Blind Instinct (10 page)

It made sense to act as if there was a threat. If the killer was after her, logic dictated that the
reason had to do with items she had retrieved from her father's attic. It also followed that if the items were that important, then he would want to retrieve them, which meant he would search her apartment.

Instead of turning into the parking lot, Sara cruised slowly past, scanning the parking lot and the windows of her unit. She stopped at an intersection and checked her rearview mirror. She had taken note of the cars following her. One in particular, a beige Lexus, was still on her tail, although that didn't necessarily mean anything. It was a busy road. A lot of traffic was flowing both ways and there was a major shopping complex up ahead. The lights changed. She accelerated through the intersection and turned into a quiet residential area. The Lexus cruised straight ahead through the lights, toward the mall.

When she was satisfied no one was following her, she doubled back and parked down the street from the apartment block so that her car was hidden from sight by a bank of thick, shady magnolias. She was beginning to feel faintly ridiculous. This was Shreveport, Louisiana, not Colombia. On the flip side, the Chavez Cartel had killed a lot of
people in a great many locations. If she was right, Janine Sawyer was the latest in a long line of hits.

Grabbing the key to her apartment and tucking her purse beneath the driver's seat so it would be one less thing for her to carry, she locked the car, walked through the shady trees fronting the parking lot and skirted the open space. Maybe it was overkill, but she didn't want to expose herself by crossing the parking lot.

The air-conditioned cool of her apartment was a relief after the heat and humidity outside. Walking through to her bedroom, she kicked off her pumps and changed into a pair of cotton pants, a tank and a pair of running shoes. Dumping her crumpled blouse and suit into a laundry basket, she walked through to the sitting room, found the knapsack and stuffed the codebook, the newspapers and the notes she had made into it.

Minutes later, she had retrieved her passport and the personal papers she needed, plus the family photos and the few personal items she couldn't leave behind, and had packed them in a cotton tote bag. On impulse, she found a plastic bag in the pantry and packed it with items from the fridge that would spoil—fresh milk, cheese, tomatoes and salad greens.

The parking lot was visible from her kitchen window. Most of the parking spaces were empty, which was predictable at this time of day.

There was a car in her parking space.

She studied the late model Japanese import positioned just yards away from her window, but it was partially screened from view by shrubs. It was a completely different make and model from the one that had almost run her down, but she could tell from the license plate that it
was
a rental.

A faint noise in the corridor made her heart pound. Leaving the items on the counter, she gathered up the knapsack, the tote and her briefcase, which contained her laptop, and walked quickly through to her bedroom. She couldn't risk using the back door because it was directly opposite her front door and if someone was breaking into her apartment, the likelihood that he would see her was high.

Closing the door, she opened a window and lowered the items onto the garden.

An audible click, followed by silence alerted her. He was in.

Ears straining, she climbed out of the window and dropped silently to the ground. Pushing the
window closed, she shouldered the knapsack, slung the strap of the tote over one shoulder and grasped the briefcase. Staying low, she backed through the thick layer of shrubs, far enough that she was concealed, but could still see in her windows.

A face appeared at the kitchen window.

Delgado
.

He spun away and she realized he had discovered the items from the fridge that she had left on the counter. All he would need to do was touch them to realize from their coldness that she had taken them out of the fridge just minutes before.

Edging deeper into the garden, she turned on her heel and ran.

S
ara pulled into a parking lot in a mall. Just over twenty minutes had passed while she had driven aimlessly around the suburbs. She had used her cell phone to ring the number Rousseau had given her. She had been shunted through to his answering machine and had left a message about the break-in and the fact that Delgado was driving a different rental. Unfortunately she hadn't been able to supply him with the license plate. By the time she had thought about that, she had already been in her car and driving.

She had also rung the Shreveport PD after-hours number and talked to the duty officer. They had dispatched a car to check on her apartment, but they would be too late; Delgado would
already be gone. The biggest gain in making that call had been to get the break-in on record, so that when she next spoke to Rousseau or Thorpe she would have solid evidence to back her story.

Her easiest option now was to get out of town, but before she did that she needed to get hold of Bayard. If she was right, and Delgado was one of Lopez's people, he needed to know.

Grabbing her purse, she locked the car and strode into the mall. She hadn't had time to pack her toothbrush or any spare clothes or fresh underwear. Aside from that, she needed to shop for clothes. Delgado knew how she dressed, how she wore her hair. Maybe in a town the size of Shreveport-Bossier it was overkill to expect that he could find her, but she wasn't about to take any more risks. Until she got some protection, or Delgado was caught, she needed to change her appearance.

Her first stop was a clothing franchise she normally never used. The designs were cheap, bright and about twenty years younger than the tailored suits and silk blouses or low-key casual wear she usually wore. She grabbed tops, skirts and pants and walked through to a dressing room.

Minutes later, after choosing an eclectic mix of limes, pinks and interesting shades of turquoise and chartreuse, she bought underwear and a couple of pairs of light, strappy heels. Walking into a ladies' room, she changed into turquoise pants and a fitted pink sweater and slipped on a pair of high heels. Unpinning her hair, she brushed it out and pulled it back into a ponytail at her nape.

She wasn't quite in disguise, but she looked different enough that Delgado wouldn't recognize her right off. Next up she bought a cheap suitcase. Zipping her purchases into the suitcase, she loaded it in the trunk of her car, then headed for the supermarket.

Fifteen minutes later, she had the toiletries and convenience food she needed. It was after seven, but before she checked into a motel, she needed to change her car. Once Delgado realized that he had killed Janine instead of her, he would start checking motels and hotels, using her license plate to find her. The car would be the equivalent of an arrow pointing straight at her.

She drove to a used car lot. Half an hour later, she had traded in her pristine sedan for a cream soft-top convertible. The convertible was a major
change of style, which, like the clothes she'd bought, was completely not her. It was possible Delgado would trace the sale and purchase, but that would take time, and she was willing to bet that right now he was concentrating on finding her, not checking car dealerships.

Sara chose one of the seedier hotels down by the waterfront and signed for a suite with a small kitchenette, using a false name. After slipping the receptionist a fifty-dollar bill when she asked for ID, she lugged her things into an elevator that looked like a certifiable antique.

Her room matched the elevator, with seventies decor, peeling paint and a musty smell. Grimy windows overlooked rooftops and a back alley filled with Dumpsters.

Leaving the suitcase and knapsack in her bedroom, she carried the grocery sack of food through to the small kitchenette then used her cell phone to dial her apartment and access her answering machine.

She had four messages. Bayard's voice was deep and faintly raspy, a northern curtness overlaying the southern drawl. He was home; call him. He had left his cell phone number.

The second call was from Nicola. She was concerned and was just ringing to check that Sara was okay.

The third and fourth calls were from Bayard, the last one curt and edged with frustration.

She called Bayard's cell. He picked up immediately.

Swallowing to clear the sudden tightness in her throat, she filled him in on the items she had found and the events of the last three days. Bayard's questions were clipped and concise.

She gave him the name of the hotel and her room number.

There was a rustling sound, a faint click as if he had unlatched a briefcase, then Bayard's voice filled her ear. “I've got a funeral to attend in the morning, but I can be in Shreveport by tomorrow afternoon—three o'clock at the latest. In the meantime I'm sending an agent over. He won't be obtrusive. He's just there to make sure you're okay, but if he thinks you're in trouble, he will act to protect you. I'll ring back in a few minutes with his name.”

With fingers that shook slightly, she placed her cell phone on the counter in the kitchenette. Calling Bayard had been an admission that she
needed help, hammering home the fact that she was a fish out of water with this stuff.

While she waited for him to call back, she unpacked the few grocery items she'd brought to save either having to go out and buy food, or wait on ordering from dicey room service. Making a cheese sandwich, she ate it at the counter, washing down each bite with a sip of water. The food steadied her and helped her think, but the mundane chore of eating did nothing to dissipate her tension.

Within fifteen minutes Bayard rang back. “His name's Alan Hicks, he's an FBI agent and he'll be there in about twenty minutes. Call me as soon as he makes contact.”

Hicks, a lean, fit man in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and glacial blue eyes, took just over the twenty. When she rang Bayard he almost bit her head off.

Her fingers tightened on the receiver. “Calm down, he's here. Do you want to talk to him?”

There was a pregnant pause. She had the definite impression that Bayard was furious, which, she decided, was so not her problem.

“Not necessary. I'll see you at your hotel tomorrow afternoon.”

He disconnected before she could say anything further, and she swallowed her own spurt of reaction and anger.

“Was that Marc Bayard you were talking to?”

“Yes.”

Hicks's brows shot up. “If it's okay with you, I'll take the couch.”

When the kitchen was cleaned and the dishes she had used were put away, she carried the knapsack through to the bedroom. After dropping a pillow and a spare blanket on the couch, she showered and changed into jeans and a tank top, unwilling to wear anything too flimsy to bed in case she sleepwalked again.

She said good-night to Hicks, who had the television playing softly and seemed to be immersed in some technical magazine, and closed the door. It wasn't late, it had only just gotten dark, but she was out on her feet. Aside from a symphony of aches from the near hit-and-run, she badly needed to sleep.

Although not just yet.

Unfastening the knapsack, she extracted Todd's gun and the magazine, loaded the empty clip and, using the blanket to muffle the sound, slid it home.

She listened intently to see if Hicks would
respond to the metallic click, half expecting the door to burst open. When it didn't, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and examined the weapon.

The gun would need cleaning. It was possible that after all these years, it would either fail to fire or misfire, but right now the risk didn't concern her. For now, despite the fact that Hicks was here, she was just happy to have a gun that could work in her hands.

She searched the bottom of the knapsack just in case any shells were rolling around loose. Her fingers brushed against something cool and flat. A metal tag with a key attached was caught partway beneath the stiffened piece of canvas lining the bottom of the knapsack.

She studied the key. The tag, printed with a name and address, made it clear enough what the key opened: a safe-deposit box in a Shreveport bank. The bank was the same one that both she and her father had used, but there was only one person the safe-deposit box could belong to: Todd Fischer.

The sense that she was trespassing on very private ground, that Steve should have been the one to find the items her father had hidden behind
the wall in the attic and not her, was overpoweringly strong.

The mystery of Todd Fischer's disappearance and death had deeply affected the entire Fischer family. Steve had adored his father. He had focused his life on finding his father and bringing Todd Fischer's killers to justice. He had defied the odds and succeeded in unraveling the mystery and finding Todd's body. Several of the cabal members who had been implicated in the naval killings had been found dead—but none of them, to date, had ever officially been brought to justice.

But, right or wrong, she didn't want to involve Steve. In just a few weeks he would be a father. After the trauma he and Taylor had been through, the last thing they needed was to be sucked back into the investigation. Besides, Bayard would be here tomorrow.

Slipping the handgun under her pillow, she crawled into bed.

At two in the morning she woke up. She couldn't remember dreaming this time, but something had happened. She felt different, sharper. Clearer.

The dreams pried open the door to memories,
but this time something else had happened. A door had opened in her mind and it hadn't slammed shut.

Maybe it had been her decision to research the codes, which had meant that for the first time since she was a child she was actively trying to remember instead of forget. Maybe it had simply been the contact with Bayard. Whatever, this time she hadn't remembered actual events. She had remembered
what
she had been.

Knowledge flowed through her like a cold electrical current. In that moment her senses were almost painfully heightened. She was acutely aware of the scents and sounds of the night, the cool draft of air from the conditioning unit against her skin.

She had been Sara Weiss, a scholar. Some things, it seemed, never changed. Like iron filings to a magnet, she had clung to the academic life.

But she had also been something more. Intellectually, she had known what her real profession had been. Now she knew it in a flat, matter-of-fact way that was faintly chilling. She had been a spy.

Flicking on her bedside lamp, she shoved back
the covers and crossed the room to stare into the mirror fixed to the wall above the dresser.

Outwardly, she looked the same. She was still Sara Fischer, a thirty-four-year-old librarian from Shreveport. Inwardly she was essentially the same person, but with a difference. The new knowledge had burned away the paralyzing uncertainty. Last night, despite her gut instinct, she had let Rousseau and Thorpe fob her off. Now she knew better.

At eight-thirty in the morning, Sara called work and requested time off. Her boss was sympathetic. They were short staffed, but they didn't expect to be busy. Already the front steps were overflowing with flowers. With the funeral in just two days time, they were keeping opening hours short and they would be closed the day of the funeral.

The funeral
.

Sara's fingers tightened on the receiver. The thought of having to sit through another funeral service, of having to watch another casket lowered into the ground, made her feel hollow inside. “Thanks. I'll call next week, when I feel better.”

As soon as she hung up, she informed Hicks
that she needed to go to the bank. He didn't like it, and insisted on calling in backup. Sara calmly told him to do whatever he had to, so long as he was ready to go at nine when the bank opened. And before Bayard got into town.

She had told Bayard about every item in the knapsack except for the key, which she had found after the phone call. She had thought about simply handing him the key along with everything else, but one fact stopped her. Todd Fischer's safe-deposit box belonged to the Fischer family before it belonged to anyone else. For all she knew it contained items of a private and very personal nature, meant for either his wife or child. If that was the case, she didn't want Bayard and who knows how many federal agents looking through what should have gone directly to Steve. On the other hand, it could contain evidence or information pertinent to Bayard's case. Either way, she wanted to check it out before Bayard got in. A final, practical consideration had sealed her decision. With the nature of deposit boxes, Bayard wouldn't be able to access it without either her or Steve there, anyway.

At ten past nine, with Hicks still grumbling and a second agent, Crombie—a younger, more
muscular version of Hicks—flanking her, she walked into the bank. She was shown into an interview room. A short time later she was joined by Lydia Clement, her personal banker. Lydia had helped her through the process of closing her father's accounts and also of dealing with the loose ends involved with Steve's financial affairs when he had entered the Witness Security Program.

She studied the key, then checked a computer file. When Lydia quietly stated, “The safe-deposit box belongs to Todd Fischer,” Sara got goose bumps. It wasn't exactly a hand from the grave, but close.

“Can I access the box on Steve's behalf?”

Lydia closed the file and pressed a key to activate the screen saver. “You have a power of attorney for Steve and the bank holds a letter from him appointing you as his agent while he's on WITSEC. Under the circumstances, that's acceptable.”

Fifteen minutes later, she studied the contents of the box—a large manila envelope, which contained a sheaf of photocopied sheets, and a smaller envelope of black-and-white snapshots. From the dated clothing of the snaps, they appeared
to have been taken decades ago—perhaps in the 1940s or 1950s.