by Donna Ball
He met Hayforth's eyes briefly, then turned and got into the car.
**************************
Chapter Seven
The routes that crack cocaine traveled from its point of origin to the streets and byways of middle America were many and varied. It came up the coast from Mexico to distribution points in L.A. or San Francisco, and branched out to Detroit and Chicago. It traveled the Florida highways to Atlanta and on to New York, or filled the holds of private planes that were bound for landing strips in the desert. It was packed into false bottoms of fishing boats or speed boats whose ports of call would eventually touch every city in America.
The systems designed to take the product from its distribution point to the consumer were formulated with the sophistication of Fortune 500 companies: franchises were sold, CEO's assigned, quality control mechanisms in place, security forces trained. The organization assigned to make certain the product did not reach the consumer was of necessity at least as sophisticated state-of- the-art equipment, highly trained technicians, and a vast underground network were only a few of its tools. When the resources of the latter were joined with those of the former, the result was formidable.
That, Joe Frazier explained, was what made Kreiger so dangerous. He was not working alone. He had all the high-tech resources of the United States government behind him, as well as the vast network of one of the most successful businesses in the history of the world. With those factors on his side from the beginning, his chances for success were better than even.
Or they had been, until Cathy Hamilton intercepted that phone call.
"Pull his ticket," Dave insisted when Frazier, still weak from his injuries and groggy with medication, finished his story. "Get him off the goddamn streets. At least cut off his link to the law enforcement network — "
"You know we can't do that," Frazier answered tiredly. "Until he does something outside his duties as a federal agent, we've got suspicions but no case. That's what this whole operation was about: making a case."
"The something he could do," suggested Dave flatly, "is kill Cathy Hamilton."
"He won't kill her. He needs the information she's got too badly."
Dave did not voice the obvious. Cathy Hamilton was expendable. For now she was the bait that would lure the big fish; once Kreiger got the information he needed he might or might not let her live— that was neither the FBI's problem or its responsibility. Two more agents were on their way to Portersville now, but it was unlikely they would arrive before morning. Until then, Cathy Hamilton was the least of their concerns.
As for the Portersville Police Department, they too had bigger problems than Cathy Hamilton. She had never been a part of their case, and now she wasn't even in their jurisdiction. But that wasn't going to make her any less dead when Kreiger got what he wanted from her.
There was no point blaming Frazier, or demanding more information, or pointing out the inequities of the system. Nobody ever said life was fair, and Cathy Hamilton was just one of hundreds— thousands—who fell through the cracks every day.
But before leaving the E.R. cubicle where Frazier was awaiting treatment, Dave turned back. "I'm sorry," he said, "about your partner."
Frazier swallowed hard, and nodded, and averted his eyes. "Hell of a business," he said.
Dave agreed bleakly, "Yeah," and left.
Three-thirty in the morning found him back at his desk, staring at the map on the far wall, wondering where Cathy Hamilton was now. Knowing it was none of his business and not his problem, but wondering.
*******************
It's over, Cathy thought. She kept telling herself that, repeating the words in her mind as though by doing so she could make herself believe them. Over.
Portersville was thirty-seven miles behind her, but the horror of that place clung to her like a bad odor, rode beside her in the seat, dogged her shadow. The Oregon state line was a hundred miles distant, and maybe when she crossed it this would be over, maybe then she would be safe. If she made it that far.
One thing was certain: she would not make it without a full tank of gas. The needle now hovered just above empty, but the gauge was unreliable below a quarter of a tank. She might have enough gas for fifty miles or five. She couldn't put it off any longer. She had to stop.
The other vehicles on 1-5 were few and far between, and Cathy was never sure, when one of them approached her, whether to be grateful or terrified. The big rigs she didn't mind, she even took a kind of comfort in their presence. But since she had gotten on the interstate she had seen five passenger cars, and any one of them could have been following her, plotting to move ahead and cut her off, waiting at the next exit. It wasn't over. It would never be over.
Or so the paranoid part of her mind told her. The other part, struggling to hold onto reason in a world gone mad, assured her that whatever had gone wrong thirty miles down the highway could not follow her here. No one was following her, no one was plotting against her, no one was trying to trap her. But still she let exit after exit go by, gas station after gas station.
I'll stop at the next one, she promised herself,and her throat went a little dry as she looked down at the gas gauge. I can make it for one more exit.
And then she heard the siren behind her, and saw the flash of blue lights.
**********************
Since Alice, Dave had not been in a serious relationship. He knew several women and sometimes he dated, but even that was getting to be more trouble than it was worth. Everyone expected too much. Dave expected nothing at all.
His relationships never lasted more than a month or two, not because he planned it that way—or at least he wasn't aware of doing so—but because the women always wanted more. Because they always sensed somehow that secret part of himself he was keeping in reserve. When they started trying to break down that barrier, that was when he had to leave.
The last woman he had left had put it most plainly: "It's not going to bring her back, you know. You can close yourself off and live in the past, but in the end all you're going to be is alone. And what's worse, I don't think she'd want it that way. Do you?"
He knew Alice wouldn't want it that way. Alice was the most passionately committed person he had ever known. She cared about everything, and she cared deeply—about whales, about jazz, about what she was having for dinner, about living. Dave's deliberate lack of the same kind of
zeal had been the only thing that ever came between them. He tried to blame it on being a cop. If a man started to care about every hard-luck case that crossed his desk, if he started to get personally involved with every battered wife and abandoned kid and substance abuser he encountered, he wouldn't last long, as either a lawman or a human being. A man had to protect himself.
All right, Alice had insisted, self-protection was allowed. But there had to be some part of him that was free to get involved in something, deeply and passionately, some part of him that could care, without reservation, about someone or something outside himself. So Dave had cared about her, with every ounce of conviction and commitment in his soul, and she had died. It was perhaps the single greatest betrayal in his life.
But he knew she would not approve of the way he had chosen to live his life now. She would not understand how important self-protection had become, how easy it was not to care.
My partner died in my arms tonight, Alice, he thought. And I killed an innocent man. Now a woman who doesn't understand any of it is out there alone being stalked by an outlaw, and what would you have me do?
Stupid question. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't be responsible for the whole world, and Cathy Hamilton was out of his hands.
A little after three-thirty he finished his report and was just getting ready to hand it in when Thompson called to him from across the room. "Hey, Dave, it's the state patrol. They've picked up your girl in Hinesville."
Dave snatched up the receiver. "Yeah, Detective Jenks. Who's this?"
"Lieutenant Forester
, CHP. Listen, we've got one Catherine Hamilton in custody. She was stopped on a routine speeding ticket, but we ran it through the computer and this turned up."
Dave offered a silent prayer of relief that something about the system was still working. And then Forester went on. "So what are we holding here? It says something about a shooting, but I need to know what kind of security we're going to need. And what's the involvement with the DEA? We've notified agent Kreiger, but until he gets here-"
Everything within Dave went cold. "What?"
"As per the instructions on the bulletin. What I want to know is — "
"Let her go," Dave said hoarsely. A dozen questions, a hundred demands, were slamming against the top of his head, trying to get out. His hand tightened on the receiver as he struggled for control, for calm. "Don't let him have her."
"What?"
"You heard me." Dave hadn't intended to shout, but his voice was loud enough to make heads turn. "The bulletin was issued from this office and I'm canceling it. You let her go now before that bastard-"
"Hey, wait a minute, detective, I can't do that and you know it. My orders are to release her to Agent Kreiger and no one else. I don't even know why your name was on the bulletin to contact—"
"Because I put it there, goddamnit!"
Chief Hayforth was standing by his desk, quietly watching. He didn't have to say anything; Dave knew it all. His fingers tightened on the phone; tightened, and slowly relaxed. The animal, wild and raging, was reluctantly subdued.
"Do me a favor," he said quietly.
The man on the other end sounded disinclined to do anything of the sort. "Yeah? What's that?"
"Let me talk to her. Just bring her up front and put her on the phone for a minute."
There was a hesitance. "That's pretty irregular."
"I know. Just do it. Please."
Another silence, followed by a tone that was more curious than annoyed. "I sure do wish I knew what the hell was going on."
Dave passed a weary hand across his forehead. "No you don't, Lieutenant. No you don't."
********************
No one would tell her, but Cathy thought she understood. She wasn't being held for a minor traffic violation. The trooper who had stopped her said she was speeding, and she probably was, but she knew he had been about to let her go with a warning when the report came through on the computer. He told her there was a warrant out for her arrest. She had protested, she had struggled,she had even-though she hated herself for doing it—cried. She hadn't done anything. But someone obviously thought she had. Someone thought she was involved in the shooting back at the mini- mart.
And she was, she realized slowly. She sat in the holding cell on a cot with one broken leg, with two female companions —a chain-smoker and a sullen DUI—and let the pieces come together. For the first time since the nightmare began she actually had time to be still and think, and it was as though a great smothering fog had suddenly been lifted from her brain. She was guilty. She had fled the scene of a crime. She was a material witness to a murder. Of course the police were looking for her. Of course there was a warrant out for her.
She wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth, breathing slowly, trying to stop the pounding of her heart. Jack, I'm sorry. . .
She tried not to let it overwhelm her. She tried not to think about being alone in a strange town, locked in jail for a crime she wasn't sure she understood; she tried not to think about how much worse it could get; she tried not to think about Jack ... no, she couldn't think about Jack.
Phone call. They had to allow her a phone call. She'd call Ellen--thank God for Ellen!--who would bring bail money, who would find a lawyer, who would help her get out of here. But what about Jack? It was close to four o'clock in the morning. By the time Ellen got here, by the time
she found someone to help her and got Cathy out of jail . . . what about Jack?
What if they wouldn't let her out? Wasn't there some kind of provision about being able to hold a suspect for forty-eight hours before charging him? Hadn't she seen that on television, read about it, hadn't Jack told her? ... She couldn't stay here forty-eight hours! She felt hysteria rising. What if they tried to take her back to that town Portersville, where it had all started? That's what they would do, of course they would, and they would hold her there as long as the law allowed. But she couldn't go back there. She couldn't stay there, they had to understand. Jack . . .
There were footsteps in the corridor, a gate being unlocked. A uniformed woman came to the cell and turned the key. The blond chain-smoker looked up sharply, but the woman said, "Hamilton. Come with me, please."
Cathy stood on legs that she wasn't entirely sure would support her, and followed the woman out of the cell.
They had reached the front room before Cathy managed to make her voice work. "I need to make a phone call," she said hoarsely.
"You'll get a chance for that. Right now somebody's calling you."
Cathy looked at the woman, startled, but she merely gestured Cathy toward the telephone at an empty desk and stayed very close to her as Cathy moved hesitantly toward it.
She started to pick up the receiver, then hesitated. "Who would be calling me?" she said. "Why would anyone—"
The officer shook her head, but there was the trace of a compassionate smile on her lips. "You've got three minutes," she said.
Cathy picked up the receiver and the officer pushed a button on the phone base. Cathy said hesitantly, "Hello?"
And then she knew, every bone in her body screamed it, something was wrong here. No one should be calling her. No one knew she was here. No one except the man, or men, who were following her. The man who had found out her name and called her house, the man who had drawn his gun in the overgrown parking lot of a deserted church, the men who had responded to her call for help in an unmarked car with guns drawn . . .
A male voice responded, "Cathy Hamilton?" Cathy, she thought. He called me Cathy, not Catherine. That seemed important somehow, but there were other things that were much more important. They won't believe you. They've come after you with guns twice now, and they won’t believe you're innocent if you tell them . . .
"Yes," she said hoarsely. "Who is this?"
"My name is Dave Jenks. I'm a detective with the Portersville Police Department."
And before she could stop herself she burst out, "I didn't do anything! I swear to you I didn't—"
"We know that, Cathy--"
"Then why are you chasing me? Why am I in jail? Stop lying to me, leave me alone! Why can’t you just leave me alone?"
It wasn't until she felt the firm grip of the officer's hand on her arm that Cathy realized she was screaming, her breath was harsh and her cheeks were wet with tears. There were three or four other patrolmen in the room, working at their desks, drinking coffee, talking and laughing among themselves. The laughter had stopped and Cathy could feel their eyes on her.
She took a breath, and another. She pressed her lips together and she thought, I've got to get out of here.
The voice on the other end of the phone was calm, deliberate. "I know you're scared, Cathy."
"Stop calling me that!" She spat out the words between tightly clenched teeth. She could feel the muscles in her shoulders trembling, she was gripping the telephone so tightly. "You don't know me, you don’t know anything about me, you don't know what you've put me through. I haven't done anything, and I hate you for what you've put me through!" Then she had to stop and take another breath, because she could feel the edge of control slipping and the officer's hand was very tight on her arm.
His voice didn't change. Calm, measured. In control. "All right. Then listen to me. This is important."
"I have to get out of here," she said, trying, with every fiber of her being, to make her voice as reasonable as his. "You said you know I didn't do anything wrong. You said that. You're going to have to make them let me go. My brother and—and his children are in the hospital, and th
e babies—I'm their nearest relative. I have to get to them. You've got to help me get out of here."
"We're working on that, but right now you're in the safest place you could possibly be."
She wanted to scream at him, Working on it? How can you be working on it? I shouldn't be here in the first place and you know that! How can you be working on it? But she didn't say anything, because she didn't trust herself to release so much as a breath.
"Listen to me, Cathy. Try to understand. You're in a lot of trouble. I'm on your side, but that might not be enough. There's a man on his way to you right now. His name is Scott Kreiger, and he’ll probably try to take you into custody. Don't go with him. Don't tell him anything. Do whatever you have to—pretend to be sick, try to escape, make a disturbance—but don't let him take you out of that station house. I'll do what I can from here, but in the meantime stay away from Kreiger. Do you understand?"
Cathy's throat ached with a sudden dryness, and she felt ill. "You're crazy," she said, barely above a whisper. "Don't tell me that. I'm in jail and I've got to get out and—why are you telling me that? How do I know you're not the one who's been trying to kill me? Why should I believe you? Why are you doing this to me?"
For the first time the calm competence in the man's voice wavered, became tinged with an edge of frustration. "I can't make you believe me," he said. "I can't do anything but tell you what I know, and that's what I'm trying to do now." He drew a breath, sharp and long. "All right. Listen. Ask someone for a pencil and a piece of paper. Have you got it?"
Cathy looked around and found a felt-tip pen. The officer tore off a page from a notebook. "Yes."
"Write down my name, and this number." He read off a series of numbers. "Call me if you need help. That's all I can do for you."
"Make them let me go," Cathy pleaded with a sudden burst of desperation, one last time. "You know I'm innocent, tell them to let me go."
