by Meryl Sawyer
“Lee! Lee! Lee!” Someone was yelling in her face.
The Wrath.
Dark spots danced across her field of vision. All she could see was one of his eyes. Like Cyclops, The Wrath stood nose to nose with her yelling, “Lee!”
He must be saying Hayley, she dimly realized.
“Wauk! Wauk,” she screamed. She was trying to say water, to let The Wrath know she needed to get to the ocean, but the word came out scrambled. No wonder. Her mouth was dry, her tongue felt like sandpaper.
A killer wave of dizziness crashed over her, bringing with it another wrenching bout of vertigo. She couldn’t tell which way was up or down. What was happening? The world pitched from side to side as though she were being maytagged under a collapsing wave and getting battered against the ocean floor. Trapped there, unable to escape.
Her breathing ceased. Her heart no longer thundered in her ears. The booth no longer swirled. She no longer felt Andy’s frosty nose against her leg. Darkness engulfed her, as if she’d plunged straight into hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RYAN TOOK OUT his cell phone as he waited at the reception desk in the UC Irvine Emergency Room for the woman to locate his father on the computer. He clicked the app for the GPS tracking software he’d installed after he put the chip in Hayley’s tennis shoe. A small map of the Newport Beach area appeared on his screen. The red icon blinked, showing Hayley just where she was supposed to be—out on the peninsula.
The map was very small on the phone’s screen. The peninsula was a wormlike squiggle around Newport Beach harbor. The red light said Hayley was halfway out on the sandy beach, not moving. No doubt she was in the booth. If Ryan used his computer, the map could be larger and reveal Hayley’s slightest movement.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He’d taken off without his laptop. It was still back in the booth under a table near Hayley’s purse. Christ almighty! What if he needed to access the Internet to obtain more information about his father’s condition? He’d be S.O.L.
“Sir,” said the woman behind the counter. “We don’t show an admission for Conrad Hollister.”
“Maybe he hasn’t been checked in yet.” He glanced around the crowded waiting room. “Do the ambulances arrive at another door?”
“Yes, of course. But as soon as the E.R. team receives them, their name and status is logged into the computer.” She frowned, looking down at her monitor. “He’s not showing up yet.”
Yet? Ryan murmured thanks and hurried toward the entrance. He shouldered his way through the double doors to the sidewalk. On the left he saw the service bay for the ambulances. One vehicle was idling near the open doors. He sped over and saw a young boy being lifted out of the ambulance. A male nurse with a clipboard was waiting just inside the doors.
“Have you admitted an elderly man in the last hour or so?” Ryan asked.
“No.” The nurse checked the clipboard. “What’s the name?” Ryan gave him his father’s name and the man ran a stubby finger down the list. “No Hollister. Are you sure he’s here? Could he have been taken to Hoag?”
Ryan shrugged, thinking Hoag would have been more logical because his father’s cardiologist used that facility. But Molly Stern had distinctly said UCI. He hit the button for the speed dial for Twelve Oaks and asked for Molly.
“I’m so sorry,” she said when she finally came on the line. “There was a change. Your father’s gone to Hoag Hospital.”
Ryan clicked off without thanking her. The woman should have called and saved him a frustrating, time-consuming trip. He dashed to his car.
It took him over half an hour to cross Newport and arrive at Hoag Hospital. If he’d known, he’d been just down the peninsula—less than five minutes from the hospital. He parked in a handicapped spot and raced into the Emergency Room.
He caught his breath while another woman tinkered with a computer, searching for information on his father. Again, Ryan checked his phone, still on the GPS app, to see about Hayley. The screen was blank.
Hadn’t he fully charged it last night? So what else was new? These techie gadgets weren’t as reliable as people liked to think. Maybe the concrete walls of the newly remodeled hospital were blocking the signal.
“Sir, I’m not finding a Conrad Hollister.”
“You’re sure?”
When she nodded, a chill tiptoed up his spine. He charged through the room crowded with emergency patients and barged outside, his phone in hand. He clicked again. Still no light on the cell’s screen. Shit! He jabbed at the phone again. Nothing.
Ryan sprinted through the parking lot to his car. Before he even sat in the driver’s seat he had the phone connected. He waited for the cell to power up. Still nothing.
How was that possible?
The pit of his stomach churned. He ran back into the hospital and turned left just inside the doors. On the way in he’d spotted a bank of pay telephones. With all the cell phones around there were fewer pay phones, but the hospital had half a dozen in a row. None were in use.
Ryan called Information; without his cell or computer, he didn’t have the phone numbers he needed. Talk about being a prisoner of technology! He got Twelve Oaks number and dialed it. When a woman cheerily answered, he asked for Molly Stern.
“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number. There’s no Molly Stern employed here.”
“What? I just called half an hour ago and you put me through to her. She’s in nursing.” It occurred to Ryan that the shift must have changed. This didn’t sound like the same woman.
“You must be mistaken, sir,” the woman replied.
“Put me through to nursing.” He leaned against the wall, numb with fear now. The woman who answered in nursing assured him that no Molly Stern was employed there. A shudder passed through him as he managed to ask to be switched to Meg Amboy’s room.
Spasms of fear erupted in his brain, making him shake as the telephone rang. It was possible to hijack and reroute cell phone calls. Actually, it was much easier than anyone would suspect, but few people knew how to do it. Shutting down a telephone was also a lot simpler than the average user would expect.
It was relatively easy to commandeer a cell phone so its calls could be redirected. When he’d believed he was calling Twelve Oaks, Ryan’s cell must have been rerouted to the killer’s number.
It all went back to the technology that sent messages out over air waves rather than on land lines. With the right equipment, someone could easily tap into conversation. That’s why law enforcement insisted on using land lines, or specially encrypted cell phones, which made tampering nearly impossible.
Obviously, that’s what had been done. He was dead certain this elaborate scam had been pulled on him as a way of getting to Hayley. But he had to check on his father—just to make sure he was safe.
While he waited, Ryan threw change into the telephone beside the one he was using. It would take too long to call Surf’s Up and get the cell number of someone in the booth. Instead he needed to reach Detective Wells. The police had officers patrolling the beach. With luck one of them could get to Hayley before something bad happened.
One phone wedged between his jaw and sore shoulder, Ryan used the other telephone to call the Newport Beach Police and ask for Detective Wells. He was put on Hold.
“Ryan,” Meg finally answered. “Looking for your father? He’s right here.”
“Is he all right?” Ryan asked, although he knew the answer. It was Hayley in trouble. He hung up without speaking with his father. No doubt Meg thought he’d lost his last marble.
“Detective Wells,” he said into the other telephone. When the detective came on the line, Ryan briefly explained the situation. “We have to hurry. There’s no time to waste.”
THE BITCH WOULD GET HERS, the killer thought, strolling the beach at the Board Wars. The fun part—the planning, the anticipation—was over. Now for the legal high—the execution of the plan. Better than any narcotic available.
Hayley was as good as dead.
Moving like a ferret, swift and silent, the killer approached the Surf’s Up booth. Check the commotion! There was no getting near the front where Hayley could be seen.
This was it. Enough false starts and unforeseen getaways.
Hayley, death is the flip side of life. It’s just one short step behind you. Time to die. High time.
“UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE!” Ryan shouted as he slammed his balled fist against the steering wheel. The police had the street to the peninsula blocked off just beyond the Lido Bridge. When he’d spoken to Detective Wells a few minutes ago, the guy hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about the road closure. He probably hadn’t known about it; traffic police not homicide handled traffic jams. There wasn’t any way—except by water—to get on or off the peninsula.
His frustration became scalding fury—at himself. What a dickhead he was! He’d smelled a rat from the second he’d received the phone call about his “ailing” father. Had he followed his nearly flawless instincts? Hell, no!
He could only hope Detective Wells’ radio call to the patrolmen on the beach had come in time—or that The Wrath and PimpIt had been able to protect Hayley. But this killer was bizarre. He relied on attacks no one would expect. A car bombing. A drug-induced heart attack.
What was he up to now?
Ryan yelled out the window to a driver who’d gotten out of his car several vehicles ahead of him. “What’s going on?”
“Too many cars out on the peninsula. There’s no place to park.” The guy in baggy faded denim shorts pointed to the traffic going in the opposite direction—off the peninsula. “They’re directing cars to the light, then having them turn around and leave unless you have ID showing you live on the peninsula.”
Ryan nodded; roadblocks to halt peninsula traffic jams weren’t uncommon. The Fourth of July, busy summer weekends, the boat parade at Christmas usually triggered a roadblock. He couldn’t sit there and wait until he made his way twelve or so cars to the front of the line, where he could flash the FBI shield he hadn’t yet turned in for access onto the peninsula where the booth was located.
Christ! Between tech screwups and traffic jams, he couldn’t get a break. Ryan decided he wasn’t waiting. It was four—almost five—long blocks to the booth. He could get there faster on foot. He yanked his T-shirt out of the waistband of his shorts. He opened the glove box and removed his gun. He placed it at the small of his back where it would be concealed by the T-shirt. He left the keys in the car—someone else could move it—and raced toward the beach.
Sweat was pouring off Ryan and he was breathing like a marathoner when the Surf’s Up booth came into sight. Two patrol officers in shorts were standing in front talking to PimpIt. The bare-chested fighter saw Ryan and waved. Relief rushed through him like a tidal wave. The police were on the scene; PimpIt was waving. Everything must be all right.
As Ryan raced closer, he spotted The Wrath, who’d also taken off his shirt. Where was Hayley? With so many people around it was difficult to spot someone as short as Hayley.
“What happened?” he yelled as he thundered up to them.
The Wrath shook his head. “I dunno, man. Hayley had sunstroke or something. She passed out. The paramedics took her to the hospital.”
“You didn’t go with her?” Ryan was just inches from the fighter but he couldn’t help shouting the question. Please, don’t let Hayley be alone with strangers.
The Wrath shrugged, his shoulders tense, his stance belligerent. “I tried, right?” he said to PimpIt. “The EMT guys wouldn’t let anyone go.”
Ryan’s heartbeat skyrocketed. “Did they put her in an ambulance?”
“Yeah, sure. I guess.”
“What do you mean—you guess?” Ryan was shouting again; the patrolmen moved closer.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” PimpIt said calmly, “we aren’t next to the street. The EMTs took Hayley away on a stretcher. We had to look after Timmy. He went nuts.”
The small fraction of Ryan’s brain that was still functioning normally realized yelling at these guys wasn’t going to help. The facts, his training instructed. Get the facts. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“It was really hot in the booth,” The Wrath explained. “The Evian girls came by and sprayed everyone with ice water. It cooled us off. Next thing I know Andy’s barking like crazy, Hayley’s gasping for air and—”
“Ryan! Ryan! Auntie Hay-Hayley fell down,” cried Timmy as he flung himself into Ryan’s arms, sobbing. Andy came up behind the boy; for once the dog’s tail wasn’t wagging. With one arm he cradled the boy, while he signaled for The Wrath to continue with the other.
“Hayley collapsed. PimpIt raced for the lifeguard station where the paramedics are,” The Wrath told him.
“Somebody must have called 9-1-1 on a cell,” PimpIt added. “By the time I returned, they’d taken Hayley to the hospital.”
What was really going on? The question hammered at him. How could Hayley have become so ill so quickly?
“After she collapsed, was she breathing?” he asked The Wrath.
The fighter nodded emphatically. “If she hadn’t been, I know CPR.”
“Did you see what happened?” he asked Timmy, reasoning the boy might have been closer to Hayley.
Timmy nodded, still crying but quietly now. “Sh-she f-fell.”
“What was she doing before she fell?”
Timmy gulped for air, then said, “Trying t-to stop Andy from biting the lady.”
Andy bite? Ryan hadn’t known the retriever long, but from what he’d seen and what Hayley had said, the dog wasn’t a biter. Andy was a lover who lived to be petted. “What lady?”
“One of the babes in the silver bikinis spraying Evian.” This from PimpIt.
“No,” Timmy said, his eyes full of tears. “The lady had a red bathing suit and sunglasses.”
The Wrath said, “I didn’t see who sprayed Hayley.”
Of course he didn’t, Ryan thought, recalling the eye-patch-sized lamé bikinis. The fighter had been distracted by a nearly bare breast bouncing right under his nose.
“I didn’t see it, either,” PimpIt added.
“I did,” insisted Timmy. “The lady had a red suit and sunglasses.”
Ryan squeezed Timmy, thankful one of the guys in the booth hadn’t been blindsided by boobs. “How long ago was this?”
“Fifteen minutes, max,” The Wrath responded after checking his watch.
Ryan released Timmy and rushed inside the booth. His computer was exactly where he left it, but Hayley’s purse had been dropped in the middle of the booth. It took a few seconds to boot up the laptop.
While he waited, Ryan considered his options. He’d already decided the woman in the red bikini had sprayed something on Hayley that caused her to pass out. It could be a number of substances, but it probably wasn’t deadly or the so-called paramedics wouldn’t have taken her away.
He was also certain that no ambulance had left the peninsula. The only route to Hoag Hospital—the closest to the beach—was down the blocked road. She must still be somewhere on the peninsula.
Thank God he’d thought to insert the latest Starcraft GPS device. Unless they’d removed her shoes, he could locate her.
Detective Wells charged into the booth, saying he’d taken the ferry.
“Hayley’s been kidnapped,” Ryan shouted to Wells, who looked like he’s taken a shower in his suit.
Timmy, his arms around Andy’s neck, began sobbing again. No telling what the boy imagined when he heard the word kidnapped.
“They say EMTs took her away. She had heatstroke,” Wells responded, walking closer.
The screen was glowing now; Ryan worked under the table to keep the sunlight off the screen so it would be easier to pinpoint the blinking red dot generated by the GPS device.
“Check Hoag, then check with the EMT command station here at the beach. You’ll find Hayley wasn’t taken by real paramedics and she isn’t being treated
at Hoag.”
“Are they going to kill her?” Timmy asked.
“Not if I can help it,” Ryan said, his jaw clenched tight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“TURN RIGHT HERE,” Ryan shouted to The Wrath over the roar of the Harley’s engine and the honking of horns and screech of police sirens. The motorcycle swerved around a group of teenagers walking in the street, jumped the curb and shot down the sidewalk. Over his shoulder Ryan saw the three policemen on motorcycles following them.
Ryan had his computer case on a strap over his shoulder to keep from dropping it. He cracked the lid and peered in again. Hayley still hadn’t moved. With luck, she was in a building nearby and the tracking device would lead them to her.
“Now go right,” Ryan yelled when they came to El Ranchito café. The smell of tortilla chips being deep-fried in the kitchen facing the side street filled the air. He looked around frantically, panic mushrooming inside him. The computer showed they were very close to the blinking dot. Hayley had to be in the building complex just ahead.
He raised his arm and shot two fingers into the air in a vee sign. This was the signal for the cops following them to kill the sirens. The sirens had been necessary to clear a path down crowded Newport Boulevard. They didn’t want to alert the kidnapper. He might panic and kill Hayley.
“Pull in here.” Ryan directed The Wrath to a space near the curb. The motorcycle cops roared up beside them. Detective Wells was riding behind one officer. These were the only cops available on the peninsula. The others were in traffic control and weren’t trained for investigation even if they could have been spared. More officers were on the way, but no telling how long it would take to get here with the traffic jam and roadblock.
“This where your tracker shows Hayley?” Detective Wells had left his jacket slung across the back off the motorcycle and had rolled up his shirtsleeves. Butterfly stains of sweat marked the underarms of his blue shirt. Droplets of moisture sheened his brow.
