XO (27 page)

Love is fire, love is flame

It warms your heart, it lights the way.

It burns forever just like the sun.

It welds two souls and makes them one.

Love is fire, love is flame.

Kathryn Dance was en route to the luncheon too; she didn’t know the roads in the area so it would have made little sense for her to participate in the manhunt. She thought it was best simply to be the point person at the country club and to reassure Kayleigh with her presence.

But as she piloted the SUV quickly through traffic, a thought occurred.

This happened sometimes, a little tapping, a hiccup in her mind, something she just couldn’t explain. A jump from Thought A to Thought B to … Thought Z. (Michael O’Neil had recently described it as her brain doing “one of its little
dances.
”)

No, no, this isn’t right. Edwin would be aware of the logistical difficulties of targeting a victim at the luncheon. But the event
would
provide
a good distraction and draw off the police. And was Sam Gerber really a likely target? No. Edwin wouldn’t go after somebody he’d commented on in a posting. It was too obvious. Besides, why kill Gerber, one of fifty thousand harmless fans? He didn’t fit the profile of a stalker’s victim.

The crew was safe. Alicia was among people.

So who else might the target be?

Dance asked herself again the basic question: If Edwin was the stalker, what was his goal? Killing someone who threatened to keep them apart, whom Edwin was jealous of, who was perceived as Kayleigh’s enemy or whose death would bind them together forever.

Dance had recalled the gossip pages in the underground websites O’Neil had found, involving sensational stories reported by fans. A hot topic—since there weren’t many of them—was the tension between Kayleigh and her stepmother. There was even an embarrassing mobile phone video about a recent argument in Bakersfield.

This wasn’t a full-blown feud; Kayleigh seemed incapable of either the pettiness or the mean spirit that would involve. And from what Dance read, Sheri Towne seemed like a decent woman, solid, loyal to her new husband and even helpful in Kayleigh’s career. But Sheri was the most recent in a long line of stepmothers and she and Kayleigh never seemed to get along. The young woman hadn’t even invited Sheri to the luncheon she herself had helped with.

Thought Z …

Dance now called Bishop Towne and identified herself.

“Sure, Officer Dance,” the man grumbled. “What’s going on with that asshole? Heard he’s played another song.”

“Where’s your wife?”

“Gone off to that luncheon thing. Kayleigh invited her, after all.”

An alarm pinged within Dance, though she’d half expected that answer.

“When did she leave?”

“’Bout twenty minutes ago.”

“Did Kayleigh call her?”

“No, she emailed. Wanted her to bring some CDs to the lunch. Giveaways. Also said it’d be better if her sister and Mary-Gordon didn’t come ’cause that asshole Sharp.”

“So she’s alone?”

“Right.”

“Bishop, I think Sheri might be in danger. Edwin might’ve sent that email.”

“No!”

“Maybe. Which way would she go?”

“Oh, no, no …”

“Which way?”

“From the house, have to be Los Banos Road to Forty-one. You’ve got to do something! Please! Don’t let anything happen to her.”

It was unnerving to hear the gruff man sounding so desperate, so vulnerable.

“Give me her number.”

Dance memorized it. Then told him, “I’ll call you when I know something. What’s she driving?”

“I think she’s in … yeah, it’s the Mercedes. Silver.”

Dance first tried Sheri but the woman didn’t answer. She then called Kayleigh and learned, after a brief, awkward pause, that, no, Kayleigh hadn’t really wanted Sheri at the luncheon and hadn’t emailed her. Dance hit
DISCONNECT
with her thumb and the brake with her foot, skidding to a stop on the shoulder. She punched Los Banos Road into her GPS, and raced back onto the highway.

Los Banos was a narrow, winding line leading into the foothills toward Yosemite. It would be the only place where Edwin could attack Sheri. If she’d gotten to Forty-one, a wide, multilane road, then she would probably be okay.

But Dance knew Edwin wouldn’t let her get that far. He would have planned out the perfect site for the attack.

She tried Sheri’s number again. No answer.

In two minutes she was speeding through the forests on Los Banos.

It was then she saw the smoke, maybe a half mile ahead.

She gripped the phone and started to dial Madigan, jamming the accelerator down even harder as she took a curve. Nissan makes a great SUV but it doesn’t corner like a sports car and she nearly went off the shoulder and into a ravine forty feet below.

You’re a bad driver to start with, she told herself. Don’t be stupid.

She brought the skid under control and slowed a bit. She called Madigan and left a message, telling him where she was and to get cars there
immediately, fire trucks too. Soon she was speeding along a straightaway toward the smoke, which had gone from gray to black.

Burning tires? she wondered. Oil? A car wreck?

Dance skidded around this turn too and saw the horrific scene before her—the silver Mercedes had gone off the road and was in a ditch near the asphalt. The back end of the car was burning, though the front, not yet. The angle of the accident—with the car’s hood in the air—meant the gasoline from the ruptured tank was flowing backward. Still, the flames were spreading toward the passenger compartment.

There seemed to be movement from inside the car. Dance couldn’t see clearly but knew it would be Sheri, whose feet were kicking desperately against the windshield.

No, Dance thought. You’ll never break through a windshield! The side windows!

Dance brought the Pathfinder to a skidding stop on the shoulder and leapt out, opening the back door and reaching behind the seat to snag the small fire extinguisher. She pulled it out and turned toward the Merc but dropped the heavy canister. She bent to pick it up.

Which is what saved her from a bullet.

No, as it turned out, two or three of them.

“Jesus,” she gasped, dropping to the ground, earning a scraped elbow.

The bullets slammed, loud, into the sheet steel of the Pathfinder a foot or so from her head and shoulders. Where was the shooter?

She couldn’t tell. He was somewhere in the pine forest.

In shadows, of course.

Reaching for her phone, which sat on the passenger seat, to call 911, she rose. The shooter fired again and a slug snapped over her head, then another. Dance flattened herself on the ground as another bullet loudly punctured the side of the driver’s seat.

A cry echoed from the Mercedes.

Move, move, move!

Crawling fast, cradling the extinguisher, Dance made it to a fallen tree, about forty feet from the Mercedes.

She risked a look. The flames were rising faster now.

And from the gap in the dense pine forest she saw a ragged flash of gunshot. A bullet snapped over her head before she could duck.

The attacker would have gotten a look at her and if it was Edwin,
he would recognize her as a CBI agent, which meant he might assume she was armed. If it wasn’t Edwin, or if he decided she didn’t have a weapon, the assailant could casually stroll a hundred feet in her direction and shoot her.

Dance then heard another wailing scream from the Mercedes.

A flash bloomed from the woods, and six inches from her face a bullet blew a handful of dry rotting wood into the air.

“I SHOULD CHECK
in with my people,” P. K. Madigan said angrily, nodding toward his office. “We’ve got an operation going here. Possible homicide. It’s urgent.” The bewildered chief was feeling panic—which was not a sensation he was used to.

Two California Department of Justice officers stood in front of him in the lobby of the detective division, back a bit, out of deference. Maybe. One was redheaded and one had black hair. They otherwise looked similar, trim, in suits. Polite. Very polite. Madigan was so shaken he’d forgotten their names. The redhead said, “Yessir, I’m afraid calls’ll have to wait. Same procedure you have in an arrest, I’m sure.”

FMCSO sheriff Anita Gonzalez stood nearby, her face too a mask of dismay more than anger. “This is nonsense, gentlemen. Utter nonsense. I’ve got a call in to the Sacramento office.”

Which had not, Madigan noted, returned that call.

The two officers obviously didn’t consider their present assignment as nonsense, utter or otherwise.

Their two suspects didn’t either: Detectives Madigan and Miguel Lopez, who were being arrested for breaking and entering, false imprisonment, misuse of legal authority, criminal trespass.

Madigan said, “Look, this is part of a plan by a perp we’re investigating. He’s trying to get some of us out of commission.” He explained to them what Kathryn Dance had said about how stalkers target people who are protecting the object they’re obsessed with.

The state officers weren’t much interested in that either.

The reason for the arrest was, Madigan knew before they’d even mentioned the charges, his decision to keep Edwin Sharp in the interrogation room longer than he should have. And to have Miguel Lopez go to Edwin’s house and gather evidence.

The dark-haired agent was saying, “Here’s how it’ll work, Detective. We’ll take you in and I’m sure the magistrate’ll expedite arraignment. Probably recognizance. Can’t imagine he’ll go for bail. You’ll be out in a few hours.”

“I don’t care when I’ll be out. The problem is I’ll be suspended until it’s resolved. That’s procedure.” Like Gabriel Fuentes, the detective so careless with his gun.

Gonzalez said to the officers, “We can’t afford to have the chief down now—not with the perp on the streets.”

The redhead said, “We know how you feel about this singer of yours. But …”

He didn’t add, That’s not enough to bend the law over.

Madigan wanted to hit him.

The panic swelled. Hell, this could be the end of his career—the only career he’d ever cared about. What would he tell his family?

And he’d bent the rules just a bit, done it for Kayleigh.

This singer of yours …

Goddamn Edwin Sharp!

The officers were debating but it was only the cuff issue.

“Oh, please,” Madigan said, sounding as desperate as he felt. “You can’t—”

“Look, gentlemen,” Sheriff Gonzalez said. “This is a critical operation. We think a murder could be occurring at any moment.”

Madigan looked back into his office again.

The redhead offered to Gonzalez, “You understand a warrant has been issued for his arrest? I’m sorry. We don’t have any choice.”

They took his Colt and ID and badge.

Madigan repeated, “At least let me check in with some of my people.” He was growing more agitated.

They debated a moment but settled for, “You’ll be out in an hour.”

“Two, tops.”

And they also decided yes on the cuffs.

DANCE HUDDLED BEHIND
the fallen pine tree.

There’d been no more shots; was the assailant still there? Waiting for her to show? It would make more sense for him to leave. He’d have to assume that Dance had called in reinforcements and would have fled. He couldn’t risk staying any longer.

Or could he?

Clutching the fire extinguisher, she debated. If I don’t do something now, Sheri’ll die. She’ll burn to death.

Dance looked up cautiously, then ducked down again. No gunshots.

She thought of her children, how she couldn’t stand the idea of their being orphans. Thought too that she’d specifically gone into kinesic analysis and investigations to avoid tactical situations that might put her life in danger.

And here, I’m not even on duty, she thought.

Another cry from the car, but muted. Sheri Towne was losing the battle.

Now. It has to be now.

She leapt to her feet and began to sprint to the Mercedes, just as the flames were reaching into the passenger compartment.

Waiting for the bullets.

None came her way but still she dove into the ditch, out of the line of fire of the shooter in the woods, and crawled fast to the car. Inside, Sheri was pounding on the windshield with bloody hands. She was retching and coughing as the smoke roiled into the interior. Dance’s skin prickled in the heat from a grass fire surrounding the car.