No Show (33 page)

Terry went into Sarah’s home office. He felt bad for not telling Holman and Deputy Pittman what Sarah had said before she’d run off, but he still wasn’t sure whether he could trust them.

He studied the room. The closet was stacked with papers and the computer was packed with articles and stories. The bookshelves bulged with past work. The answer was hidden somewhere within the room. Sarah had said as much. He’d missed it before. He would find it this time.

He flicked on the PC and immediately shunned it for the closet. Retracing old ground, he pulled out files of notes and old news copy and examined them. He searched for stories related to the five women on Sarah’s list, hoping to find a reference showing that Sarah had foreknowledge of their actions. If he came across a name of a contact that occurred in more than one piece he kept it to one side, making a pile. He topped the piles with hastily scribbled notes explaining the connection. Anything that seemed to have no bearing on the situation he tossed out of the room and into the hallway to reduce the confusion. The hours passed, and the evening gave way to the night with the closet yielding little that made much sense.

He turned his attention to the bookshelves. He sifted through their apparently unconnected facts applying the same meticulous attention he’d paid to the data in the closet. His reward was frustration. He found even less of value than he had in the closet.

He went to the computer and scanned directories filled with story drafts and rewrites. He printed anything that reminded him of any of Sarah’s whistle-blower cases. When he was finished, he was left with two small and untidy stacks of paper, sore eyes, and a raging headache. He pushed his seat back from the PC and rubbed his eyes with his palms.

Terry stood and backed away from the computer until he was leaning against the wall. He fixated on the piles of papers he’d extracted. It was pitiful compared to the amount of work Sarah had amassed over the last decade, and he still had nothing to show for it. He didn’t have to examine what he’d collected to know that. All he’d unearthed was a couple of stories that had taken place in Sacramento and Anaheim, where Alicia Hyams and Christy Richmond were from, and the Oakland port authority story Sarah and Tom Degrasse had worked on. Other than that, there was nothing. He kicked the files across the floor.

Sarah had said the answer was in her office, and Terry didn’t have a reason to doubt her, but he just wasn’t seeing it. Frustrated, he banged his head against the wall.

He nudged a framed picture hanging on the wall, and it fell. He stopped it from hitting the ground by trapping it between the wall and his back. He grabbed the picture frame from behind him and examined it. The picture, like many in the room, was a framed newspaper story Sarah had written. The one he held was a fly-on-the-wall piece about death-row prisoners. He stared at the other framed stories when a realization struck him: What if he’d been staring at the answer all along?

Dropping the framed death-row piece, he went from picture frame to picture frame, scanning the stories. A chill washed over him as he stopped in front of the Oakland port authority exposé.
The
Examiner
led with a banner headline and Sarah’s byline. Below was a picture of the police bust as it was happening. Port authority workers were being led away to unseen police vehicles. Some held up hands to hide their faces from the photographer’s aim. One man closest to the camera, held a hand out to block the camera lens, but the photographer was just out of reach. In the corner of the photo, small but visible, was Tom Degrasse with his hands in his pockets and looking distinctly pissed off.

“You son of a bitch,” Terry said to Degrasse’s captured image.

Degrasse fit the bill perfectly. He’d lost Sarah and he couldn’t let it go. His delusion had pushed him to murder. He’d started a killing spree, murdering women who’d wronged others, and then he’d sent Sarah the clues. The thread that ran through all the murders was whistle-blowing, Sarah’s career trademark. Something shifted inside the frame.

Terry didn’t have to be told; he knew the answer to Tom Degrasse’s guilt was sandwiched inside the picture frame. He flipped the frame over. Screws and clips kept the cardboard back in place.

He didn’t have the patience to disassemble the frame—he swung it against the corner of Sarah’s computer desk. The glass in the frame exploded, spraying shards over the desk and carpet. Knocking the remaining glass free, he ripped the cardboard border off and the Oakland port authority story tumbled out, along with another newspaper clipping.

Shaking off the glass fragments, Terry picked up the hidden clip. It was an old edition of the
Santa Rita County Courier
, dating back to the late nineties. The front page explained everything. He didn’t have to turn a page for confirmation. But it wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Tom Degrasse wasn’t the feature story. Sheriff Ray Holman and his son Jake were.

“Oh, God,” he muttered.

Filling the front page was a picture. Holman looked distraught in the face of duty as he led his handcuffed son to a
waiting squad car. The banner headline read “Sheriff Arrests Son.” This was what she wanted him to find. He went to read the story, but the ringing phone interrupted him. He answered it.

“Terry,” Sarah said.

“Sarah, thank God. I found it. I found the newspaper.”

“Terry, listen.”

“I found it, but I don’t know what I’ve found. What are you saying?”

“Terry, please listen.”

Her voice was on the verge of breaking. She was close to tears. He hadn’t noticed at first. He’d been too pumped up from finding the newspaper.

“What is it?” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

She broke. The sound of her crying poured down the phone line. She tried to speak, but couldn’t stop sobbing. She gulped in uneven breaths, which rushed out just as untidily. It was impossible to understand what she was saying. She blurted out multiple words as one and chopped others in half.

“Sarah, hush now.” He tried to sound soothing—given the chance to be the good husband at last. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, tell me, and we’ll sort it out.”

“Terry,” she managed to say through the tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

“I do. Oh, God, I do. It’s all my fault. We…should…have never…gotten…ma…ma…married.” She broke down again and her words dissolved into an incomprehensible babble.

“Sarah, what are you talking about? You’re not to blame for anything. Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.

“She’s with me,” a male voice answered.

Terry turned to stone. He choked on his next breath. The newspaper slipped from his feeble grip. The pages caught on a draft from the air conditioner and separated as they tumbled to the ground.

“Jake,” Terry said slowly.

“T
erry,” Jake said, mocking him. “You’re finally taking my calls.”

It sounded like Jake Holman and it didn’t. He’d dropped his downtrodden persona and revealed his true self.

“What’s going on, Jake?”

He inhaled. “Let me see…payback, revenge, murder.”

“Please don’t hurt her.”

“Don’t hurt her?” Jake snapped.

His rage turned Terry’s stomach to slush.

“Why the hell not? Huh? She deserves it. She deserves a few hours of misery before she dies to make up for all the years of misery she’s given me.”

“I don’t know what this is all about.”

“Terry, Terry, Terry. Still in the dark after all this time,” Jake said, calm again. He sighed. “I thought you were on to me a few times, but I can see I was wrong. Even with the evidence before you, you still don’t get it.”

“Just tell me, Jake.”

“Maybe you should come join us and we can have big long chin-wag. That’s an English word isn’t it?
Chin-wag
.”

Terry was silent.

“Terry, I’m talking to you.”

“Sorry. Yes,
chin-wag
is an English word.”

“That’s better. Yes, I think we should have a chin-wag.”

“I would like that.” Terry’s throat was dry and his voice cracked, the words snagging on his parched tongue.

“Then it’s a date. See you later.”

“Wait! Where? You haven’t said where.”

“You’re right. Silly me.” Jake took in a deep breath before proceeding. “Where would be a good place for old friends to get reacquainted? Any ideas?”

“Anywhere that’s good for you.”

“That’s the marvelous thing about you English people—you’re so accommodating. I think that’s something we Americans have lost. There are a lot of things we could learn from you people. But let’s get back to the matter at hand. Where should we meet? Hmm.” Jake drifted for a minute, humming some meaningless tune. “Where’s a good place where people can socialize, have fun, and forget all about their daily troubles?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, c’mon, Terry, you’re not even trying. Have a go.”

Terry’s brain seized up. He couldn’t think of a single place. His mind couldn’t comprehend entertainment when his wife was being held hostage.

“Jake, I really don’t know a good place.”

“Terry, do you want me to cut her throat right now? Is that what you want, huh?”

“No. No, it’s not, Jake.” Terry spoke quickly, hoping not to give Jake time to think about killing Sarah. He heard her whimper in the background. “But Jake, I’m new to town; I don’t know any good places.”

“Okay, Terry. I was forgetting myself. You’re right. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. Accept my apologies.”

“It’s okay, Jake.” Sweat trickled down Terry’s neck. “Don’t worry about it.”

“All right, then. Let’s see…where can we
amuse
ourselves?” Jake emphasized the word amuse, saying it long and slow.

Terry’s sweat turned icy cold. He had an idea about what Jake was insinuating.

“Where we can have some
fun times
? But we don’t want big fun. We want little fun or even
mini
fun. We want somewhere we can have some
gold-en
times. Any thoughts now, Terry?”

Terry’s heart raced, crashing against his rib cage. Fear seeped in as it dawned on him: he knew where they were meant to meet. The words nearly stuck in his throat as he said them.

“The Gold Rush.”

“Good idea.”

“When?” he asked, hoping to give Oscar time to get away.

“How about now? We’re here already. Aren’t we, Sarah?”

Sarah moaned somewhere not too far from the phone.

“Don’t be long. I’m not sure how long I have.” Jake paused. “Correction, I’m not sure how long Sarah has.”

“Please don’t hurt her. I beg you. Please.”

“Don’t beg.” Jake was cold and unforgiving. “It’s not becoming.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Terry?”

“Yes.”

“No cops. They’ll only screw things up, okay?”

Cops were the last thing on Terry’s mind. Jake was a hair trigger. He needed only the slimmest of reasons to kill Sarah. Terry was not about to take any chances.

“And one last thing: bring all the evidence your bitch wife compiled on me.”

Terry made it to the Gold Rush in ten minutes, but the journey seemed to have taken a lifetime. He skidded into a parking stall
and the Monte slammed into the curb. When he switched off the engine, he noticed his hands were shaking. He got out, leaving the keys in the ignition.

He hadn’t bothered bringing a weapon to defend himself. He’d gone as far as grabbing a butcher knife, but there’d be no point in bringing it. Terry possessed no fighting skills with a knife or anything else, and Jake had proved he could kill a person quite easily. Besides, Jake had Sarah, and Terry couldn’t take any chances with her life by doing anything stupid. All he could hope for was that if he went in unarmed, he could prevent the situation from escalating.

Terry limped over to the Gold Rush’s main doors, which had been kicked in. He slipped between the drunken-looking doors, his feet crunching on broken glass. Inside, the lights were off but the arcade machines were on. They ran through their demo programs, casting flickery shadows. Mechanical voices enticed players who weren’t there. Revving engines, explosions, and snapping bones simulated the end of the world. Terry had no stomach for simulations. He’d seen too much of the real thing lately. The minigolf course’s floodlights glared, pushing back the dark on the far side of the arcade. He guessed Jake’s party was out there.

Terry crossed the arcade to the golf course entrance and kicked something on the ground. Before he looked he knew he’d found Oscar. His friend was an untidy heap of clothes and flesh. He was unconscious and cuffed to a steel column. Terry knelt by Oscar’s side and felt for a pulse. In his fear, he couldn’t find it, but he heard shallow breathing. In the gloom, Terry made out Oscar’s face. He’d been beaten, and his face was blood-streaked from a head wound above his hairline. Strange markings blighted his face. It took a moment for Terry to realize they were shoeprints. Terry didn’t have the words. His overloaded emotions had shut down. He left his friend where he lay.

Terry pushed open the doors to the golf course and walked into the blinding brightness cast by the floodlights. The minigolf
course’s sound effects played. All the course’s feature holes were operating. Their electric motors whined eerily loud without any players having fun to mask the sound. On the other side of the course, Sarah sat slumped on a chair in front of the windmill hole. The scene had been set, but one thing was missing—Jake.