Sizzle (19 page)

On what? she wanted to ask. Did they have any leads at all? Or were they just humoring her until the culprits gave themselves up?

“I’d like to leave, Sam,” she said wearily after an hour’s interrogation.

O’Malley stood. “We’ll get in touch with you soon. Hopefully with some good information.”

Sam waited until they had left and then said, “I know how frustrating this is for you.”

“When can we get out of here?”

“The new car will be here in a minute.”

“What’s wrong with the car you’re driving? They took the bomb away.”

“That car is a crime scene now.”

“Of course,” she said, feeling foolish. She had watched enough crime shows to know that. Maybe she wasn’t as in control as she thought.

Sam’s cell phone rang a minute later.

“Car’s here,” he told her.

“We have to get our boots out of the trunk before we leave.”

“Sorry, can’t,” he said. “They’re part of—”

“The crime scene,” she recited.

“Right.”

As she stood to leave, she put her hand on Sam’s arm. “I’m so glad you didn’t get hurt.” Sam couldn’t believe what he did next. He bent down and kissed her. It was quick and over before she could react, but the warmth and softness of her lips made him want more.

What was he doing?

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly. “Do you still want to drive to that park?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “We’ll go, but only after I make certain we aren’t being followed.

That could take awhile.”

“Fine with me,” she said. “But we also have to go back to the sporting goods store to get another pair of boots.”

“No, that isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, we’re going,” she snapped. “I’m not walking up that hill without boots, and neither are you unless you want hepatitis, encephalitis, dumbitis …” His smile stopped her rant. That adorable smile could melt hearts—and probably did, she thought.

The car was black, shiny, and what the FBI driver called a dream.

“Let me run it down for you,” the eager young man said. “It’s got bulletproof glass and armor in the doors. The hood and trunk lids are reinforced, and the wings over the tires make it tough to shoot out one of them. Shooter would have to come at them from below, which is impossible … unless you drive over him, I guess.

“It’s built like a tank, but don’t worry, with an 850 engine it’s got more power than a race car. I don’t think a bomb could take this baby apart,” he exaggerated.

He opened the passenger door for Lyra and winked at her when she thanked him.

“You’re gonna be real safe inside this ride, Miss,” he drawled as he draped himself over the door.

Sam walked around to the driver’s side and was about to get in when he heard Lyra ask,

“Is there a gun in the glove compartment that I could borrow?”

“I don’t think so, but here’s my card. My name’s Ed. If you need anything …” He shut the door before she could say, “I need a gun.”

Sam opened the glove compartment to make sure there wasn’t a weapon.

“I want a gun,” she insisted. “Any kind will do.”

“No.”

“All right. I’ll get my own.”

His jaw was clenched. “No, you won’t.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

He didn’t like her smile one little bit. “You’re not getting a damn gun. You’d kill yourself.”

Oh, please. “Sam, you read my file—if there really is a file on me.”

“There is, and I’ve read it.”

“Then you know that I was born and raised on a ranch in Texas.” In other words, there wasn’t a gun she couldn’t take apart, clean, put back together, and shoot with impressive accuracy. Her brothers had taught her how to shoot, and whenever she returned to the ranch, she practiced.

“You never know when a gun might come in handy. That’s what my brothers would tell me,” she explained. “To kill rattlesnakes, of course.”

“There aren’t any snakes here.”

“Oh, yes, there are. The men who planted that explosive are definitely snakes.” He couldn’t argue with her there.

“Buckle up, Lyra,” Sam said as he turned the key in the ignition.

The car was a gem to drive. The engine purred, and barely touching the gas pedal sent them flying. Sam took them on five different highways, a dozen overpasses, and a maze of side streets, and when he was convinced no one was tailing them, he found another sporting goods store and pulled in.

Fortunately, the store carried the same brand of boots and had their sizes as well. Lyra picked out socks for both of them and put them on the counter. Ignoring her protest, Sam paid the bill, and they walked out wearing their new boots. Lyra knew she looked ridiculous wearing a skirt with hiking boots, but they were necessary attire for where they were going.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, once he had pulled onto the street. “While you were changing shoes, the clerk told me about a good sandwich place just down the street.”

“Oh, no, we can’t eat before we climb the hill. We should stop and get some bottled water for after, but no food. You wouldn’t be able to keep it down.”

“Sure I would.”

Forty-five minutes later, he was gagging like a man who had mixed his beer with whiskey and wine. The stench made his eyes water, and he kept muttering what Lyra assumed were curses in a different language. Every once in awhile, she’d hear “Ah, man …

brutal …”

Lyra was embarrassed to admit she was getting used to the toxic odor of all the illegally dumped garbage. When they reached the top of the hill and looked on the other side, she pointed to the garden below. “Isn’t it fascinating?”

Sam didn’t want to stand around discussing it. “Hurry up,” he said, “so we can get out of here.”

Then he gagged again, and she laughed. “Still hungry?”

“Lyra, get it done.”

He was turning green. “All right.”

The camera was right where she had placed it, and it took only a minute to switch out the memory card.

There weren’t any mishaps getting back down the hill.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Sam said.

He dug the keys out of his pocket, popped the trunk, and both of them leaned against the car to change their shoes. Lyra opened her backpack and took out a small metal file box, carefully slipped the newest memory card in its folder, and placed it in front of all the others.

She was zipping the backpack shut when Sam drew her attention. Staring intently at the one road that led in and out of the park, he tilted his head, listening. Suddenly he said.

“Lyra, get in the car. Someone’s coming.”

Though she didn’t hear anything, she didn’t question him. She slammed the trunk shut and ran to get in the car. She had barely snapped her seat belt in place when Sam backed their car out.

A dark gray car coming into the park careened around the corner, picked up speed on the straight road, and headed directly at them.

“Hold tight,” Sam ordered.

“Maybe they’re here to …” she began, thinking they might have trash in their trunk to throw away.

A shot rang out from the passenger’s side of the gray car.

“… shoot us,” she finished.

The car nearly sideswiped theirs as it sped past in the opposite direction.

Sam was already on the phone to the FBI telling the location of the park and giving a description of the car shooting at them.

Lyra twisted in her seat to look out the back window. She knew there were at least two men in the car, the driver and the passenger who shot at them, but were there more? Tinted windows prevented her from seeing.

She waited for Sam to finish talking to the agent and said, “Sam, swing around so I can get the license plate number.”

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“You can’t pass up this opportunity. There’s only one way in and out, and if you could trap them …”

“No. I’m not risking your life.”

“At the very least, shoot their tires out. Or let me.”

“Are you out of your frickin’ mind?”

“Here they come.”

Almost out of sight as it reached the curve in the road, the gray car suddenly spun around, fishtailing as it sped toward them.

“You do remember you’re driving a tank,” Lyra said.

Sam tossed her the phone. “Okay. One pass, but that’s all. I’ll try to keep them in the park as long as possible.”

The men in the gray car fired repeatedly, but the bullets missed their target.

In another life, Sam could have been a race car driver. One second they were racing into the wind, and the next they were spinning to get behind the gray car. Lyra was ready with her cell phone and snapped a picture of the plate.

At the sound of sirens, the attackers slammed their car into reverse, all but stripping the gears as they lurched around Sam, disappearing up the hill.

He didn’t follow. He could see lights flashing on two cars coming into the park. Pulling over, he waited for the squad cars to pass, then drove toward the entrance.

“Don’t you want to wait and see—” Lyra began.

Sam didn’t let her finish. “I’m getting you out of here, and that, sweetheart, is the last time I’m going to tell you.”

TWENTY-TWO

MILO WAS HAVING YET ANOTHER WORST DAY OF HIS LIFE.

His problems started in the morning when he decided to go to the university and prowl around. He hadn’t seen Lyra in a couple of days, and he thought he might spot her on campus. In order to blend in and not draw attention to himself, he trimmed the bangs on his pageboy wig and slathered half a tube of tanning lotion on his face and arms to even out his skin tone. The color was a nice bronze. He thought it looked pretty good on his face, and it didn’t sting his raw skin much at all. He probably did go a little overboard whitening his teeth. Nevertheless, he gave it a try because he reasoned that the college students, being young, would have white teeth … and he wanted to blend in.

When he left his house, he was convinced he looked ten years younger.

Later he realized he should have read the instructions on the tanning bottle because his face and arms were getting darker, and the orange tinge was getting more noticeable.

Within an hour, he had turned from a cool bronze to a freakish tangerine.

Milo wandered around campus oblivious to the stares he was getting. He went inside one building and saw students filing into an auditorium but didn’t go inside for fear someone would ask him what he was doing there. He didn’t have any identification, but if anyone asked, he was prepared with a good lie, that he was looking for his cousin.

Once outside again, he found a bench and waited, hoping Lyra would walk by. Hundreds of coeds passed in front of him, but no Lyra. The bench was uncomfortable, so he decided to try more of the buildings. He meandered up and down hallways, peeking in open doors, but still no sign of her. He was getting bored and had decided it was time to give up for the day when his attention was caught by a bulletin board outside one of the classrooms. His heart leapt when he saw her name. It said “Lyra Prescott, Parks.” And next to that, in parentheses, it said “Paraiso Park.” What did that mean?

A weird-looking student with thick glasses walked up to the board. He didn’t even glance in Milo’s direction as he studied another notice.

Milo tapped the board and asked, “What’s this list for?”

The student’s eyes widened when he turned his head toward Milo. “What?”

“What’s this list for?”

It took the student a while to peel his eyes away from Milo’s face. “Those are projects.

That one,” he said, pointing to a name, “is writing about malls. The script—” He turned, but no one was there.

Milo was hurrying down the hallway. Paraiso Park. That’s where Lyra would be. She was probably walking around the park and writing down her thoughts for her school paper.

Bet she goes there often, he thought.

He wondered what kind of paper she was writing. The project sounded boring. What could anyone write about a park? Now, a mall, that would be easy. She could write about all the shops and the food court. Just listing all the different kinds of food could take up two full pages. But what could be interesting about a park?

Hold on. Maybe it was the kind of park with Ferris wheels, and a merry-go-round, and a train. That’d be okay. Milo liked trains. If that’s where she was spending her time, then things were looking up.

He needed another rental car. He didn’t go to any of the major companies, but instead chose a fly-by-night outfit. He used a different fake ID and credit card but thought maybe the clerk suspected something because of the way he kept staring at him.

“I’m over twenty-five,” Milo said, knowing that most car rentals had a minimum age requirement. Maybe the man was hesitant to assist him because he looked so much younger.

The clerk nodded and finally started typing on his computer. “We’ve only got a couple of cars left, and they’re older models,” he said. “There’s a convention in town.” MILO DROVE OUT OF the lot in a scratched-up, faded, blue piece of junk. The engine sputtered when he first started it, but then it warmed up and chugged along. Since it didn’t have a GPS, he stopped at a gas station for a city map. He finally located the obscure park and asked a couple of people at the station for directions.

Milo was shocked as he neared his destination. The park was in a bad part of town. Real estate agents might lure their clients to this neighborhood with the pitch that it was more of a transitional area, but they wouldn’t mention it was transitioning into a ghetto. Every corner had a deserted building with gang signs painted on the walls, and the few stores that were still in business had bars on their doors and windows. Milo was glad he hadn’t gotten a better rental car because it would probably be stripped while he was inside the park, and then how would he get home? Fortunately, no one would want to take anything from the beat-up jalopy he was driving.