Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

Among the Morgans, only Lydia had shown any epileptic tendencies-occasional petit-mal seizures with retrograde amnesia. Presumably either Rose Morgan or her husband, Joseph, Erin’s maternal grandparents, had carried a genetic predisposition toward seizures without exhibiting identifiable symptoms.

Both Lydia and Maureen must have inherited the trait, though Maureen never had shown any evidence of it. The syndrome had been passed on from Maureen to Erin, and from Lydia to Oliver.

“We’re family,” she whispered, blinking at the thought. “He and I-the same background. Same blood…”

And if he had bought the ranch of his childhood, kidnapped his cousin-his foster sister, in fact-then he must want something from her, something more than therapy.

She couldn’t guess what it was. Perhaps he himself didn’t know.

But whatever it was he wanted, she would find out soon enough. When she did, she would understand him.

And then, almost certainly, she would die.

Annie said good night to Harold Gund at six-thirty. She lingered in her shop, turning off the lights, until she heard the growl of his van’s motor out front.

Peeking through the blinds, she watched the Chevy back away from the curb and swing toward the shopping center’s Craycroft Road exit. The brake lights flared as the van stopped at the end of a short line of cars waiting for a break in the traffic.

She left the shop and ran to her Miata. Sliding behind the wheel, she saw the Chevy reach the head of the line and pull onto Craycroft, heading south.

She followed. A red light snared her almost instantly, and she was afraid she’d lost her quarry. But on the long, straight downhill run she caught sight of the van again, well ahead of her.

The sun hung low, westering above a spread of green treetops, as she passed over the Rillito River into city limits. At times throughout the summer monsoon season, the Rillito would be a foaming watercourse, but now it was only a dry, sandy channel, grim and barren, a gash in the landscape.

Gund’s van was still in sight, though harder to track on this more level stretch of road. Annie dared to pull closer. Greater population density here, lots of intersecting streets, more chances for him to pull off.

Gund drove carefully, violating no laws. A good driver, it appeared. Annie wondered again how his van had been damaged.

Fender-bender, he’d said. She didn’t think so.

As Speedway approached, the Chevy Astro eased into the turn lane, left signal winking. Luckily two other cars followed suit, providing a buffer between the van and Annie’s Miata.

She made it through the intersection as the green arrow cycled to yellow, then cut her speed, dropping back slightly for safety. After a brief inner debate she switched on her headlights; keeping them off in the gathering dusk would only make her car more conspicuous.

The day’s end had begun to bring relief from the unseasonable heat. The air rushing through the dashboard vents and the open window on the driver’s side was mild enough to feel almost comfortable against her face.

Gund’s van proceeded at a steady pace despite the crush of vehicles. Illuminated islands of strip malls glided past. A city bus groaned to a stop in the right lane, flashers pulsing.

One thing was clearly apparent. Gund was not going home-not directly, anyhow. She knew his address; it was noted on his employment application, which she’d reviewed in the privacy of her office earlier that evening. He lived west of Craycroft, near downtown. Now he was traveling east.

Erin’s place wasn’t far from here. Was it possible he meant to cut over to Broadway, revisit her apartment?

If he pulled into Erin’s apartment complex, Annie would find a phone and call Walker.

But Gund didn’t cut over. He continued east, past Pantano, heading out of town.

The sun was an orange smear in her rearview mirror, a spread of blinding candescence settling slowly below the humped backs of the mountains. Then it was gone, leaving the range outlined in fire, the western sky blushing pink. Ahead, the sky was the deep, somber blue of encroaching night, and the first stars gleamed like droplets of quicksilver.

As the edge of town drew near, traffic finally began to thin. Annie wasn’t sure if that was a good development or not. On the one hand, she found it easier to keep the van in sight. On the other hand, Gund would find it easier to see her.

As a precaution she fell farther back, keeping the Chevy just within view. Its taillights burned against the dark.

At Houghton Road, Gund hooked south.

Where the hell was he going? There was nothing out this way. Nothing but the fairgrounds, and as far as she knew, no county fairs were underway this week.

She swung onto Houghton, then frowned. The road-straight, flat, and empty of traffic-mocked her efforts at concealment.

Cutting her speed, she dropped back until the van’s taillights were lost to view. Then she killed her headlights and accelerated, bringing the Chevy just within sight.

She was gambling that Gund would assume the car behind him had turned off onto a side road. Without lights, the Miata ought to be nearly invisible at this distance.

Leaning forward, squinting at the dark road and the red glow far ahead, Annie wondered if she knew what she was doing.

If the turquoise really had come from Gund’s belt…

Then right now she was alone, a mile or more out of town, speeding deeper into the desert, in pursuit of a psychopath.

Her ruminations on Oliver’s epilepsy reminded Erin of the Tegretol.

Briefly she worried that he had taken the bottle of pills when he’d cleaned out the room. But no, there it was, among the foodstuffs in the cardboard box.

She washed down one tablet with a handful of water from the sillcock. Though she had missed her morning dose, a single lapse would do her no harm. Her doctor had assured her that she could go as long as twenty-four hours before withdrawal effects would develop.

It occurred to her that she must be hungry, though she hadn’t noticed. She peeled and ate a banana, then a few slices of bread. For protein she scooped her fingers into the peanut butter jar and licked them clean.

Her stomach, aroused, demanded more. She went on eating from the jar as she returned to her questions about Oliver Ryan Connor.

Oliver had been eighteen in 1968; he must be forty-six now. Sixteen years older than Erin and Annie-a wide age difference between cousins, but then, there had been a similar gap between their mothers.

Lydia had been born in 1931, in the fourth year of Rose and Joseph Morgan’s marriage. Maureen, their only other child, had made a much belated appearance in 1944, when Rose Morgan was thirty-nine, relatively old to be giving birth in those days. Erin had always assumed that her mother had come as a surprise.

In consequence of the disparity in ages, Lydia had been forty-two when she adopted her nieces, while Maureen, in that same year, had been only twenty-nine.

Twenty-nine. The realization was startling. She paused with a new scoop of peanut butter halfway to her lips.

Maureen had been Erin’s age when she had died. Younger, in fact. Erin was thirty. Maureen had never made it that far.

Dim memories of her mother had established her ineradicably as an authority figure, connoting age and wisdom. It was somehow shocking to confront the fact that Maureen Reilly had spent fewer years on this earth than her daughters had.

She dwelled on that reality a moment longer, then pushed it away. No good letting herself get sidetracked. It was Oliver who mattered now.

In their first session he’d admitted that his mother was blue-eyed, red-haired, and Irish Catholic, a description that fit Lydia exactly. He’d made it plain that he despised the Catholic faith for its opposition to abortion; well, the Morgans had always been strict in their beliefs, almost as strict as her own father.