Tess Gerritsen: Peggy Sue Got Murdered

He turned right.

Three blocks east took them to the wharf. The rainswept docks were deserted. A series of piers jutted out, most of them long since abandoned to disuse. A single fishing trawler rocked in the gray water, straining at its moorings.

"That warehouse up ahead," said Shradick. "Drive there."

"The pier won't hold the weight," said Adam.

"Yes it will. Go."

Adam pulled off the pavement and slowly guided the car onto the pier. They could hear the wood creak under the weight, could feel the thump of the tires over the boards. At the warehouse entrance, they rolled to a stop.

"Okay," said Shradick. "Out of the car."

M. J. stepped out. The wind whipped her hair and lashed her face with sea spray. She stood with the gun shoved against her back, her heart pounding.

"Quantrell! Open the warehouse door," ordered Shradick.

"Two more murders," said Adam. "What's it going to get you, Vince?"

"My freedom, maybe? Open the door."

Adam reluctantly set his shoulder against the sliding panel. "You killed Fuller," he grunted, pushing against the door. "And Esterhaus. And Peggy Sue Barnett." Slowly the panel slid open, revealing a seemingly impenetrable darkness. "Where's it going to end?"

"With you two." Shradick waved the gun. "Inside."

There was no arguing with a bullet. They stepped out of the wind's assault, into the gloom. The darkness smelled of dust and sea rot.

"Beamis will figure it out," said Adam. "He'll find us-"

"Not for a while. See, this particular warehouse belongs to Vito Scalisi. And his sentence runs till 2003. By the time they open the building again, the rats'll have taken care of things. If you catch my drift."

Meaning our bodies , thought M. J. with a rush of nausea. Quickly she glanced around and saw, through the shadows, a jumble of old crates, wooden pallets. Overhead, ropes dangled from a catwalk. And high above, rainwater dripped steadily through a hole in the roof. There were no other exits, no way out.

Adam was still trying to buy time. "People saw you at the burial, Vince-"

"I was there in the line of duty."

"They saw us, too! They'll put it together-know you followed us-"

"Me? I went home to bed. This damn virus, you see." He raised his gun. "Both of you, against the wall. Don't want to have to drag you. Not with my bad back."

Adam moved close to M. J. and wrapped his arms around her. She felt his breath warm her hair, felt his lips brush the top of her head. "Get ready," he whispered. "When I move, you run ."

In bewilderment she stared up at him, and saw the unbending command in his gaze: Don't argue. Just do it .

"Skip the tender farewells, okay?" barked Shradick. "Against the wall."

There are so many things I want to tell you , she thought, still gazing up at Adam. And now I'll never have the chance .

He pressed one last kiss to her forehead. Then, with a nudge, he pushed her away, placing himself between her and Shradick. Calmly, he turned to face the gun.

"You know, Vince," said Adam. "You've neglected a few vital details. The car, for instance."

"Getting rid of the car's easy."

"I'm talking about my car." Adam took a step forward, so small it was scarcely noticeable. "An abandoned Volvo at the cemetery…" He took another step toward Shradick. Toward the gun. "It'll raise a lot of questions."

"I can take care of that, too."

"And then there's the matter of Peggy Sue Barnett's boyfriend."

"What?"

"You think she kept her little gold mine a secret?" Another step. "You think he didn't ask where all her drugs, all her cash, was coming from?"

Shradick was poised on the verge of finishing off the whole bloody business, but new doubts had been stirred. His hand wavered, the gun barrel dropping a fraction of an inch.

Adam was still ten feet away, too far to make his move. But he might not get a better chance.

M. J., standing behind Adam, could almost sense the tensing of his muscles, the last coiling up before the spring. Dear God, he's going to do it .

Adam's body would take the first bullet, and probably the second as well. By that time she could be on Shradick. It was a last-chance gamble, one they were almost certain to lose, but the alternative was to go down like sheep in a slaughterhouse.

She leaned forward, poised like a sprinter on the balls of her feet, waiting for Adam's move. Any second now…

The piercing beeps of Shradick's pocket pager suddenly seemed to trap them in an instant's freeze-frame. Pure force of habit made Shradick glance down at the pager looped to his belt. In that split second of inattention, Adam sprang.

He was halfway to Shradick when the first shot exploded. The thud of the bullet into his flesh scarcely slowed his momentum. Before Shradick could even squeeze off a second shot, Adam hurtled against him. Both men toppled to the ground.

M. J. scrambled forward to help, but the men were rolling over and over in a confusing tangle of limbs, grappling for the gun. Another shot went off, this one wild-the bullet whistled past M. J.'s cheek. Adam's hand shot out to grab Shradick's wrist. He managed to grunt out: " Run !" before Shradick, roaring like a bull, flung Adam aside.

M. J. attacked, clawing for the gun, but Shradick had too firm a grip. Enraged, he swung at her, his fist slamming into her jaw. The blow sent her flying. She tumbled across the floor to land in a pile of damp burlap. Through eyes half blinded by pain, she saw Shradick turn and walk over to look at Adam, who now lay motionless.

He's dead , she thought. Dear God, he's dead . Fueled by grief, by rage, she staggered to her feet. Even as blackness gathered before her eyes, she struggled desperately toward the warehouse door, toward the far-off rectangle of daylight.

Just as she reached the doorway, Shradick turned to her, raised his gun, and fired.

The bullet splintered the frame, and fragments of wood stung her cheek. She flung herself through the doorway, into the driving wind.

With Shradick right behind her, a few seconds' head start was all she had. Still dizzy from the blow, she was moving like a drunken woman. The car was parked a few feet ahead. Beyond it stretched the pier, barren of any cover. Running was futile. It would be a single shot, straight into her back.

No escape , she thought. I can't even see straight .

Just as Shradick came tearing out of the warehouse, M. J. ducked around the rear of the car. He fired; the bullet pinged off the rear fender. M. J. scurried alongside the car and yanked the passenger door open. One glance told her the keys weren't in the ignition. No escape in there, either-the car would be a trap.

Shradick was moving in for the kill.

She heard the creak of the planks as he moved along the other side of the car, circling to the rear. Ahead there was only the warehouse, another dead end.

She took a deep breath, pivoted away from the car, and leaped off the pier.

The stomach-wrenching plunge hurled her into icy water. She sank in over her head, into a frightening swirl of brine. She floundered to the surface, gasping, her eyes and throat stung by the salt. One breath was all she managed; the zing of a bullet through the water sent her diving once again into the depths.

Frantically she stroked her way under the pier and surfaced again to cling at the foundation post. Windblown waves churned and thrashed against her face. Her hands had already gone numb from cold and fear, but at least her head was now clear. She glanced toward land, saw that the only way to shore would mean a clamber across exposed rocks. In other words, suicide.

She looked up through the gaps in the planks, and she spied Shradick at the other edge of the pier, scanning the water. He knew she wouldn't swim away from the cover of the pier. He also knew the water was frigid. Fifteen minutes, a half hour-eventually she'd die of hypothermia. For him it was a simple waiting game. One she was sure to lose.