Split Second (30 page)

CHAPTER 70

Sherlock saw them merging into traffic ahead of them. “That’s Coop. In the Dodge!”

Savich quickly eased the Porsche behind a big SUV. “I see them. We’ll hang back, wait for Coop to stop again.”

Suddenly a silver North Carolina Highway Patrol cruiser, with its distinctive wide black stripe and State Trooper logo, pulled out around them and sped forward.

“Not good, Dillon. I’ll bet they’ve spotted Kirsten.”

The cruiser was a missile headed right for the Dodge. They saw the officer holding his radio in his hand, speaking into it, his partner, his head out the window, probably shouting back that the license plate was too dirty to read.

Savich accelerated. Drivers all around them were staring now, rubbernecking, and traffic was slowing down.

The cruiser’s siren came on.

Sherlock got on her cell to the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

They watched, helpless, as the Dodge sped up, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to lose the highway patrol.
Good luck with that.
They could see Coop clearly now, and Kirsten, looking back at the cruiser, then at Coop. They saw her waving a gun, pointing it back toward them. Then, suddenly, the highway patrolman in the passenger seat began shooting.

CHAPTER 71

Kirsten slid down in the seat and shoved her gun hard into his ribs again. “Those idiot cops are shooting at us! How did they know about this car? You get us out of here, now! Move!”

Coop pressed his foot on the gas pedal. He saw Savich coming up behind the highway patrol cruiser, both of them closing on the Dodge, and all the while Kirsten screamed curses. Suddenly, a bullet struck the back window, shattered the glass. Another bullet, then another, striking the rearview mirror on the passenger side. They were aiming at Kirsten, not at him. He prayed they were good shots.

Coop saw her twist around, get her window down, and then she was leaning out, firing back at them.

He’d never have a better chance.

Coop jerked the car hard right, skidded across the shoulder gravel, and rocketed through a fence into a tobacco field, plowing through the harvested stalks. The impact sent Kirsten flying backward, striking the back of her head against the dash. It didn’t knock her out, but she was dead silent for a moment, her face a white mask, her eyes glazed, and then she was up and firing, not at him but out the window again at the highway patrol car that had followed them into the field. She grabbed the chicken stick as they bumped and tore through the wide rows. She realized he kept mowing through the stalks on purpose to slow them, not letting the car pass between the rows, and she turned toward him, his SIG leading. Where was her gun? He shot out his fist and struck her jaw with all the strength he had.

She lurched away, hit her head against the glove compartment, and was thrown back again, her head bouncing off the seat. Then she slumped over, unconscious.

Coop brought the car to a sliding stop in the middle of the field. He saw his SIG on the floor where Kirsten had dropped it. He was looking for her gun when he heard the highway patrol cruiser pull to a stop right behind him, heard the cops shouting at him.

He had to respond or they’d probably shoot him. The pain in his side ripped through him, but he ignored it and shoved his door open, one eye on Kirsten. He raised his hands.

“You the FBI agent?”

“Yes. Cooper McKnight. I hit her; Kirsten Bolger’s in the car, unconscious.”

Coop was never so happy in his life to see Savich and Sherlock cruising toward them, Savich careful to keep the Porsche between the mown rows of tobacco stalks, so as not to scratch up that perfect paint job.

“Don’t shoot at the Porsche. They’re FBI!”

Coop waved, then turned to watch one of the cops answer his cell, nod, then say, “You sure she’s out of it, Agent? Hey, what’s wrong? Geez, you’re shot!”

Coop waved a hand and looked back into the car. He couldn’t believe it, but Kirsten was gone. He ran around the front of the car and saw her crawling through the rows of tobacco stalks several dozen feet from him. “She’s headed toward that house! Kirsten, stop, or I’ll shoot!”

Kirsten looked back at him over her shoulder, lurched to her feet, and started running toward the house in the distance.

Coop took off after her, his side forgotten, two highway patrolmen behind him, both firing toward her. He heard Savich shout, “Coop, we’ll try to cut her off before she gets to that house! Don’t hesitate—bring her down if you can.”

Yeah,
Coop thought, breathing hard, feeling his blood slick on his skin.
It was enough, it was more than enough.
He paused, aimed his SIG, and fired.

CHAPTER 72

Allenby Motel

Lucy and Miranda stared at the smashed electric clock on the ancient rag rug that lay next to the small nightstand.

“You didn’t break it twice, did you?” Lucy asked, though she almost yelled out with relief.

Miranda was shaking her head back and forth. “I don’t understand. Nothing happened. Aunt Helen swore to me it would happen for me. I’m her direct relation, just as you are. She’s my father’s sister; it has to work, it should!”

Miranda grabbed a pillow off the bed and hurled it against the door. She yelled, “SEFYLL!”

Please don’t let it work, please don’t let it.

Both women stared at the pillow, still on the floor against the motel room’s door.

Lucy nearly wept with relief, though like Miranda, she didn’t understand why nothing had happened.
Thank you, Sweet Lord, she didn’t shoot me.

The ring is cold for Miranda.

Miranda was moaning deep in her throat, pacing, cursing, shaking the ring, saying “SEFYLL” over and over.

Lucy had the rope loose enough now to slip her hand out of it. Miranda still held the gun in one hand, the ring in the other. But she wasn’t paying attention. Lucy knew she had to act, with the ring or without it, or Miranda would likely kill her out of jealousy and despair.

She whirled to face Lucy. “It has to work for me, Aunt Helen promised me, so that means I’m not doing something right. Tell me, Lucy. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

Lucy stared at her. “Miranda, when I hold the ring, when it lies against my throat, it feels warm. Very warm. I don’t do anything different than you did.”

Miranda said slowly, “You said it was cold for you, very cold.”

“It seems I’m not such a crappy liar after all.”

Miranda howled. She flung her tote against the far wall, screamed, “SEFYLL!” Miranda’s tote remained on the floor.

Lucy said slowly, “I can think of only one reason the ring doesn’t work for you, Miranda. It’s not meant to.”

Miranda stared at her. She began shaking her head back and forth. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible. I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!” Miranda ran toward her, waving the ring, beyond herself, beyond reason. “I am Alan Silverman’s daughter!”

When Miranda was close enough, Lucy jerked her right hand free, roared up out of the chair, and smashed Miranda in the face.

She fell hard, and Lucy turned to frantically work the rope loose. She heard Miranda stir just as she pulled her wrist free. She didn’t see her SIG, didn’t see Miranda’s Kel Tec, either, but she saw the ring. She grabbed the ring off the floor and ran out of the motel room.

She heard Miranda screaming after her, ordering her to stop or she’d shoot her.

Lucy ran. She was surprised by the crystal-clear sunlight that nearly blinded her as she ran.

Down the motel steps. She shot one look at Coop’s Corvette, but she didn’t have her purse. A bullet tore through her arm. She whirled around, yelled, “SEFYLL!”

Time stopped, and then she was closer to the motel again, Miranda screaming after her, and she ran again. This time she veered left, behind a steel trash container, and she heard more gunshots, but none were near. She didn’t have her cell phone, but she had her legs, and she had the ring. She remembered Ann Marie running as fast as she could from Kirsten, and she did the same, the air crisp and sharp in her lungs as she ran, keeping her turns random past warehouses and across parking lots. She ran until she reached a rundown shopping district and came across a policeman in his cruiser pulled into a strip mall.

Twenty minutes later, Ruth Warnecki-Noble pulled up at the precinct house in her Silverado. She looked Lucy up and down. “I don’t see any bullet holes, thank the Lord.” Then sheer relief made Ruth hug her. “Sherlock called.”

Lucy pulled away, grabbed her arms. “Have you heard yet, Ruth? Did Dillon and Sherlock catch up to them? Did they bring Kirsten down? Is Coop all right?”

Ruth saw a horrible shot of fear glass Lucy’s eyes, imagined Dix, her husband, being driven around by a madwoman, and said without pause, “Yes, he’s fine.” Truth was, she didn’t know that for sure, but Lucy didn’t need to deal with that uncertainty right now. “Sherlock will call again with all the details. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Ruth, dear God, we’ve got to get to the Silvermans’ house right now!”

CHAPTER 73

There wasn’t much cover, but Kirsten kept running, her eyes on the small white house no more than thirty feet away. Coop saw a bullet hit one of the mown stalks ahead of her, close to her head. He knew she was heading to that house. There’d be people there, people she’d kill without thought if they didn’t do exactly what she told them to.

Bring her down, bring her down.
Coop raised his SIG and fired again. She jerked a bit and grabbed her left arm but didn’t slow down. He fired a third time as he ran, his side pulsing with pain with each stride, and he missed yet again. He was sweating. He didn’t think, merely shrugged off his shearling coat. He could hear the highway patrolmen pounding behind him. They’d stopped firing, concentrating on getting close enough to her before she got into that house.

Coop’s heart seized when he saw a small boy and girl running through the rows, right toward Kirsten. He whirled around toward the cops. “Don’t shoot. You see the kids?”

The kids were running right at her, shouting something to her.
What?
His heart sank when he realized the kids were seeing a poor bleeding woman being chased by three men with guns, and they were trying to help her.

He yelled, “Get away from her! Go back to the house!”

But the little girl didn’t slow; she was running full-tilt at Kirsten, the little boy trying hard to keep up.

One of the patrolmen shouted, “We’re police officers, get back!”

The little girl skidded to a halt, stared toward them, but it didn’t matter now; Kirsten had her arm tight around her neck, and she was dragging her in front of her. The little boy was panting hard, shoving at her, kicking at her legs, but he was too small to do much damage, and Kirsten didn’t slow.

Even from thirty feet away, they all saw the gun in Kirsten’s hand.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson,” Coop said. “She’ll use it, no hesitation at all.” Had it been in the waistband of her pants? Didn’t matter, it was his fault. He should have stripped her if necessary to find that gun as soon as he was sure the cops wouldn’t shoot him.

The three men watched Kirsten swing the pistol’s butt against the boy’s head, saw him go down. One of the patrolmen was on his cell, calling dispatch for an ambulance, and more backup, and cursing.

She had the little girl, and she was dragging her, keeping her tight against her, and they were nearly to the house, only another twenty yards. Coop saw what Kirsten was focused on, an old white pickup parked in the driveway.

No,
Coop thought. No, he couldn’t let this happen, he couldn’t let her get away, not with this little girl as her hostage this time. Coop took off running, firing over Kirsten’s head. Kirsten turned, and he saw the little girl’s face was turning blue, Kirsten’s arm was that tight around her neck. Kirsten fired, then turned, dragging the little girl toward the pickup.

It was then he saw a flash of bright red hair. Sherlock’s hair. She was bent low, moving toward Kirsten.

He heard a door slam, heard a woman’s high, frantic voice. “Amanda! What’s going on here? Who are you? Oh, no, you’ve got a gun! You’re hurting my daughter!”

Kirsten fired toward the woman and missed, but the woman fell to her knees and scrabbled behind a bush.

But she was up in the next instant. “You let go of my daughter!”

Kirsten took dead aim, but Amanda was jerking at her arm, twisting wildly, screaming, “Don’t you shoot my mama! Don’t!”

CHAPTER 74

Ruth gunned the Silverado through the Sunday traffic toward Chevy Chase. She eyed the ring clutched in Lucy’s hand. “Listen, Lucy, I don’t understand what it is about this ring that makes it so valuable, but don’t you think it’s time to tell me? Your cousin Miranda tried to kill you for it. Why?”

“Miranda wanted the ring badly, Ruth—she believed what my grandfather wrote, that it held some kind of power that belonged to her, and she could bring that power to life, but it didn’t work out that way. I know in my gut she’s going to confront her mother about it, and she’s enraged. I don’t know what she’s going to do, Ruth.”

Ruth tossed Lucy her clutch piece. Then she grabbed her cell and speed-dialed Ollie.

“No, Ruth, please don’t call for backup, not yet.”

She got a raised eyebrow from Ruth. “I know these people are your family, Lucy, but I’m getting the cold, hard feeling these people are nuts. We’re going to follow standard procedure, both of us.” She called Ollie.

They were pulling into the Silvermans’ driveway when they heard a gunshot.

Lucy was out of the Silverado in a second, Ruth shouting after her, “Don’t you go in there alone, Lucy, you hear me? Stop or I’ll hurt you!”

But Lucy couldn’t stop. She shoved the front door open and ran through the elegant entrance hall to the living room. She flung the heavy wooden door open and skidded to a stop. Uncle Alan, Aunt Jennifer, and Court stood huddled together beside Uncle Alan’s favorite burgundy leather sofa. They were frozen in place, Miranda standing in front of them.

Uncle Alan stepped in front of his wife. “No, Miranda, don’t shoot that gun again, do you hear me? She’s your mother, for God’s sake, your mother!”

Miranda raised the heavy Kel Tec, aimed it directly at her father. “Dad, why would you protect her? She betrayed you. She got pregnant by another man. She cheated me out of what was mine. Don’t you understand, she stole everything from me!”

Lucy said, “Miranda, stop now! You can’t hurt your mother!”

Miranda whirled around. “Lucy, go away, I don’t want you here. What? Are you going to shoot me, Lucy? And her? Will she shoot me, too?”

Lucy said very calmly, “No, I’m not going to shoot you, Miranda, and neither is Ruth. I want all of this to stop. Drop the gun, Miranda, and all of this can be over.”

“No, it’s not over. She destroyed everything that should have been mine; she made me into nothing, do you hear me, Lucy? I’m nothing!”

“You’re much more than nothing, Miranda; we all are. Listen, it’s only a ring, a stupid ring that shouldn’t even exist. You lived without the ring a very long time. You did fine. You don’t need it. Drop the gun and we’ll talk about this as much as you want.”

Miranda said in a dead voice, “Alan Silverman is not my father. I asked mother, and she told me the truth. She slept with some kind of artist she met in a coffeehouse—can you believe that? She said she was lonely then because my father—Alan—was working so much she hardly ever saw him. She said she wanted to protect me from knowing that, but she was protecting herself.

“And that’s why the ring wouldn’t work for me—I’m not a Silverman. Don’t you think it’s funny that I fell for an artist in a café myself? A real loser, like my own real father, I’ll bet. Like me. I know that now. And look at you, all grown up, an FBI agent, and you have the ring, and it works for you, doesn’t it? I would have sworn I hit you outside that motel, but then you weren’t where I thought you’d be. Not that you deserve to die; you really don’t. You’re the one who has everything now.”

She laughed. “And still you come back after me, Lucy? You think you’re going to arrest me?” She laughed again, and then she fired the pistol.