Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

Then her conscious mind registered what her subconscious already had identified.

The envelope was made out in Erin’s handwriting.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Embossed on the envelope was Erin’s return address. But there was no postmark, no stamp. Her sister must have personally delivered the letter.

With shaking hands she opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of pale olive paper.

Dear Annie,

I need some time to myself, so I’ve decided to go away for a while.

Don’t worry about me. Everything is fine.

Take care, Erin

Annie stared at the letter for a long time. She read it more than once, read it until the simple message had been committed to heart.

Then she replaced the other items-bank statement, credit card bill, magazine, circular-and shut the mailbox lid. She slipped into the car again, holding the letter and envelope, and then she just sat there, gazing at the words her sister had written, her vision muddy with tears.

A couple of years ago she had submitted an article to a gardening magazine, a brief, humorous piece on ladybugs. The rejection slip that accompanied her manuscript by return mail had been more heartfelt than this letter in her hand.

Incredible to think that Erin could treat her this way. I need some time to myself — what the hell did that mean?

To abandon her patients, her friends, and Annie herself-and then write a damn letter that didn’t even say why, didn’t say anything…

How could Erin do this?

Abruptly her tears stopped. She lifted her head and gazed out the windshield, striped with morning glare.

“She couldn’t,” Annie whispered slowly. “That’s how she could do this. She couldn’t.”

Erin would never, never, never be so thoughtless, so unfeeling, as to write this letter under these circumstances.

A tortured six-page confession maybe. But not these two paragraphs, these three meaningless sentences, the cheery Take care tacked onto the end like the punch line of a bad joke.

The letter was a fake.

Oh, Erin almost surely had written it. The handwriting, unless forged by an expert, was unmistakably hers.

But she had not composed the letter of her own will. She had been forced.

The heat of the sun was beginning to bake her in the car. Annie rolled out onto the street and left the complex, heading south on Pontatoc Road, thinking hard.

At a red traffic signal, she took a second look at the envelope.

The street address read 505 Calle Saguaro. Annie lived at 509.

Erin knew the correct address, obviously. She’d made a deliberate error in writing 505.

Peering closely at the number, Annie saw that the fives were rounded. Erin didn’t normally write that way. Her script was jagged, sharp-edged.

These fives looked more like letters than numbers.

Of course. Not 505.

SOS.

Behind her, a driver tapped his horn. The light had changed.

Annie headed east on Sunrise, driving fast.

Harold Gund’s gray van was parked outside the flower shop when she arrived. She pulled alongside it and saw Harold unlocking the front door, using the set of keys she’d given him yesterday.

She left the Miata’s engine idling as she ran up to the doorway.

“I’ve got to go somewhere,” she said breathlessly. “I’m sorry.”

Concern in his round face, his startling blue eyes. “Something happen?”

“Letter from Erin.”

Puzzlement now. “She’s okay, then?”

Annie shook her head. “No. She’s not okay. I’ll explain later.” She forced herself to focus on work for a moment. “I’ve got two shipments coming in today-Pacific and Green Thumb. You’re authorized to sign for both… We need roses for the Strepman wedding on Saturday. Call Julio, tell him to send Blue Girls and Caribias, same quantity as our last wedding order. Make sure we get the bulk discount… We’re running low on gift baskets. Better order a dozen from Marasco’s. Half with dried fruit assortments, half with those fudge things… And balloons; we need more balloons, assorted colors; at least two bags’ worth. The big bags.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t leave the shop to make deliveries. Use the courier service for anything local. Did you get the centerpiece to Antonio’s before seven?”

“With time to spare. Closed up at six-thirty, and-zoom-I was there.”

“I owe you some overtime.”

“It took five minutes. Forget about it.”

“How’d the centerpiece go over, anyway?”

“They loved it. Said they may put in another order today.”

“Great,” she said without enthusiasm. “If they do, I’ll put it together as soon as I get back. If you have a chance, cut some foam for me. The green foam. And soak it.”

“I know what to do,” he said gently.

“Right. Sorry. Gotta go.”

“Good luck, Annie,” he called after her.

As she pulled out of the parking lot, she saw Harold still standing in the doorway, one arm lifted in a wave.

Gund watched Annie steer the Miata through a squealing U-turn and race onto Craycroft Road, speeding south.

The letter hadn’t fooled her, as he’d hoped. If anything, it had reinforced her suspicions.

But he doubted that the police would view it in the same light. An overworked detective would seize on any plausible excuse to discontinue the preliminary investigation into Erin’s disappearance.

Annie, of course, had failed to think of that. Her mind didn’t work that way. She was not devious. To her, the phoniness of the letter was self-evident; naively she assumed that others would agree.

She was in for a disappointment. Well, there would be a worse disappointment yet to come. Because Erin was never coming back.

Gund entered the shop, flicked on the lights. Stuffed animals and garish pinatas peeped at him out of the foliage like huddled creatures in a forest.

He wondered how Annie would deal with it, how she would react as it became clear to her-clearer each day, each passing week-that her sister was gone forever, her fate a mystery never to be solved.

The loss would age her, surely. Kill her, even.

He frowned, lips pursed. No, he decided. It would not kill her. She was strong. As strong as Erin, though she probably didn’t know it.

She would live through this.

Unless, of course, Gund should find it necessary to No.

That never had been part of the plan. Erin’s… disposal… always had been an option, albeit one he’d preferred not to exercise. But Annie wasn’t part of this. Annie need not be touched.

“Need not,” he whispered, rubbing his hands together. “Need not.”

He set about drawing the blinds, dusting the counter, sorting currency in the cash register. These were things he could do automatically; his mind was still on Annie.

In her haste and agitation she hadn’t even noticed the damage to his van, though she had parked directly beside it.

Last night he’d replaced the flat tire with a full-size spare, then hammered the door frame on the driver’s side back into shape so the door would open and shut. The rest of the damage would require the services of an auto-body shop.

The front quarter panel on the driver’s side had been crushed like a beer can. One headlight was gone. Ugly grooves were etched in the passenger-side panel where Erin’s Taurus had scraped the van in the barn.

Gund carried no collision insurance. That little bitch had cost him a bundle.

Well, he’d seen to it that she paid for her disobedience. She would never give him any trouble again.

He nodded grimly. Never again.

Though he hadn’t heard a weather report, the morning seemed warm, the shop stuffy. He found the thermostat and turned on the air conditioning.