Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

Which led to his second option: confession.

It carried consequences, of course. He would probably lose his job. But once they understood the circumstances, understood he was forced into the act, they wouldn't be so hard. Not when he could name names, point fingers.

This time, by God, I'm not going to run.

He reached for the telephone and dialed Adam Quantrell's house. Confession was good for the soul, they said.

But Quantrell wasn't home, the man at the other end told him. Would he care to leave a message?

"Tell him-tell him I have to talk to him," said Esterhaus. "But I can't do it over the phone."

"What is this concerning, may I ask?"

"It's… personal."

"I'll let him know. Where can you be reached, Dr. Esterhaus?"

"I'll be…" He paused. This slightly seedy hotel? It would be proof he'd fled, proof of his guilty conscience. "I'll be at home," he said. He hung up, at once feeling better. Now that he had decided on a course of action, all the energy that had been sucked into the useless machinery of uncertainty could be redirected to pure motion. He packed the few things he'd brought-a toothbrush, a razor, a change of underwear. Then he checked out and drove home.

He parked in his carport and entered through the side door, into the kitchen. Familiar smells at once enveloped him, the scent of the Cloroxed sink, the fresh paint from the newly redone hallway. Here, in his house, he felt safe.

The phone rang in the living room. Quantrell? The thought set his heart pounding. Fully prepared to blurt out the truth, he picked up the receiver, only to hear a child's voice ask, "Is Debbie there?" He didn't hear the footsteps on the porch, or the wriggling of the doorknob.

But he did hear the knock.

He hung up on the kid and went to open the front door. "Oh," he said. "It's you-"

"Everything's fixed."

"It is?"

"I told you it would be." The visitor stepped inside, shut the door.

"Look, I can't deal with this! I never thought it'd go this far-"

"But Herb, I'm telling you, you don't have a thing to worry about."

"Quantrell's going to find out! It's only a matter of-" Esterhaus paused, staring at his visitor. At the gun. He shook his head in disbelief.

The gun fired twice, two clean shots.

The impact of the bullets sent Esterhaus jerking backwards. He sprawled against the couch, his blood sliding in rivulets across the Scotchgarded fabric. Through fading vision, he stared up at his murderer. "Why?" he whispered.

"I told you, Herb. You don't have a thing to worry about. And now, neither do I."

Thomas, as usual, was waiting at the front door to greet them. By now he seemed a built-in part of the house, as affixed to it as the mantlepiece or the wainscotting, and just as permanent. The difference was, Thomas actually wanted to be there. M. J. saw it now, in his smile of welcome, in the fatherly affection with which he helped Adam remove his coat. It was apparent they went back a long way, these two; she could almost see them as they must have been thirty years ago, the young man reaching down to assist the boy struggling out of his winter coat.

Thomas hung their jackets in the closet. "There were two calls while you were out, Mr. Q.," he said.

"Anything important?"

"Miss Calderwood phoned to ask if you were still on for the afternoon with the Wyatts. And if so, where were you?"

Adam groaned. "Good Lord, I forgot all about Isabel!" He reached for the hall telephone. "She's going to be furious."

"She did seem rather put out."

Adam dialed Isabel's number and stood waiting while it rang. "Who else called?"

"A Dr. Herbert Esterhaus. About two hours ago."

"Esterhaus?" Adam glanced up sharply. "Why?"

"He wouldn't say. Something about the laboratory, I assume. He did imply it was somewhat urgent."

"Where is he?"

"That's his number there, on the notepad."

Adam hung up and dialed the number Thomas had written down. It kept ringing.

"He said he'd be home all day," said Thomas. "Perhaps he stepped out for a moment."

Adam glanced at M. J. It was a look, nothing more, but she saw in his eyes a flicker of apprehension. Something's happened. He feels it too .

Adam hung up. "Let's drive by his house."

"But you've only just arrived," said Thomas.

"It doesn't feel right. Herb wouldn't call me at home unless it was important."

Resignedly, Thomas reached back into the closet for their jackets. "Really, Mr. Q. All this rushing around."

Adam smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "At least you won't have us underfoot, hm?"

Thomas merely sighed and walked them to the door.

Just as they climbed into Adam's car, a Mercedes pulled into the driveway, its tires spitting gravel. Isabel stuck her head out the window. "Adam!" she called. "Have you forgotten about the Wyatts?"

"Give them my regrets!"

"I thought we were on for this afternoon-"

"Something's come up. I can't make it. Look, I'll call you later, Isabel, all right?"

"But Adam, you-"

Her words were cut off by the roar of the Volvo as Adam and M. J. drove off. She was left behind in the driveway, staring in disbelief.

Adam glanced in his mirror at the receding Mercedes. "Damn. How am I going to explain this away?"

"Just tell her what happened," said M. J. "She already knows what's going on, doesn't she?"

"Isabel?" He snorted. "First, Isabel is not equipped to deal with unpleasantness of any sort. It's not in her sphere of knowledge. Second, she's not good at keeping secrets. By the time the gossip got down the street and back again, I'd be a major drug dealer, and Maeve would have three heads and be practicing voodoo."

"You mean… she doesn't know about Maeve?"

"She knows I have a stepdaughter. But she never asks about her. And I don't fill her in on the gory details."

"Isn't a problem kid something you'd want to sort of mention to your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" He laughed.

"Well, what do you call her then?"

"A social companion. Suitable for all occasions."

"Oh." She looked out the window. "I guess that covers everything."

To her surprise, he reached over and squeezed her thigh. "Not quite everything."

She frowned at his laughing eyes. "What does it leave out?"

"Oh, street fights, exploding houses, the sort of occasions she wouldn't appreciate."

"I'm not sure I appreciate them."

He turned his gaze back to the road. "I've never slept with her, you know," he said.

That statement was so unexpected, M. J. was struck silent for a moment. She stared at his unruffled profile. "Why did you tell me that?"

"I thought you should know."

"Well, thank you for satisfying my burning curiosity-"

"You're very welcome."

"And what am I supposed to do with this knowledge?"

He winked. "File it away in that amazing brain of yours."

She shook her head and laughed. "I don't know what to make of you, Quantrell. Sometimes I think you're flirting with me. Other times, I think it's all in my head."

"Why wouldn't I? You know I'm attracted to you."

"Why?"

He sighed. "You're not supposed to say, 'Why?' You're supposed to say, 'And I'm attracted to you.'"

"Nevertheless, why ?"

He glanced at her in surprise. "Is it so difficult to believe? That I'd find you attractive?"

"I think it's because I'm a novelty," she said. "Because I'm not like your other… companions."

"True."

"Which means it'd never work."

"Such a pessimist," he sighed. He gave her thigh another squeeze, flashed her another grin, and looked back at the road.

It's as easy as that for him , she thought. He favors me with a smile, makes my heart do flip-flops, and then he gets on with the business of driving .