Crimson Eve (22 page)

The gun barrel met his forehead. He stopped moving.

“I could kill you right here,” Thornby spat. “Leave your body in this car and be long gone before anybody even found you.”

The metal of the barrel felt cold. In his mind, Brandon saw the scene. The bullet firing into his skull, his body crumpling. His hands rose up to his shoulders.

“Yeah, and what good would killing me do? If I supposedly know something about who drove this car here, you wouldn’t hear it then, would you?”

“Maybe I’ll just shoot you through the knee. Leave you begging for me not to do the other one.”

Brandon licked his lips. He’d seen that one in a movie or two. Didn’t want to go there. “Man, it wouldn’t do any good. I
don’t
know anything
about the owner of this car.”

“I’m a desperate person.” The words seethed. “You understand? Desperate people do desperate things. You’re not leaving here ’til you give me what I want.”

Okay, maybe this wasn’t Thornby. Maybe it was some crazy new reality show. Brandon resisted the urge to look around for a hidden camera. “I
don’t know
the answer to your question.”

Air sucked in and out of the man’s throat like some mad dog. Forget logic; this guy’s finger could flick the trigger any minute.

“Get all the way behind the wheel,” he commanded. “We’re going for a drive.”

“That’ll be a little hard without the key.”

“You’ve
got
the key. In your pocket. Somewhere.”

Brandon sighed. “I
don’t
have the key. You want to pat me down, go right ahead. You won’t find it.”

The man slid the gun away from Brandon a couple inches. The tendons on the back of his hand ridged solid and hard. “We’ll take the new car right behind me then.” His tone turned sarcastic. “Make it a nice, friendly test drive.”

What
was
it with test drives today? Had to be a better way to sell cars. “Sure. Fine. But you’re going to have to let me stand up.”

From his pocket, Brandon’s cell phone rang — a tone he knew well.

“Don’t answer it.”

“It’s Shawn, my manager. If I don’t answer, he’s going to wonder what’s going on and come out here. Don’t think he won’t. Shawn cares a lot about his salesmen. He checks up on me even when I’m home.”

Thornby moved back two steps. “Let it be. Get out of the car.”

Brandon obeyed. As the cell rang again, he raised his hands high above his head, hoping someone in the showroom just might see what was going on. Why did this have to be such a slow day? Where
was
everyone?

“Get your hands down! Waist level.”

Third ring. Brandon lowered his arms. Anger buzzed up and down his limbs. No wonder Carla was running from this dude, scared out of her mind. If Brandon saw his chance, he was taking it. Thornby would be toast.

Fourth ring. The call went to voice mail.

Thornby gestured with his chin. “Get the key and get us in this car.” He stepped back more, giving Brandon room to move to the passenger door of the new Chrysler.

Brandon edged toward the lockbox on the car, then narrowed his eyes at Thornby. “I’m going to have to get the key for the box in my pocket.”

“Do it slowly.” The gun remained pointed at his chest.

Brandon slipped a hand into his right pocket and withdrew the key. Held it up so Thornby could see, then inserted it into the lock. He pulled the Chrysler key out of the box and turned to Thornby. “Who’s drivin’, you or me?”

“Unlock all the doors. Then get behind the wheel.”

A press of the electric button clicked open all the doors. Brandon’s thoughts spun. No way was he getting in the car with this guy. He’d heard the statistics on killers separating a victim from others. Wasn’t exactly so they could go off and share a Happy Meal. If he got in that car, he wasn’t coming back alive.

He stepped toward Thornby as if to move past him on the way around the front of the car. Thornby stiffened. “Go the other — ”

A cell phone rang — this one from Thornby’s pocket. Thornby started, and his hand jerked.

Brandon saw his chance. He ducked to the right and swung his left arm. He connected at Thornby’s wrist. Thornby’s hand careened up, the gun flying away. The cell phone rang again as the gun landed on the hood of the Chrysler with the crisp sound of metal on metal, then slid down over the side. It landed with a muffled thud on Brandon’s left shoe.

He kicked it under the car.

Thornby’s fist flew. Brandon bent low and charged, head-ramming the man in the waist. Thornby stumbled back, bounced off the Toyota hood, and shot forward, swinging both arms.

Brandon had never been much of a fighter. But something in him cracked. Manly way or not, this guy was going down, and it was going to
hurt
. Brandon braced himself against the Chrysler and shot out a foot. The heel of his shoe buried itself in Thorn-by’s groin.

“Ahhhngh!” Thornby’s face contorted. He sank to his knees, clawed fingers pulled between his legs.

The impact knocked Brandon off balance. He stumbled to the right, tripped an awkward two-step, and fell. His right palm and chin scraped pavement. He raised his head an inch and hung there for a moment, slightly dazed. His eyes focused on a circle of pebbled asphalt between his hands.
Get up, man, get up!

Behind him, Thornby shuffled and moaned.

The sound of sliding metal sliced through Brandon’s ears.

He scrambled to his knees, swiveling to face Thornby. The man clutched his gun, swinging it up to aim. Thornby was bent over at the waist, face livid purple, breath sucking through clenched teeth, but he kept on coming. How was the guy moving in all that pain?

The barrel aimed even with Brandon’s chest. In that stretched second, he knew he was gone. Regrets flooded his mind — things he hadn’t done, and had. Words he hadn’t spoken. Then time rushed in like a freight train.

Brandon’s mind exploded. With the yell of a wild man, he jerked to the right, vaguely registering as the gun went off. He pivoted left and launched himself at Thornby’s shoulder. Thornby jumped to his right, hitting the side mirror on the Chrysler. Brandon sailed through the air where Thornby’s body should have been, hit the Chrysler hood with a whacking
thud
, and rolled down its length. He tumbled onto pavement in front of the car, all breath knocked from his lungs.

Shouts sounded from the direction of the showroom. Brandon lay on his side, struggling to breathe. The afternoon turned cottony, with muffled sounds of running. Help was coming —Shawn, coworkers, somebody.

And Thornby was getting away.

Brandon sat up, sucking in air. By the time his manager and two salesmen drew up, puffing, he’d swayed to his feet.

“What happened, what happened?”

“Did I hear a gun?”

“Who was that guy?”

The questions bounced in his throbbing head. Brandon waved a hand in the direction his attacker had gone. He turned, searching up the lot, then on up Sprague. Thornby was nowhere in sight. Man couldn’t be far. Most likely he was crouched behind parked cars up the street, slowly but surely making his getaway.

“Crazy guy had a gun. He tried to kill me.”

Brandon leaned over, hands on his knees, and breathed. Didn’t matter. Let the guy get away; Brandon had no energy for a chase. He was scraped up and bruised, not to mention not much good for selling a car the rest of the day. As if lost commissions weren’t bad enough, now he faced a long explanation with his manager, including why a brand new car in the lot had more than one dent in its hood. Shawn would insist on calling the police. Brandon would have to file a report.

But, hey, at least he was alive.

“Come on, let’s get you back inside,” Shawn said. “Your chin’s bleeding.”

One thing for sure, Brandon thought. As much as he’d love to walk away from this mess, he couldn’t now. Carla had to know what happened. And, seeing as how it had almost cost his life, that suitcase was
absolutely
getting to her.

As he started the long, weary trek back to the showroom, Brandon slapped a coworker on the shoulder. “Listen, man. Next time a single chick comes in wanting to test drive a PT —
you’re
taking her.”

FIFTY-FIVE

Vince Edwards leaned over his desk at the Kanner Lake police station, yellow pad pulled close, pen in hand. Photos of his family lined the front of his desk. Nancy, his wife. Tim, their son who had died in Iraq, a victim of a bomb. Heather, their daughter who lived in Spokane with her husband and little girl, Christy. Outside the front station window ran Main Street. Through that window Vince could watch people come and go, see the seasons change. Vince loved his family and town. Would give his life for either one. The tragedies in Kanner Lake within the past fifteen months had seared his heart. Life had been wonderfully quiet since the horrible murders of last March. Now this. And he wasn’t even sure what
this
was.

“Ms. Evans, you still there?”

“I’m . . . yes.”

“I asked if you have any idea why these threats are happening now. Since you say the events in question took place sixteen years ago.”

In the first few minutes of their conversation Tanya Evans’s vocal inflection had told Vince many things. She sounded intelligent, compassionate, fearful. And she sounded like someone carrying around a lot of guilt. The woman had told him details about Carla Radling’s past that he never would have guessed. That Carla had clerked for Bryson Hanley (a man Vince had hoped to vote into the presidency) when she was
sixteen. That Hanley had seduced her — probably as one of his numerous conquests, although Carla might be the only minor. That she had gotten pregnant. And now Hanley’s campaign manager, a focused, power-hungry individual who would stop at nothing to get his man in the White House, had appeared uninvited in Tanya Evans’s home last night, threatening her life if she told what she knew.

Now she feared Paul Jilke had sent someone to kill Carla.

It took a moment for Vince to absorb all the information. When the shock settled, he understood one thing — there was a lot more to the story than Ms. Evans was telling.

“Things . . . got stirred up recently,” she said. “Someone came to me asking questions, someone who’d uncovered information that didn’t look right. And, of course, this is during the last year of campaigning for the presidency — a position Hanley has sought all his life. His people aren’t about to let that slip through their fingers. At least Jilke won’t.”

“Who came to you, and with what information?”

“I can’t tell you that yet.” Her voice pinched. “I owe it to Carla to speak to her first.”

Vince hoped with all his might she would get the chance. Already with what little he knew, his heart was sinking. Men seeking power made for powerful foes.

He could wear down Tanya Evans until she told him everything. Years of questioning suspects and reticent witnesses had taught Vince the tricks of the trade. But they weren’t face-to-face. He couldn’t study her body language, employ subtle “power” movements of his own. Nothing but a phone line connected them, a line that could be cut by one flick of her finger. He
would
get all the information in time, but for now he shouldn’t push her.

“How does Jilke know this person came to you?”

“I told him.” Ms. Evans’s tone flattened, as if she couldn’t believe her own stupidity. “I was trying to get to Senator H
anley himself, but he was out of town. Jilke pulled the information from me. Believe me, he knows how to do that. I had no idea that I was talking about something he didn’t know. That is, he knew some of it — enough to convince me he knew it all. He knew about Han-ley’s affair with Carla and that she had become pregnant. But he didn’t know the end of the story. If he had, he may have tried to kill Carla and me long ago. But hearing it
now
— when Hanley’s on a rocket launch to the White House — Jilke obviously decided he couldn’t let it sit. We’re a time tomb, Carla and I. We’re his worst nightmare.”

Vince asked a few additional questions, but Ms. Evans would say no more. That would have to do for now. She was on her way to Kanner Lake. His immediate task was to get her there in one piece.

“Ms. Evans, I want to send a state trooper out for you. He’ll make sure your car is left in a safe place — and more important, he’ll make sure you arrive here safely. Okay?”

“No.
Don’t
.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know if I can trust a Washington trooper. This is Bryson Hanley’s state. How do I know who might be working for him?”

Vince’s gut churned. It was one thing to consider dirty politics, but a dirty cop was something else. After all the years he’d given to his career, he couldn’t tolerate the thought.

He tapped his pen against the desk. “At least tell me what kind of vehicle you’re driving.”

She hesitated. “A black Ford pickup truck. I don’t know the model.”

Vince made a note. “Happen to know the license plate?”

“No.”

“Okay. And your approximate location?”

“You’re not going to send someone out for me, are you?” Fear hitched Tanya’s voice.

“Not if you don’t want me to. I can’t make you get into a trooper’s car against your will. But under the circumstances, I’d sure feel better at least knowing how far away you are.”

“Okay.” She paused a minute, then read him the name and number of the nearest exit.

Vince wrote it down. “Thanks. I’m going to call about every half hour to check on you. And please don’t hesitate to call me anytime. If you change your mind, I’ll send someone out for you right away.”

“I won’t . . . I
can’t
change my mind.”

When they ended the call, Vince lowered his forehead into both hands.
Bryson Hanley — and Carla?
The thought of a young, impressionable girl seduced by a powerful man made him sick. He couldn’t imagine such a thing happening to his own daughter at that age. And a
pregnancy
? What happened to the baby? How had Carla lived with such terrible secrets as she’d watched this man rise to fame?

Vince’s head swirled with questions and doubts. Part of him couldn’t believe Ms. Evans’s story, even though she sounded so believable. If it hadn’t coincided with Carla’s disappearance and the bugging of Java Joint’s phone, he might think she was a crackpot. Of all politicians, Bryson Hanley was
known
for his protection of families and children. For supporting education and the underprivileged. The man was constantly photographed with his wife and children. The quintessential husband and father — everything the country wanted in a man who would be president.