Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

Quickly he searched the rest of the house. He found neither Miranda nor Annie.

With growing panic he hurried outside and glanced up and down the street. Except for the far-off barking of a dog, the evening was still.

No, not quite. Was that the sound of a car engine running? If seemed muffled or distant. He circled around the house and saw a small detached garage in back. The door was shut. The sound of the car engine, though still muffled, seemed closer.

He started toward the garage. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sighted a flicker of movement. He turned just in time to spy a shadow slipping away, blending into the darkness.

This time, you bastard, Chase thought, you don’t get away from me.

Chase sprinted off in pursuit.

He heard his quarry dodge left, toward a thick hedge of bushes. Chase, too, veered left, scrambled over a low stone wall and broke into a sprint.

The fleeing shadow burst through the hedge and made a sharp right, into a neighboring yard littered with garden tools. Chase, intent on capture, didn’t notice his quarry had swept up a rake. It came flying at him through the darkness.

Chase ducked. Tines first, it flew over his head, then clattered into a wheelbarrow behind him. Chase leaped back to his feet.

His quarry grabbed a pickax, flung it.

Again Chase dodged. He heard the whoosh of air as the lethal weapon looped past. By the time he’d recovered his balance the figure was off and running again, toward a stand of trees.

He’ll be lost in the shadows! thought Chase. He mustered a final burst of speed, drew within reach. His quarry was tired. He could hear the other man’s ragged breaths. Chase launched himself forward, grabbed a handful of shirt and held on.

His quarry, instead of trying to pull free, spun around and charged like a bull.

Chase was flung backward, into a tree. The shock lasted only an instant. Rage, not pain, was his first response. Shoving away from the tree, he flung himself at his attacker. Both men fell off balance, went skidding across the wet leaves. The attacker punched, and the blow caught Chase in the belly. With a new strength born of fury, Chase slammed his fist blindly at the squirming shadow. The man groaned, tried to lash out. Chase hit him again. And again.

The man went limp.

Chase rolled away from the body. For a moment he sat there, catching his breath, wincing at the pain in his knuckles. The other man was still alive — he could hear him breathing. Chase grabbed the inert figure by the legs and dragged him across the leaf-strewn lawn, toward a faint pool of light from a distant porch lamp. There he knelt to see who his prisoner was. In disbelief he stared at the face, now revealed.

It was Noah DeBolt. Evelyn’s father.

The steady growl of an engine slowly penetrated Chase’s numbed awareness. The car in the garage…the closed door…

That’s when the realization hit him. He lurched to his feet.

Miranda.

He sprinted across the yard to the garage. A cloud of fumes assailed him as he pushed through the door. Miranda’s car was parked inside, its engine still running. In panic, he flung open the car door.

Miranda lay sprawled across the front seat.

He switched off the ignition. Coughing, choking, he dragged her roughly out of the car, out of the garage. It terrified him how lifeless she felt in his arms. He carried her to the lawn and laid her down on the grass.

“Miranda!” he yelled. He shook her hard, so hard her whole body shuddered. “Wake up,” he pleaded. “Damn you, Miranda. Don’t you give up on me. Wake up!”

Still she didn’t move.

In panic he slapped her face. The brutality of that blow, the sting of her flesh against his, shocked him. He laid his ear to her breast. Her heart was beating. And there it was — a breath!

She groaned, moved her head.

“Yes!” he shouted. “Come on. Come on.” She sank back into unconsciousness. He didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice. He slapped her again.

This time she moved her hand, a reflexive gesture to ward off the savage blows. “No,” she moaned.

“Miranda, it’s me! Wake up.” He brushed back her hair, gently took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her temples. “Please, Miranda,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

Slowly she opened her eyes. They were dazed and full of confusion. At once she lashed out blindly, as though still fighting for her life.

“No, it’s me!” he cried. He held her, hugged her tightly against him. Her frantic thrashing grew weaker. He felt the panic melt from her body until she lay quietly in his arms.

“It’s all over,” he whispered. “All over.”

She pulled away and stared up at him with a look of bewilderment. “Who…”

“It was Noah.”

“Evelyn’s father? ”

Chase nodded. “He’s the one who’s been trying to kill you.”

“You have no right to hold me, Lorne. You understand? No right. ” Noah, his face bruised an ugly purple, stared at his accusers. Through the closed door came the sounds of the police station: the clack of a typewriter, the ringing phone, the voices of patrolmen headed out for night duty. But here, in the back room, there was dead silence.

Quietly Lorne said, “You’re not in any position to pull rank, Noah. So talk to us.”

“I don’t have to say a thing,” said Noah. “Not until Les Hardee gets here.”

Lorne sighed. “Legally speaking, yeah, you’re right. But it would sure make things easy if you’d just tell us why you tried to kill her.”

“I didn’t. I went to her house to talk to her. I heard the car running in the garage. I thought maybe she was trying to kill herself. I started to go in, to check on it. Then Chase showed up. I guess I panicked. That’s why I ran.”

“That’s all you were doing there? Just paying Ms. Wood a visit?”

Noah gave him an icy nod.

“In a getup like that?” Lorne nodded at Noah’s black shirt and trousers.

“What I wear happens to be my concern.”

“Chase says differently. He says you dragged her in the garage, left her there and started the car.”

Noah snorted. “Chase has a little trouble being objective. Especially where Miranda Wood is concerned. Besides, he attacked me. Who the hell’s got the bruises, anyway? Look at my face. Look at it!”

“Seems to me you both got some pretty good bruises,” said Lorne.

“Self-defense,” claimed Noah. “I had to fight back.”

“Chase thinks you’re the one who’s been going after her. That you set fire to her house. Drove at her with a stolen car. And what about tonight? Was that supposed to be a convenient little suicide?”

“She’s got him all twisted around. Got him taking her side. The side of a murderer—”

“Who’s the guilty party here, Noah?”

Noah, sensing he’d said too much already, said abruptly, “I’m not going to talk till Les gets here.”

In frustration Lorne crumpled his paper coffee cup in his fist. “Okay,” he said, dropping into a chair. “We can wait. As long as it takes, Noah. As long as it takes.”

“It’s not going to stick,” said Miranda. “I know it won’t.”

They sat huddled together on a bench in the intake area. Ellis Snipe had brought them coffee and cookies. Perhaps it was his way of personally atoning for the ordeal the police had put them through. So many questions, so many reports to be filed. And then, halfway through the interrogation, Dr. Steiner had shown up, called in by Lorne to check on her condition. In the guise of a medical exam, he had practically assaulted her with his stethoscope. Breathe deep, damn it! Gotta check your lungs. You think I like making all these house calls? This keeps up, you two will have to put me on retainer!