Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

"And she went off of that?" Boldt asked.

"She had a time to work with: the eight-thirty ferry to Bainbridge."

"So we're at least an hour behind her."

"You're right about Osbourne. He has the capability of pretty much pinpointing a call's location, the only bummer being that none of it is real-time. It's taking him about fifteen minutes per transmission signal, which ain't bad, but ain't great."

"Transmission signal?" he asked.

"The phone, being on an open circuit, was constantly transmitting. So he asked me to pick various times of the call for him to reference. I chose three different times, each several minutes apart. Her call originated less than a mile from Sandy Hook-west, northwest of there. When you get near the Agate Passage Bridge, you should call me. I'll help direct you."

"And a few minutes later?" Boldt asked. "Where was she then?"

"He's still processing. Says it's west of there, probably near Lemolo. He'll have an exact in a few more minutes. Maybe five more minutes, he says."

"Let's plot the last known reference," he advised.

"But unless we know where he was ahead of that," she suggested, "we won't know in what direction he was headed. You want the direction, don't you, L.T.?"

"We'll be off this ferry in fifteen minutes," Boldt said. "I want answers by then. What if Flek's headed back for this ferry? I need to know that! I could drive right past the guy."

"Understood."

"So have Osbourne pull some help. An officer's life is at stake here."

"I'll suggest that."

"Don't suggest it, order it!"

"Right," Gaynes said, though she didn't sound convinced.

"Whatever you can do, Bobbie," Boldt said. It was as close as he could get to an apology.

"He has a couple guys working on another technology. We could pull them, but I don't advise it, L.T. What they're working on is some kind of real-time technology. It could be the ticket."

"She disconnected the call!" Boldt objected. "That's not real-time, that's waste-of-time."

"These guys are cell phone nerds, L.T. They think they've got something going. I'm reluctant to butt in on that. I will if you want, but I think we cut them some slack here and see what they can do for us. They're pretty excited about this other possibility. Your call," she said.

Boldt said to LaMoia, "Osbourne's using manpower on a long shot, and Gaynes wants me to go along with that." Boldt never consulted LaMoia on such decisions, and the sergeant's obvious surprise reflected that.

LaMoia said, "A wise old cop once told me that the dick in the field's in a better position to make the judg ment call than the suit back in the office." He was quoting Boldt back to himself, though not verbatim.

"I'm not in the office!" Boldt protested. "And I'm not a suit." It was the ultimate slur, and Boldt wanted nothing of it.

LaMoia's words garbled. "You're on a boat in the middle of nowhere, Sarge. That's even worse." LaMoia was looking a little green. "I think maybe I need some air."

Middle of nowhere, Boldt thought. To him, it summed up both his professional and private lives. It had started with the Flu, this feeling; he had no idea where or when it would end.

Into the phone, Boldt said, "It's up to you and Osbourne. Just get me something by the time we're back in the car."

"Thanks, L.T. Back at you." She disconnected the call.

" You know what a talented person can do with a color scanner and a paint program these days? And I'm talented. Yessiree. Courtesy of our corrections programs, which taught me damn near everything I know. Maybe not hundred dollar bills, but you, Lieutenant Daphne Matthews, just gave me my passport outta here. You and your ID and your badge. Before that, what choice did I have? Hide out jumping islands for six months, lift a driver's license and give it a run at the border before it's reported. That's shaving it a little close for this boy. But a cop's badge? Are you kidding me? I surrender your weapon at the border and drive right across, all official-like. Slam dunk. Gone and lost forever. The way it should be."

They were parked in dark woods, the air laden with the pungent smell of pine sap. Flek had propped her up to sitting in the trunk, the rain falling down on both of them. Her clotted blood began to melt and paint her blouse that eerie but familiar rose. He held a cellular in his hand, switched on. Hers or his? She wondered if he had disconnected her original call to Boldt, or if it had been transmitting all this time. She held to that hope.

What Bryce Abbott Flek did not know was that she had spent the last ten to fifteen minutes scrunched down into one corner of the locked trunk, the right taillight's plastic housing pulled away, shorting out its connection in an endlessly repeating stream of three short, three long, and three short bursts. They had traveled good road for most of that ride, and she had to think that some car or truck had been back there, some Boy Scout or former Marine alert to a taillight blinking Morse code. She counted on someone having taken down the plate number, of calling it into authorities on a hunch that the SOS meant something. This, along with Boldt's earlier call into Poulsbo for backup, a call she was also counting on having been made, seemed certain to alert authorities to her general vicinity. The psychologist in her wouldn't succumb to the evidence at hand-the fact that Flek looked and sounded unstable, apparently the victim of another glow plug or two, that he held her weapon in the waist of his pants and had a glassy look in his eyes that forewarned her of that instability. That he was capable of violence against her, she had no doubt. She had already witnessed this firsthand. But a larger agenda loomed behind those eyes, and she wanted her chance to redirect its course. The first step was the gag. She needed the gag removed to have any chance whatsoever. She made noise for the first time, sounding like a person with no tongue.

She had no idea of their location. She guessed they were somewhere on or near the Port Madison Indian Reservation because it was dark as pitch out, only a faint amber glow to the bottoms of clouds many, many miles away. The road was gravel and mud. Though in a partial clearing, they were surrounded by tall giant cedars, ferns, and thick vegetation. She heard a stream or river nearby. If she could run to that water, she could swim it, or float it, and he'd have a hell of a time finding her. She could climb a tree and hide. Wait out the sunrise. She clung to these positive thoughts in the face of her impending execution. Did he know enough to blame her for his brother's murder as well? On the surface, Flek seemed to be explaining why he was now going to kill her, though the psychologist knew that if that had been his intention he'd have already carried through with it. Either he was plagued by doubt, or he had something else in mind. She tried to talk at him again, the rag tasting like gasoline on her tongue.

"When you talk," he said, "you'll tell me his phone number-I don't want to hear nothing else from you, not another word. Just the phone number. This Lieutenant Louis Boldt. This one did this to Davie. A pager's fine. His cell phone. But nothing in no office. No land lines. I call once. One call. You understand? You screw this up, and it's on you what happens next. Maybe I fuck you. Maybe I just snuff you sitting right there like that-all wet and disgusting. Maybe you go out ugly, lady. Ugly and unlaid and dead. Not much worse than that."

She tried again. Grunts and groans lost on him. Swallowed by the relentless rain.

"This is very important what I'm telling you," he said. "Just the man's phone number. That's all. Then the rag goes back on. You can nod now and let me know you understand. Anything more than the phone number right now, and I'll knock your teeth out with the butt of the gun, and then you will pay. God Almighty, how you will pay. So how 'bout it? Do I get a nod?"