Catherine Coulter: Riptide

Becca knew she was dead. Her stalker had detonated a bomb and killed that poor old woman. Why? Just to terrorize her more? She was already so terrified she could hardly function. What did he want now? She’d left Albany, left the governor’s staff with no warning, had not even called to check in.

She walked slowly back inside the living room, firmly closing the glass door behind her. She looked at the phone, heard him saying her name, over and over. Rebecca, Rebecca. Very slowly, she hung up. She fell to her knees and jerked the connector out of the wall jack. The phone in the bedroom rang, and kept ringing.

She pressed herself close to the wall, her palms slammed against her ears. She had to do something. She had to talk to the cops. Again. Surely now that someone was dead, they would believe that some maniac was terrorizing her, stalking her, murdering someone to show her he meant business.

This time they had to believe her.

Six Days Later

Riptide, Maine

She pulled into the Texaco gas station, waved to the guy inside the small glass booth, then pumped some regular into her gas tank. She was on the outskirts of Riptide, a quaint town that sprawled north to south, hugging a small harbor filled with sailboats, motorboats, and many fishing boats. Lobster, she thought, and breathed in deeply, air redolent of brine, seaweed, and fish, plus a faint hint of wildflowers, their sweetness riding lightly on the breeze from the sea.

Riptide, Maine.

She was in the sticks, the boondocks, a place nobody knew about, except for a few tourists in the summer. She was sixty-four miles north of Christmas Cove, a beautiful small coastal town she’d visited once as a child, with her mother.

For the first time in two and a half weeks, she felt safe. She felt the salty air tingling on her skin, let the warm breeze flutter her hair against her cheek.

She was in control of her life again.

But what about Governor Bledsoe? He would be all right, he had to be. He had cops everywhere, brushing his teeth for him, sleeping under his bed-no matter who he was sleeping with-hiding in his washroom off his big square office with its huge mahogany power desk. He would be all right. The crazy guy who had terrorized her until six days ago wouldn’t be able to get near him.

The main street in Riptide was West Hemlock. There wasn’t an East Hemlock unless someone wanted to drive into the ocean. She drove nearly to the end of the street to an old Victorian bed-and-breakfast called Errol Flynn’s Hammock. There was a widow’s walk on top, railed in black. She counted at least five colors on the exterior. It was perfect.

“I like the name,” she said to the old man behind the rich mahogany counter.

“Yep,” he said, and pushed the guest book toward her. “I like it, too. Been Scottie all my life. Sign in and I’ll beam you right up.”

She smiled and signed Becca Powell. She’d always admired Colin Powell. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she borrowed his name for a while. For a while, Becca Matlock would cease to exist.

She was safe.

But why, she wondered yet again, why hadn’t the police believed her? Still, they were providing the governor extra protection, so that was something.

Why?

New York City

June 15

They had Becca sit in an uncomfortable chair with uneven legs. She laid one hand on the scarred table, looking at the woman and two men, and knew they thought she was a nut or, very likely, something far worse.

There were three other men in the room, lined up against the wall next to the door. No one introduced them. She wondered if they were FBI. Probably, since she’d reported the threat on the governor, and they were dressed in dark suits, white shirts, blue ties. She’d never seen so many wing tips in one room before.

Detective Morales, slight, black-eyed, handsome, said quietly, “Ms. Matlock, we are trying to understand this. You say he blew up this old woman just to get your attention? For what reason? Why you? What does he want? Who is he?”

She repeated it all again, more slowly this time, nearly word for word. Finally, seeing their stone faces, she tried yet again, leaning forward, clasping her hands on the wooden table, avoiding the clump of long-ago-dried food. “Listen, I have no idea who he is. I know it’s a man, but I can’t tell if he’s old or if he’s young. I told you that I’ve heard him many times on the phone. He started calling me in Albany and then he followed me here to New York. I never saw him in Albany, but I’ve seen him here, stalking me, not close enough to identify, but I’m sure it was him I saw three different times. I reported this eight days ago to you, Detective Morales.”

“Yes,” said Detective McDonnell, a man who looked like he sliced and diced criminal suspects for breakfast. His body was long and thin, his suit rumpled and loose, his voice cold. “We know all about it. We acted on it. I spoke to the police in Albany when we didn’t see anything of him here in New York. We all compared notes, discussed everything thoroughly.”

“What else can I tell you?”

“You said he calls you Rebecca, never shortens your name.”

“Yes, Detective Morales. He always says Rebecca and he always identifies himself as my boyfriend.”

A look went between the two men. Did they think it was a vengeful ex-boyfriend?

“I’ve told you that I don’t recognize his voice. I have never known this man, never. I’m certain of it.”

Detective Letitia Gordon, the only other woman in the room, was tall, wide-mouthed, with hair cut very short, and she carried a big chip on her shoulder. She said in a voice colder than McDonnell’s, “You could try for the truth. I’m tired of all this bullshit. You’re a liar, Ms. Matlock. Sure, Hector did everything he could. We all tried to believe you, at first, but there wasn’t anyone around you. Not a soul. We wasted three days tagging you, and all for nothing. We spent another two days following up on everything you told us, but again, nothing.

“What is it with you? Are you on coke?” She tapped the side of her head with two long fingers. “You need attention? Daddy didn’t give you enough when you were a little girl? That’s why you have this made-up guy call himself your boyfriend?”

Becca wanted to punch out Detective Gordon. She imagined the woman could pulverize her, so that wouldn’t be smart. She had to be calm, logical. She had to be the sane adult here. She cocked her head at the woman and said, “Why are you angry at me? I haven’t done anything. I’m just trying to get some help. Now he’s killed this old woman. You’ve got to stop him. Don’t you?”

The two male detectives again darted glances back and forth. The woman shook her head in disgust. Then she pushed back her chair and rose. She leaned over and splayed her hands on the wooden tabletop, right next to the clump of dried food. Her face was right in Becca’s. Her breath smelled of fresh oranges. “You made it all up, didn’t you? There wasn’t any guy calling you and telling you to look outside your window. When that bag lady got blown up by some nutcase, you just pulled in your fantasy guy again to be responsible for the bomb. No more. We want you to see our psychiatrist, Ms. Matlock. Right now. You’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame, now it’s time to give it up.”

“Of course I won’t see any shrink, that’s-”

“You either see the psychiatrist or we arrest you.”

A nightmare, she thought. Here I am at the police station, telling them everything I know, and they think I’m crazy. She said slowly, staring right at Detective Gordon, “For what?”