Blind Pursuit (26 page)

“Boss?” he whispered, a chilly, feral gleam in his eyes.

The answering silence mocked him.

He left the den at a run.

* * *

Annie considered escaping through a bedroom window, but it would take time to go out that way, and time was one thing she was sure she didn’t have.

The hallway was empty again, Gund back in the den. The doorway to the living room was two steps away.

Chance it.

She dashed across the hall, into the living room, brightly illuminated now and somehow rendered more dismal in the glare.

Gund was a sad man with a sad life, but she felt no twinge of pity.

Behind her, a bestial roar.

Insane, she thought as she darted among the sparse furnishings on her way to the front door. He’s completely insane.

And he was coming this way.

From the hall, the mounting racket of his footsteps. He would be inside the living room in seconds.

She reached the door, fumbled for the knob, her hand slippery with perspiration, fingers sliding on the smooth metal.

Get a grip, Annie, she ordered, unconscious of any pun.

Her hand found purchase. The knob turned, the door popped open, and she was outside, shutting the door behind her, then sprinting down the paved walk, into the street, the macadam a dark blur under her racing feet, the corner straight ahead.

Backward glance. Gund wasn’t behind her, not yet.

She’d been sure he would see the door swing shut.

But maybe he hadn’t gone directly into the living room. Maybe he’d looked in the bedroom first.

Gasping, she turned the corner, flew past a line of parked cars, and then her Miata was beside her and she was digging in her skirt pocket for her keys.

Abruptly the wire fence of the auto lot clanged with a violent impact—the Doberman, leaping at her, slavering wildly, releasing a crazed volley of barks.

“Shut up!” she gasped, hating the dog, its insane ferocity reminding her of Gund.

She found her keys—no, wrong ones; those were the spares she’d taken from Gund’s kitchen. Thrust her hand into her pocket again, the dog howling, a banshee wail.

Was Gund in the street by now, seeking her out? Would he hear the noise, connect it with her? Was he running here at this moment?

She fished out the right set of keys this time, unlocked the car, flung herself inside.

Which key was it? Too many on the ring. House key, mailbox key, shop key, office key ...

The dog attacked the night with long ululant wails. Gund must have heard it, must be on his way.

Garage-door key, storage-locker key, luggage key ...

Car key.

She tossed a split-second glance in the rearview mirror, expecting to see Gund round the corner, but the street remained empty and still.

Key in the ignition. Twist of her wrist, the engine firing. Headlights on, and she spun the wheel hard to the left and tore free of the curb.

Her foot slammed down on the gas pedal. The Miata shot forward, outracing its own headlights.

Shaking all over, fighting for breath, Annie sped north, toward the lights of downtown—and the police station.

49

Eyes shut.

Jaws clenched.

A bead of sweat traveling slowly down her cheek, her neck, the curve of her breast, disappearing finally inside the waistband of her shorts.

Erin, kneeling on the floor, naked from the waist up, gripped the central coupling nut of the sillcock in the cellar wall and tried again to loosen it with a counterclockwise turn.

Her leg was chained to the spigot. She had no hope of defeating either of the padlocks securing the chains, not without tools or the means to make some. And Oliver had removed everything useful.

Her only chance at mobility and self-defense was to disassemble the sillcock. If she could detach the spout-and-handle component from the horizontal pipe feeding into the wall, one end of the chain would fall away, and she would be free.

But the job was hard, maybe too hard. At first she hadn’t even found purchase on the nut. Her fingers had slipped, as if greased, over its smooth contours.

That was when she’d stripped off her shirt and removed her bra, the bra Oliver had so thoughtfully packed for her. She’d unhooked one of the adjustable straps, an inch-wide ribbon of Lycra, and wound it around the nut, forming a tight rubber skin.

The wrapping improved her grip considerably. Even so, the nut continued to resist her efforts.

She bore down harder, straining with both hands to rotate the damn thing counterclockwise. The muscles of her arms and shoulders, still painfully sore from her ordeal outside, screamed in protest.

“Come on,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Come
on
.”

She felt an instant’s slippage.

But was it the nut that had moved or only the bra strap, sliding on the metal?

She wasn’t sure. She tried again.

And again she felt it. Unmistakable now.

The nut was turning.

Only a fraction of an inch at a time, each small victory costing her an agony of effort, but it
was
turning. It could be loosened. Given time, she could unchain herself from the wall.

And then ...?

She didn’t know. She would still be locked in a windowless room, behind an impregnable door. But at least when Oliver returned, she could fight.

Fight—and die, almost certainly.

But fight nevertheless.

* * *

“May I help you?”

The sergeant on duty at the lobby desk studied Annie with a cool, level gaze.

“Yes, please. I need to talk to Detective Walker.” Annie spoke rapidly, struggling to keep her voice under control.

“This some kind of emergency?”

“Life and death,” she blurted out, then wondered if it sounded melodramatic.

The sergeant showed no reaction. “Walker’s gone home,” he said with irritating matter-of-factness.

Of course he had. She should have assumed as much, but fear had rattled her; she wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Could you give me his home number?” she pressed.

“We don’t normally give out that information.”

“Please.”

He hesitated, then flipped through a Rolodex file and produced a card. “Use that phone over there. Press nine for an outside line.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She hurried to the far end of the desk, stood leaning against it as she turned an unused telephone toward her and dialed.

Two rings ... three ...

What if Walker didn’t answer? What if he was out of the house? It would take too long to explain everything to some other cop. She—

The fifth ring was cut off. “Walker.”

“Michael, it’s Annie. Annie Reilly.”

“Annie?” Concern in his voice. “What’s happened? How’d you get this number?”

“The desk sergeant gave it to me. I’m at the station. I need your help.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me, it’s Erin, I know who’s got Erin!”

“Slow down, Annie. Take it easy.”

“I can’t take it easy,
he’s got her
, don’t you understand?”

“Who’s got her?”

“My assistant at the shop. His name is Harold Gund.”

“Gund?”

She spelled it. “I hired him six months ago. I thought he was okay. He’s not. He’s crazy. And he’s got a copy of our portrait—the photo you looked at—the photo of Erin and me.”

“Where?”

“It was in a file cabinet in his apartment.”

“How do you know that? Did he show you?”

“Of course not. I broke in, I searched—”

“You
what
?”

“Damn it, just
listen
to me.”

“You broke into his apartment?”

“Yes. I broke in.”

She glanced behind her to see if any of the cops had overheard. No one was paying her the slightest attention.

“I broke in,” she said again, more softly. “Searched his apartment. Found the photo, which I guess he stole from me when I had the prints at my shop. Don’t you get it? He wanted her picture. He’s
obsessed
with her.”

“I don’t understand. What made you suspect this man Gund in the first place?”

“He lied about where he went on his lunch hour. So I followed him after work. He drove into the desert. He’s got a ranch, somewhere southeast of town—I found a spare set of keys.”

Vaguely she realized she was not relating these events in any logical order, but she couldn’t seem to organize her thoughts. Panic kept squeezing her throat shut, making it difficult to speak.

“A ranch?” Walker asked, sounding dubious.

“Yes. A ranch. I’ve got the keys. He’s keeping Erin there.”

“You don’t know that. You didn’t see her.”

“I saw the photo. I have it with me. His fingerprints are probably all over it. What more do you need?”

“Annie, you’re in the photo, too.”

“So?”

“Maybe it’s you he wanted a picture of. Maybe he’s got a crush on his boss. Nothing more sinister than that.”

“Oh, Christ ...” Disappointment thudded down on her like a dead weight. “You don’t believe me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You
still
won’t help me.
Still
.”

Suddenly she was crying, though she hated herself for it. Crying, her back turned to the cops, hoping they couldn’t see.

“Annie,” Walker said gently, “what do you want me to do?”

“Arrest him. Arrest Gund.”

“He’s not charged with any crime.”

“There’s the photo,” she said desperately. “It’s my property. He stole it, didn’t he?”

“And you stole it back. After breaking and entering.”

“Then arrest me, too, I don’t care!”

“I can’t do it, Annie.”

He couldn’t do it. Naturally. He couldn’t do anything. Except tell her that she was a paranoid head case and Erin was fine, just fine.

Annie wiped her eyes, straightened up. All right, then. If he wouldn’t help her, then she would handle things on her own.

“Annie?” Walker’s voice was curiously tinny. She noticed that she had lowered the telephone handset to the desk.
“Annie?”

She cradled the phone, then walked briskly out the door into the warm night.

The cop on duty at the glassed-in cubicle outside nodded to her as she passed by. She didn’t notice.

A pickup truck had parked next to her Miata in the visitors’ lot. Her car door banged the truck’s side panel as she slipped behind the wheel. She didn’t notice that, either.

Cough of ignition, squeal of tires, and she pulled into the street.

Her mind was only marginally focused on the details of driving. She was mapping strategy.

Erin was at Gund’s ranch. Had to be.

The ranch was probably in the general vicinity of Houghton Road.

Annie had a set of keys to that ranch.

Simple enough, then. She would retrace the route Gund had taken this evening. Search the side roads for a ranch whose gate and doors would open to the keys in her pocket.

Of course, there was a chance Gund would go there, too. Might be on his way already. Presumably he knew she was on to him. He might panic, decide to end it all.

If he was there when she arrived ...

Well, maybe he wouldn’t be. Maybe he was looking for her at her townhouse or the shop. Or fleeing across the state line, or getting on a plane to Mexico.

Anyway, she would have to risk it. She had no choice.

There was no one to help her, not this time. No one to take charge and spare her the responsibility of action. No one to lead her by the hand, out of the flames.

* * *

“Annie?
Annie?
”

Walker stabbed the reset button on his kitchen phone and used the memory feature to dial the station.

In their first meeting, Annie Reilly had told him she was impulsive and emotional. She might be wrong about Gund, about Erin, about nearly everything, but on that particular point Walker had to concur.

Ringing on the other end of the line.

“Hackett.” The desk sergeant.

“Ed, this is Walker. That woman who phoned me—is she still there?”

“Just left.”

“Send someone after her. Bring her back.”

“Right.”

Walker waited on hold, the fried eggs on the stove beginning to burn.

He was worried. Annie already had done something crazy when she broke into Harold Gund’s apartment. Now, distraught as she was, she might do something still crazier.

Smoke from the frying pan wafted toward the ceiling. It would set off the smoke detector in the hallway before long. He reached across the kitchen, turned off the burner, then picked up the pan and placed it in the sink.

No eggs tonight. Just as well. His doctor had warned him to watch his cholesterol.

Hackett came back on the line. “Sorry, Michael. She’s gone. Whipped out of the visitors’ lot like a smoking fast ball.”

“Okay, Ed. Thanks.”

He thumbed the reset button again. Then stood motionless, staring out the window at the night sky, thinking hard.

A ranch in the desert, Annie had said. Southeast of town.

If Gund had bought the place, a record of the purchase would be kept at the county tax assessor’s office.

The office was closed for the night. But Walker had a friend who worked there. A friend who owed him for some hard-to-get playoff tickets to a Phoenix Suns game a few years ago, tickets obtained from a former Tucson cop, now part of America West Arena’s security detail.

It would take his friend less than a half hour to drive to the office and find the file, if it existed.

Probably unnecessary. Probably Erin Reilly had left of her own volition, as her letter had stated. Probably Annie was imagining the worst, and this Harold Gund was just a lonely man infatuated with his attractive boss. Probably.

“Oh, hell,” Walker whispered.

He dialed his friend’s home number and called in the favor.