Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

Her rage died with the last words. As she turned her back to him, he saw fresh tears tracking down her face.

He rose, put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She was a small woman, perhaps five foot two; at five-eleven he all but towered over her. But there was strength in her, wiry strength in her thin, sinewy arms, and a nervous tension that held her body stiffly upright even now, in this storm of feeling.

He watched her face, blushing with the shame of uncensored emotions, and her hands, fingers interlocked and twisting, knuckles and tendons rippling under the smooth, taut, lightly freckled skin-he watched, and he wished for something to say, some reassurance he could give.

Then, looking at him from behind a skein of mussed hair, she whispered, “Please, isn’t there anything you can do?”

He hesitated, avoiding her gaze like a coward. “Officially… no.”

“But unofficially?”

His caseload was crowded enough as it was. This woman, Erin Reilly, obviously had left of her own volition. Ridiculous for him to offer any assistance-certainly not this soon, when less than twenty-four hours had passed.

But Annie was still watching him, the anguish in her eyes not easy to look at.

“Unofficially,” Walker said quietly, both angry and amused at himself for softening his resolve, “I can do a little more. Not much. But a few things.”

“Like what?”

“I can contact airport security, have them look for her car in the parking lots. It she left it there, we know she took a flight out of town. Same with the bus and railroad stations.”

“What else?”

Walker gave her credit for persistence. “Does she have any favorite places to visit, any particular hotels she likes?”

Annie thought hard. “She goes to conferences in Phoenix fairly often. Stays at the Crown Sterling up there. And she went to San Francisco last year. What hotel was it? The Fairmont. She said she wanted to go back someday.”

“The clothes she packed were a little skimpy for San Francisco in April, but it’s a possibility. Any chance she would return to the town where you grew up? Sierra Springs?”

“I doubt it. Wouldn’t be hard to check, though. There’s only one motel there. The Sierra Springs Inn on Route Forty-nine.”

“I’ll fax Erin’s M.V.D. photo to all three places.”

“Can you put out an A.P.B. on her?”

“I’m afraid not. She isn’t wanted for anything. As I said, leaving town’s not illegal.”

Annie frowned. “It ought to be.”

Walker squeezed her arm. “Later, if she doesn’t contact you or resurface within a reasonable time period-say, forty-eight hours-there might be more I can do. Start tracking her credit card purchases, for one thing. That may lead us right to her.”

“Or to whoever’s using her cards.”

“There’s no reason to keep assuming the worst. Your sister will be fine. You’ll probably hear from her soon. For all we know, she may have called your office within the last hour to explain.”

“I don’t think she can call. And I don’t believe she left of her own free will.”

“Then somebody went to a lot of trouble to make it appear that way.”

“Yes.” Annie’s face was grim. “Somebody did.”

Walker knew of nothing he could say to that.

Erin was opening a can of tuna fish for dinner when the idea came to her.

Slowly she disengaged the manual opener from the rim of the can and lifted it toward the light. The cutting blade was sharp. It could serve as a file.

Last night she’d concluded that her only hope of defeating the bolt on the cellar door was to pry it open with an ice pick or similar tool. Now she wondered if she could make what she needed.

Rummaging in her suitcase, she found her comb. Eight inches long, with a hard plastic spine the color of tortoiseshell.

Might work. Just might.

Did she dare try it now? She still had no clear idea of the time, but to judge by her appetite, it must be at least seven o’clock.

Her abductor had said he would be back in the evening. He could return at any moment.

Or not for hours. Or not at all.

Risk it.

Gund arrived at Erin’s apartment building at 7:15.

He’d closed the flower shop forty-five minutes earlier, dropped off the floral centerpiece at Antonio’s Restaurant, then grabbed a fast-food meal at a drive-through window. Eating as he drove, he’d headed south to Broadway, then east toward the edge of town.

The ranch wasn’t far. He would get there by eight at the latest. But first he had to retrieve Erin’s epilepsy medicine.

He parked the van and got out. Briskly he walked to the lobby door, the same door Erin had buzzed open last night. Her own keys let him in this time.

The lobby was empty. He ducked into the stairwell and hurried up the four flights of stairs, encountering nobody along the way.

On the top floor he peered into the corridor and saw a man in a business suit unlocking an apartment door. Gund waited until the hall was empty, then left the stairwell and proceeded directly to Erin’s apartment.

Key in the hole, twist of the knob, and the door swung open.

The living room lights were on. Annie must have neglected to turn them off.

Unless-disturbing thought-unless she was still here. But she couldn’t be. Her meeting with the police detective had been scheduled for 4:15. It couldn’t possibly have lasted three hours.

Even so, he paused in the doorway, listening for voices within the apartment.

Silence.

Down the hall the elevator pinged, signaling someone’s arrival. The noise prodded him into the apartment. Softly he shut the door.

Safe. And unobserved so far.

Now just get the medicine and depart.

Despite his haste, residual caution made him pad quietly through the living room to the apartment’s interior hallway. To his right were Erin’s bedroom and, next to it, the den.

He froze.

In the den-Annie.

She sat at Erin’s desk, hunched over the computer keyboard, reading text on the amber monitor.

Her back was turned to him. She hadn’t seen or heard him yet, didn’t suspect she was not alone.

But if she did discover him…

No way he could talk his way out of it. He would have to kill her.

His pistol and stun gun were in the van. But he could do the job with his bare hands. Grasp her by the chin and give her head a swift sideways yank He could almost hear the crackle of snapping bone.

No. It wouldn’t come to that.

All he had to do was get what he’d come for and leave. Annie would never know he’d been here.

The bathroom was to his left. He crept inside, grateful that the overhead light had been left on. Soundlessly he eased open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet and scanned the shelves.

There. Top shelf. Small plastic bottle, white label.

Leaning against the counter, he reached up and closed his fist over the bottle.

Tegretol. Two hundred milligrams.

He pocketed it, turned toward the hall, and from the den there came the sound of a footstep.

Annie shut off the computer and stood. Pain jabbed her temples; stress and fatigue had brought on a headache.

Long after Walker’s departure, she had lingered in Erin’s apartment.

No reason to stay, except she’d felt a desperate need to be close to her sister. Pointlessly she had wandered through the neat, uncluttered rooms, touching the walls, reading the titles of books on the shelves, smiling briefly as she fingered a carved ironwood turtle she’d given Erin as a birthday present a few years ago. The smile had seemed to hurt her mouth; she’d found herself biting her lip as if in pain.

“Erin,” she’d said to the lonely space around her, “where are you?”