Into the Black Nowhere

by Meg Gardiner

  The fatigue muttered, I surrender. Her hunter’s instinct hissed, I can’t let up.

  “Soon.” She ended the call and followed Detrick deeper into the shopping center.

  • • •

  They walked along the promenade, past a juice bar and a candy store, toward the food court. They seemed to be headed to an Olive Garden. Detrick let go of the little girl’s hand and told her she could run ahead. The meek woman at his side chattered away but kept her hands folded in front of her. Caitlin was fifty yards behind.

  They strolled past a coffeehouse on a corner. Detrick glanced at it. A flare of light caught its plate-glass windows, reflecting from a passing pickup. Abruptly, the truck’s brakes squealed and it jerked to a stop, avoiding another car. Detrick and his girlfriend turned at the sound, then kept walking. Inside the coffeehouse, a barista straightened, caught by the commotion.

  As she turned back to a rubber tub full of dirty dishes, the back of her black uniform shirt rode up. Stuck in the waistband of her jeans was a .40 caliber pistol.

  Texas. Open carry was legal. Leave a tip.

  She was in her teens, petite and athletic. And blond. She struck Caitlin as having a figure and features remarkably similar to Shana Kerber’s.

  Caitlin stopped. She had seen the girl before.

  The teenager had come to the Solace sheriff’s station with a tip. Caitlin had seen her at the front desk, speaking rapid-fire, indicating the height of a man who had stood in the shadows and spooked her.

  Detrick and his girlfriend went into the restaurant and took a table by the window.

  Caitlin backed up and went into the coffeehouse. Creds out.

  Contemporary Christian music played over the speakers. Kids were eating muffins and throwing crayons. The girl’s eyes went as round as pie plates.

  “Madison Mays,” she said, when Caitlin asked. Rainey had mentioned a tip from a girl named Madison.

  “Yeah, I told the sheriff’s office. The man I saw was dressed like a banker—coat and dress shirt, no tie. But I didn’t get a good look at his face.”

  Caitlin’s heart was pounding. Her exhaustion and doubts evaporated.

  Detrick had just walked past a coffeehouse where a potential witness worked. Maybe it was coincidence. The mall was heaving with people. Or maybe he was scouting this girl.

  From the coffeehouse, there was no direct line of sight to the food court and the Olive Garden. Caitlin couldn’t drag Madison into the open for Detrick to see. She couldn’t contaminate a vital potential ID, either, by showing the girl his photo.

  Caitlin scribbled on the back of her business card and handed it to Madison.

  “Here’s the number for the sheriff’s office investigative unit. I’m going to have them call you. Detective Berg will arrange for you to look at photos, to see if you can identify the man.”

  Madison clutched the card. “Okay.”

  “What’s your phone number?”

  Madison gave it to her. Caitlin texted it to Berg, Emmerich, and Chief Morales. Arrange photo lineup for witness. May be something solid.

  Madison pressed a hand to her stomach, nervous.

  “You did the right thing, and you’re going to do an even better thing.” Caitlin extended her hand. Madison took it with trembling fingers. “Be very cautious about your safety. And I’m glad you’re thinking about how to defend yourself. But a handgun should be in a holster, and for a license to carry it, you need to be twenty-one.”

  Madison’s eyes widened.

  “Do you know how to use that revolver?”

  The girl blushed scarlet. “I . . .”

  “Get training. This week. There’s a guy in Solace who offers self-defense and firearms courses. I saw him on the local news. He looks like Wyatt Earp. Call him.”

  Caitlin walked out. Her skin was tingling.

  Detrick had tried to put one over on her. He’d tried to regain control by indulging a predatory craving in plain sight. But he didn’t appreciate the scope of the information Caitlin had, or the resources she could access. He had a blind spot.

  She strode around the corner to the food court. Inside the restaurant, he sat with his good friend and her little daughter. Caitlin paused, standing in the sun, until he saw her. His face was waxen—a GI Joe doll that could have been ablaze inside, without ever losing its bland smile.

  32

  Caitlin turned into Detrick’s street at nine P.M. Sunday night. She gunned the engine so he’d know she was there. She pulled a U-turn and parked behind Rainey. Through the back window of the Suburban Rainey was driving, the light from her laptop screen lit the interior of the SUV electric blue.

  Caitlin got out and strolled over. Rainey put down the window.

  “He’s locked up all tight and tidy. He and the girlfriend and the little girl.”

  “Thanks,” Caitlin said.

  “Emmerich gave you seventy-two hours.”

  “I’m on my own time.”

  “Terrible way to spend it. Ordinarily, that is.”

  “Small risk for a potentially astronomical reward.”

  “Black Mirror marathon on my tablet tonight, if you need a break and want to watch with me.”

  “You know how to throw a party.”

  “You don’t find dystopian satire relaxing?”

  “Have fun.”

  Rainey started the engine and pulled out. Caitlin stood in the street for a minute, hands in the back pockets of her jeans, facing Detrick’s house.

  I’m not wrong.

  She stated it emphatically, deliberately, if silently. But deep below the surface, where the old whispers, the doubts and fears and uncertainties swam, a small voice said, Maybe you are. Maybe the real UNSUB is out there, right now, hunting.

  She climbed back in the Suburban and waited.

  • • •

  The dawn was blinding along the edges of the horizon, blazing gold, when Detrick’s girlfriend came out the door and began piling items into his Envision. Caitlin had her name now: Emma Lane. Her little girl, Ashley, soon followed.

  Caitlin rubbed her eyes and rolled her neck.

  Detrick came out wearing jeans and a ski jacket. A computer case was slung over his shoulder. He was pulling a black roller suitcase.

  Caitlin sat up straight. “Well, well.”

  Detrick pointedly ignored her as he helped the little girl into the SUV. He swung the suitcase into the back of the Envision with an ostentatious flare. When he drove away, Caitlin was right behind. It didn’t take long to confirm his destination.

  She punched in Emmerich’s number.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Time to fish or cut bait. What do you have?”

  “Detrick’s heading to the airport.”

  “How interesting.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Austin’s airport was ten miles east of downtown on the wide green prairie near the Circuit of the Americas racetrack, where Formula 1 held the US Grand Prix. The airport’s main terminal was buzzing, packed with traffic and travelers lined up at curbside check-in.

  Detrick turned into long-term parking. Caitlin watched to make sure he didn’t pull a fast one and drive straight out the exit. She was standing on the sidewalk outside American Airlines Departures when the parking shuttle drove up and disgorged Detrick, Emma, and Ashley. He offered a glare of studied disgust, then ignored her.

  “This seems unusually spontaneous,” Caitlin said.

  He walked past her. Emma trailed him, shoulders hunched, head dipped, eyeing Caitlin from under her bangs.

  “Where you off to?” Caitlin said.

  Detrick kept going. The automatic sliding doors opened.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  The little girl, Ashley, was pulling a kid-size roller suitcase, hot pink, covered with rainbows an
d fairies. Sadie Rawlins would have loved it. The little girl stared up at Caitlin, her head swiveling as she passed.

  “Who’s that lady?” she said.

  Emma grabbed her daughter’s hand. “Nobody.”

  She pulled Ashley close, but that only made the girl eye Caitlin with greater curiosity.

  “She was outside Kyle’s house too,” Ashley said.

  Detrick said, “She’s not a nice person. Ignore her.”

  That was interesting. Caitlin followed them into the terminal, feeling like a hornet that had just been swatted at. Noise echoed off the cavernous ceiling. Detrick strode directly to security, where the line snaked like the Matterhorn’s at Disneyland.

  Caitlin let him get in the queue, and stepped close to the crowd-control barrier.

  “Leaving me, Kyle?”

  He exhaled with deliberate exasperation, and stopped. His expression mixed disdain and weary righteousness.

  “I’m taking the people most important to me on vacation.” His eyes were flat. “To escape FBI harassment.”

  The line moved. His boarding pass was in his hand. Caitlin stepped back and he put an arm around Emma’s shoulders, nudging her forward.

  “Enjoy it,” Caitlin said.

  She backed away to the front windows of the terminal. A few minutes later, Detrick cleared security. Just before he disappeared with Emma and Ashley into the airside crush of the terminal, he turned and looked directly at her. He took his time. He raised his hand, and smiled, and waved good-bye.

  Caitlin’s pulse felt thready. “See you, Kyle.”

  33

  Outside the motel room window, the view was hushed. Flagstaff, Arizona, had pathetically anemic nightlife. It sat at the intersection of I-40 and I-17 in the mountainous north of this mostly empty state. It had pine forests and a college and highways that led to the Grand Canyon eighty miles farther north. Which meant it had scattered winter tourists and half-empty tourist bars and cheap motels. Like the one where he was ensconced after a week of sightseeing with Emma and Ashley. Five days of driving around picking up colorful rocks and staring at massive holes in the ground.

  It was Saturday night.

  Detrick stood at the window. One table lamp was on in the room, low, casting shadows. The street outside was quiet. Snow swirled beneath the streetlights.

  Behind him, Emma checked on her sleeping daughter. Ashley looked like a comatose monkey. Kids, it seemed, could be paying attention to you one second, then be limp and gone the next. Lights out. She wouldn’t stir for the rest of the night.

  Emma approached his side. She whispered, “Shall we watch TV?”

  He scanned the street. Saw no prowling cop cars. No suspicious pedestrians, no FBI vans disguised as utility trucks. They were registered at the motel under Emma’s name.

  Emma stepped closer. “It was a lovely day, Kyle.”

  She folded her hands. She knew not to touch him unless he invited her to. But she was close. Pressing.

  “This trouble’s going to go away,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  At the far end of the street was a bar. Its neon sign blinked red through the falling snow. Women went in and out.

  He sensed Emma, breathing on him. Everything was pressing. His need felt overpowering.

  He licked his lips. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

  “But . . .”

  He turned his head to stare at her. She took a step back.

  He centered himself. She was so amenable, Emma. So caring and grateful and unquestioning. She trusted him. She was normal. That was what normal women did: trusted. It always made him glad to have her at his side. She wasn’t a showstopper, but her thorough devotion was what the women at church called a blessing. That’s what he was: blessed.

  He closed the curtains and softened his voice. “One drink.”

  For a second, she held on to something—resentment, maybe. That was unacceptable.

  “I’ve had a horrendous time since this crap with the FBI began. It’s ridiculous. Somebody started a rumor about me. Somebody’s trying to wreck my life. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. But right now, I need a few minutes to blow off some steam.”

  She sagged, but softened. “I know.”

  “I’ll bring you back something. Pie.”

  Her smile was less reluctant now. “Cherry.”

  “Atta girl.” He pulled on his ski parka. “Don’t wait up.”

  He went out the front door of the motel. The Roundup, the place was called. A giant cowboy on the sign out front, twirling a lariat over his head. It beckoned, Welcome, rubes.

  He sauntered down the street. Spotty late-night traffic eked its way through the falling snow. He strolled to the end of the street, toward the red neon sign outside the bar, and pushed through a rough wooden door.

  Inside, it was humid and hot with bodies and the smell of beer and overamplified classic rock from a band crammed in the corner. Detrick worked his way through the packed room, checking out women. At the bar he ordered a Coors and drank it, eyeing the crowd in the mirror. When the beer was gone, he strolled down a back hall, toward the men’s room. The mindless chatter and off-key guitar solo faded.

  The hall was empty. He passed the men’s room and ducked out the rear door into an alley.

  The cold bit him, bright and invigorating. Sticking to dark side streets, he doubled back to the parking lot at the Roundup.

  A minute later he was rolling up the highway into the mountains.

  The rustic town of Crying Call was twenty miles north. This was where low-budget travelers and backpackers, mountain bikers, and college students on weekend getaways stayed. It was at seventy-two-hundred-feet elevation—high enough to cause even the fittest athletes to grab for breath when they first arrived. But he’d been at elevation all week long. His bloodstream was packed with oxygen now. It was coursing with strength.

  Detrick parked in an unlit lot with a good view of a busy tavern. Muffled music throbbed from inside it.

  The snow was coming down thicker here, fat and slow, softening the street. The view was white. Virgin. He turned off the engine and killed the headlights and sat in the dark, breathing.

  He sat for half an hour, scanning all four directions. He saw no sign that he had been followed. He sat for another twenty minutes.

  A young woman stepped out the tavern door into the frosty air.

  She was slim, ethereal, with beautiful long blond hair. And she was alone.

  She paused on the sidewalk to dig through her purse, swaying like she was tipsy. Detrick zipped his parka. On the passenger seat was a cowboy hat he’d bought that morning at a Flagstaff tourist shop. He put it on and got out.

  Snow stung his face. The street was deserted. Nobody was tailing him here. Nobody was holding him back, blowing his chance, keeping him away from Madison Mays, ruining everything.

  The hat was black, matching his parka, contrasting with the snow. He crossed the street toward the tavern. Ahead, the blond ducked her head and sauntered along the sidewalk in his direction.

  Detrick pulled the hat low on his forehead and checked the shadows. Down a cross street he heard a dog and saw a parked pickup truck. Everything was dark.

  There was no traffic, no spying eyes. Now.

  He cried out and went down on his knees.

  The woman tented a hand over her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  He struggled to rise. “Fine . . .” He slid to the sidewalk.

  The woman rushed up. She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought, but still late twenties. Her cheeks were red with the cold. Her jeans were tight. She had that cheerleader body. The snow was clinging to her blond hair, creating a halo.

  He looked up at her with wide eyes. “Apologies. Prosthetic leg. Doesn’t work great on icy sidewalks.”

  “Omigosh. Let me he
lp you up.” She crouched at his side. Her hand went to his elbow. Steadying him, she tried to help him get his weight underneath him.

  He offered a rueful smile, slowly getting to one knee, using his free hand to brace the leg that had seemingly given out. “Almost there.”

  Her eyes were wide with concern and curiosity. “Was it an accident?”

  He’d had no excuse to bring his crutches on this vacation. Not like in Dallas, or on the college quad where the girl had stepped out of her dorm. So tonight, he had to boost the pity angle.

  Levering himself awkwardly upright, he gripped her shoulder and held on like he might topple again. “Afghanistan.”

  “Oh.” Her face went sad. “Thank you for your service.”

  She put a hand to his chest to help him balance, then let him wrap an arm over her shoulders. Leaning heavily on her, limping, he nodded at the dark parking lot.

  “I’m over there.”

  The altitude, and the effort it had taken for a disabled war vet to stand up, could easily explain his hard breathing. The snow, the street, the night, all pulsed in his vision. His rich, hungry blood was pounding in his heart, his temples, his hands, ready inside his gloves. Even through their thick coats, the girl felt supple underneath his arm. She steadied him as they crossed the street.

  Now, he thought. Now now now, finally oh yes, always, now.

  They approached the car. He unzipped his ski jacket and reached inside.

  On the cross street, a truck door creaked open. “Freeze.”

  Detrick spun, shocked. From the snowy dark a figure jumped out of the parked pickup and charged at him, watch cap pulled low, parka half zipped.

  Gun in her hand.

  “FBI. Don’t move.”

  Caitlin materialized, face fierce under the neon tavern light, weapon raised.

  Detrick didn’t move. He couldn’t. Couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He glared.

  The sneaky bitch.

  His tongue loosened. “You are fucking kidding me.”

  Caitlin walked toward him, side on, that gun in her hand steady and level. It was an infuriatingly arousing sight.