telling the truth, then, Lord, how she’d let him down by doubting him.

  It was her head versus her heart. Her heart wanted to believe him. But her head couldn’t reconcile the cold, hard facts.

  And Carrie didn’t know what to believe.

  Felipe sat forward, gripping the steering wheel tightly in his hands. “My God,” he said.

  “Is it him?” Carrie tried to see where he was looking. She couldn’t see anyone out on the sidewalk who looked like Chief Earley.

  “It’s Lawrence Richter,” Felipe said. “He’s going inside.” He turned off the engine and unlocked the door. “Come on.”

  “We’re going to follow him?” Carrie exclaimed. “Into the police station?”

  “Yes.” Felipe took the paper lunch bag that held Rafe’s Instamatic camera, then grabbed her wrist. He pulled her across the bench seat and out the driver’s-side door.

  “Do you know how many police officers are in there?” Carrie asked in disbelief. “Do you want to get caught?”

  “I’m not going to get caught,” Felipe said shortly, pulling her with him across the parking lot toward the wide stairs that led up to the main doors. “But if anything happens,” he added, “get down behind me out of the way. Do you understand?”

  Carrie dug her heels into the gravel of the parking lot, and he turned back toward her impatiently.

  “Felipe, don’t go in there,” she said. “Someone’s going to recognize you and—”

  “How nice that you should care,” he said without expression.

  “I do care—”

  He grabbed her shoulders and all the emotion he’d been hiding erupted to the surface. “Then trust me, dammit!” he hissed. “Trust me, Caroline, and know that I have to go in there if I want this to end.”

  “I don’t want you to die,” she whispered, staring into the burning depths of his eyes. “I don’t know what you’ve done or not done, who you’ve killed or not. I don’t know whether or not you’ve been using me right from the start. I don’t know whether you deserve to go to jail or get a medal for bravery, but I do know that I don’t want you to die.”

  He touched the side of her face, his hands suddenly gentle, his eyes soft and sad. “I truly have no control when it comes to you,” he murmured. “I should despise you for losing your faith in me, but all I want is to kiss you, to touch you. I must be one hell of a fool.” He shook his head. “You can help me, Caroline,” he added, talking low and fast. “We can get in and out and no one will ever know. I need to do this. I need your help. Please.”

  Helping him would be aiding and abetting. She could go to jail for that.

  “Please,” he whispered again, and she nodded. Her reward was a small smile, a mere shadow of Felipe’s normal exuberance. “Put your hair under your hat,” he said. “Hurry.”

  She obeyed, stuffing her long blond hair up underneath the baseball cap she was still wearing.

  This was crazy. Felipe was crazy. She was crazy for going along with this.

  He opened the door to the lobby and pulled her inside.

  She should scream, run away, do something to call attention to herself. Hello, I’m the hostage you’ve all been looking for all this time!

  Felipe was staring at the elevators.

  “Richter got in one going down,” he said, pulling her toward a door marked Stairs. “Come on.” He pulled her into the stairwell with him, then started down. “Quickly. I don’t want to lose him,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time, all but swinging Carrie up into his arms to speed her along.

  But he stopped running before he pushed open the door on the basement level. He opened it slowly—just in time to see Lawrence Richter walk sedately past.

  They followed the silver-haired man into a cafeteria that was open to the general public. And the general public was there in all their various sizes and shapes. That was good. With these strange-looking people around, no one would give Felipe a second glance.

  Near the door, there was an empty table against the wall, and Felipe sat down in one of the metal-framed chairs. He pulled Carrie onto his lap.

  She didn’t want to sit there. She didn’t want to be so close to him, to be reminded of the way she had let him love her. She struggled to stand up, but he held her tightly.

  “At least pretend you like me,” he whispered.

  Carrie stopped struggling. “Felipe—” she started to say.

  “Shh. Richter’s got a cup of coffee. He’s going to sit down. Put your arm around me, for God’s sake.”

  Carrie looped her arm around Felipe’s neck. She wished she wasn’t sitting here like this, so close to him, touching him. She wished she were back at Sea Circus or out on her boat, alone with the sea and sky, or hell, she even wished she were back in Montana. She wished she were anywhere but here.

  Because she also wished that she could kiss him. Her attraction to this man was still there, powerful and strong. Her love was there, too, even stronger.

  Head versus heart, it all boiled down to a matter of trust. Was he the Sandlot killer? Carrie didn’t want to believe that he was. But wanting simply wasn’t enough.

  Felipe reached around her to put the lunch bag on the table. He poked a hole in the bag for the camera lens and aimed it at the table where Richter was sitting with his coffee.

  And then, without any warning, Felipe kissed her.

  It was a long, deep, achingly fierce kiss that caught her entirely by surprise. It left her weak and even more off center than she’d been before.

  “Sorry.” Felipe quietly apologized for the kiss almost before their lips had parted. “I’m sorry—Richter looked this way. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Oh. That hadn’t really been a kiss. It had been a diversion, a form of cover.

  “What is Richter doing?” Carrie asked when she finally found her voice. Sitting the way she was, her back was to the man.

  “He’s picked up a newspaper from the table,” Felipe said. He reached out and laid one hand on the paper bag holding the camera and took a picture of Richter. “Put your head against my shoulder and you’ll be able to see him. But don’t stare. Look past him, not at him.”

  Carrie turned slightly and leaned back against Felipe. Richter was reading the newspaper. As she watched, he took a sip of his coffee.

  Felipe’s hand moved on the paper bag. “Did you see that?” he murmured into Carrie’s ear. “He just put an envelope in between the pages of the paper.”

  He did? Carrie hadn’t noticed that at all.

  “I got it on film,” Felipe said. “Now we wait for Earley to show up…ah, he’s right on time.”

  Looking harried, Police Chief Jack Earley, in a white short-sleeved shirt and a loosened tie and carrying his sport jacket over one arm, came into the cafeteria.

  Felipe nuzzled Carrie’s neck, hiding his face from the man who was leading the statewide intensive search for him.

  Earley walked past Felipe and Carrie, past Lawrence Richter—who didn’t even glance up—and over to the coffee vending machine. Casually, the police chief put some money into the machine and pressed the buttons for decaf with sugar, no cream.

  As the cup was filling with steaming dark coffee, Lawrence Richter stood up, straightened his tie and calmly walked out of the room.

  “He left,” Carrie whispered to Felipe. “Richter left before the meeting!”

  “He didn’t take the newspaper,” Felipe murmured. “It has that envelope inside it. Just watch. Earley is going to pick it up off the table.”

  Almost before he stopped speaking, the police chief walked past the table where Richter had been sitting. For a moment, it looke
d as if the man was simply going to walk on by, but then he stopped, lingering to look down at the headlines of the sports pages.

  He glanced at his watch as if in a rush, then took the paper with him, hurrying out of the room.

  Felipe hustled Carrie off his lap and grabbed the bag that held the camera. Holding her hand, he pulled her along with him down the hall about fifty feet behind Jack Earley.

  Earley stopped in front of the elevator and pushed the button. He took a sip of his coffee, made a face and tossed the cup and its contents into the garbage. The newspaper soon followed.

  “Got it,” Felipe murmured in her ear, and she realized he was holding the bag with the camera in front of him. “He put the envelope in his jacket pocket.”

  “I didn’t see that,” Carrie said.

  “That’s okay,” Felipe said. “I got it on film.”

  “Now what?” Carrie whispered.

  “Now we find a one-hour photo place,” Felipe said.

  “Holy hell, it is you,” a voice said loudly. All across the basement lobby, heads turned in their direction. A bald-headed man in an ill-fitting suit fumbled for his sidearm. “Felipe Salazar, you are under arrest!”

  “Or maybe we’ll skip the photo place,” Felipe said quietly, pulling Carrie close to him. “Play along.”

  From around the lobby came a murmur of voices and a wave of movement as civilians backed away and police officers began to draw their weapons.

  But Felipe was ahead of them all. His gun was already drawn. He backed up until he hit the wall next to the closed elevator door. “Keep your hands up and guns down,” he warned them. “I don’t want to have to hurt the girl.”

  Play along. But was this fantasy or reality? It sure seemed like reality. The entire area was frozen like a tableau.

  “Come on, Phil,” the bald cop said, still trying to get his gun free. “Don’t let’s do this the hard way. Let me bring you in. I’ll see that you get fair treatment.”

  “Put your hands up, Andy,” Felipe said. “And back away.”

  “Someone get hold of Jim Keegan,” the cop named Andy called out, lifting his hands with a sigh. “We got us a hostage situation here.” He turned back to Felipe. “Phil, this is a royal pain in the ass.”

  This was all happening so fast. Carrie could barely breathe. Felipe had his gun pressed against her ribs. Play along. She didn’t have to pretend to look frightened.

  “Tommy Walsh killed Mareidas and Dupree,” Felipe told Andy. “Not me. It was on Lawrence Richter’s orders. I have proof of this.”

  “Richter?” Andy said, squinting as he tried to place the name. “Isn’t he the guy who owns that chain of fish restaurants? My cousin got salmonella from eating there.”

  “He owns the restaurants—and runs a major crime syndicate,” Felipe said. “Guess who else is involved?” He turned to look at Jack Earley. “You get the first guess, Chief.”

  Chief Earley’s face was pale, his mouth a grim line. “Let the girl go, Salazar. You don’t really want to see her killed, do you?” He turned to speak to his men. “He’s clearly delusional. Get back and clear these civilians out of here.”

  “You’re going down, Captain Rat,” Felipe said to Earley. “I have the proof I need. When Jim gets here—”

  Next to them, the door of the cargo elevator slid open, and a janitor blinked owlishly out at them from behind a dolly carrying large trash barrels.

  Earley made his move. He lunged for Felipe, pulling both him and Caroline back into the big elevator.

  “Get out!” he shouted at the janitor, who scrambled out the door. “The man’s insane! Get out!”

  Felipe hit the wall hard and fell to his knees, taking Carrie with him. He fired his gun, and the noise was deafening. She heard herself scream, felt Felipe try to cover her with his body.

  Lord, this was it. They were going to die.

  FELIPE HAD MISSED.

  He’d had one shot at Earley, but he’d missed. The bullet tore up into the soundproof tile of the elevator ceiling as the door slid closed.

  Earley was back behind the cover of the trash barrels in the other corner of the elevator. Felipe tried to shield Caroline from the chief’s gun, but it was no use. His body would act as a shield for only so long at this close a range.

  “Put your gun down,” the chief shouted. “Put it down!”

  Slowly, Felipe lowered his gun. He had no choice. Not with Earley aiming his own gun directly at him…and at Caroline.

  Earley reached up to the elevator controls and pushed the stop button, halting their journey up to the first floor.

  “Heroically, Chief Earley pulled Salazar and his hostage into an empty elevator, risking his own life for the sake of the crowd’s safety,” Earley said, straightening up and coming out from behind the barrels, his gun aimed levelly at Felipe. “The papers are gonna have a field day with this one. I couldn’t’ve planned it better myself. Put your gun on the floor and kick it over to me.”

  Felipe set the gun down, but instead of kicking it to Earley, he slid it underneath the dolly that held the trash barrels. Caroline’s eyes were wide as she looked from Felipe to Earley and then back.

  “It really is a shame when a good cop turns bad,” Earley mused, shaking his head.

  “You should know,” Felipe said. He could see his future in Earley’s eyes, and it wasn’t going to be a long one. Earley was going to shoot him, and then shoot Caroline with Felipe’s gun. And there was nothing Felipe could do about it.

  Or was there?

  Jim Keegan’s Rule Number One: Nothing is impossible.

  Felipe’s Rule Number One: If you’re going to die, die fighting.

  The big cargo elevator was about eight feet long by seven feet wide. The dolly holding the barrels cut off one corner of that space.

  “Let go of your hostage,” Earley said as Felipe slowly rose to his feet, pulling Caroline up with him.

  “Te amo,” Felipe said to Caroline, brushing the side of her face with his lips. “Get down behind the barrels,” he breathed into her ear.

  “Very touching,” Earley said impatiently. “Now, let her go.”

  Felipe pushed Caroline hard, away from Earley and toward the trash barrels, as he leaped at Earley. “Get down! Get back!” he shouted again at Caroline.

  The gun went off with a roar as he hit Earley in the face. He felt a slap, heard Caroline scream, saw a spray of blood hit the elevator wall.

  Felipe had been hit. Where, he couldn’t begin to say. All he knew was that the bullet hadn’t killed him—he was still alive. And until his heart stopped beating, he was going to fight like the devil himself to save Caroline’s life.

  He hit Earley again, and the chief’s gun flew out of his hand and into the corner.

  Earley fought back, trying to get to his gun. He used his hands like a club, striking Felipe hard on the shoulder.

  God, he knew now where that bullet had struck him. Earley hit his wounded shoulder again and again and Felipe reeled back in mind-numbing pain. Somehow he managed to kick out at the older man, and his foot connected with Earley’s knee. The chief went down with a grunt but scrambled quickly to his feet, assuming a street-fighter’s stance.

  “Freeze!” Caroline shouted from behind the barrels. “I said freeze, dammit!”

  She was holding Felipe’s gun, and she had Earley’s gun behind her on the floor.

  Earley straightened up, lifting both his hands as she pointed the gun from him to Felipe and back again.

  “Good job, miss,” Earley said, starting toward Felipe. “We’ve got him now.”

  “Don’t you move!” Caroline warned him. He froze.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Earley said. He gestured toward Felipe. “This man’s the known felon. He’s the kidnapper, the murderer. He’s the one who’s been holding you hostage all this time.”

  Caroline’s eyes flicked from Earley to Felipe.

  Felipe didn’t say a word. What could he say? He just looked at her. Trust me.


  She looked into his eyes, searching for answers, searching for the truth. He hoped she could see it—the truth was clearly there, written permanently in his heart.

  Te amo. I love you.

  Earley started forward. “Give me the gun, miss.”

  She turned sharply, pointing the weapon at St. Simone’s chief of police.

  “Don’t come closer, mister, or I’ll put a hole in you,” she said.

  Relief flooded through Felipe. Caroline had followed her heart and trusted him.

  He staggered slightly—his knees felt odd, weak. He realized that his shoulder was still bleeding quite heavily. Blood ran down his arm and dripped onto the floor from his fingers.

  “You’re hurt,” Caroline said to Felipe, her eyes still locked on Earley. Her voice shook slightly, but her hands were steady. “Is it bad?”

  Felipe shook his head. “I’ll live,” he said. He moved across the elevator and reached over to take back his gun.

  She glanced up at him then. “So will I,” she said. “Because of you, I think.”

  “Hands on your head,” Felipe ordered Earley. “Sit down. There, in the corner.”

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” Earley said.

  “You wanna bet?” Felipe said.

  Overhead, an intercom speaker clicked on.

  “This is Detective Jim Keegan from the Fourth Precinct,” came a familiar voice. “Felipe, are you there? Pick up the telephone in the control panel.”

  The metal panel swung open with a squawk, and Felipe picked up the red receiver.

  “Diego?”

  “Phil! Yes! I heard a shot and I was afraid—is everyone all right?”

  “I’ve been hit,” Felipe said, “but I’ve cornered my Captain Rat.”

  “Jack Earley?” Jim said.

  “That’s right.”

  “The chief of police.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jim Keegan laughed. “You got proof?”

  “Uh-huh. Photos of him accepting a payoff from Lawrence Richter.”

  “Well, isn’t that dandy,” Jim said. “That and the tape you left for me at Sea Circus should just about change your tag from Rogue Cop to Local Hero. I’ll have the boys bring in Richter and his pals.”