Forever Mine (27 page)

Fiona was dressed, and with the crown of delicate flowers on her head, ready before the moderator summoned them. Allie’s bridal gown was the last to be shown. She made a quick adjustment to the sweep of the train with less than a minute to spare.

The previous model cleared the curtain and stepped into the dressing room. Then Fiona swept onto the stage. A soft encouraging murmur rose from the audience, which usually meant the garment went over well. Allie’s hopes, if not soaring, at least lifted. For the first time, she let herself believe she might make the final cut.

So long as nothing happened to plunge the evening into unforeseen chaos.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Ben leveled his eyes at the man wearing the leather jacket. Even as the heat inside climbed, he hadn’t unzipped the garment. Also, the tent, although well lit, wasn’t so bright as to encourage someone to wear tinted lenses. One reason for the affectation would be to impersonate a hip clothing designer. Another was to shield his eyes from view. The shades, beard, and brown hair, now parted down the middle, made a passable disguise for a man who had every reason to alter his identity. But it left unchanged the prominent forehead, too-perfectly sculpted nose and square chin.

Finally, the last model stepped onto the stage. The man turned his head to follow her path to the end of the runway. In spite of the tinted lenses, Ben was certain their eyes had locked more than once.

“You sneaky bastard.” Ben mentally stripped away the glasses and superimposed a head of swept-back blond hair over the brown. His gaze was so intense it seemed hot enough to melt the lenses. Now, he depended on his instincts, which had never been keener. The pull in his gut, the drumming of his heart, told him the chase was about to begin.

The model turned, paused, walked back along the runway and slipped behind the curtain. The man failed to follow her movements. His eyes, invisible, remained trained on Ben. His body stiffened, changing his entire demeanor from casual observer to one who sensed a trap. His hands pushed down on the edge of his chair, and his program dropped to the floor. People around him shifted in their seats and took advantage of the lull to converse. The judges scanned their notes and conferred with each other. The moderator left the stage and walked to the runway’s midpoint. He leaned down and held a short conversation with the judges, after which one handed him a slip of paper. He studied it briefly then returned to stand behind the lectern.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we are ready to announce our four finalists. Before I do, I’d like to thank everyone who has worked so hard…”

Ben no longer heard the words issuing over the P.A. system. He reached into his jacket pocket and slid out his cell phone. The man, most likely Dave, jumped to his feet and scrambled over the people in his row and headed toward the steps, leading to one side of the stage. Some in the audience reacted to the commotion with high-pitched screams and bellows.

The moderator yelled, “What do you think you’re doing?” He moved out from behind the lectern.

People rose to their feet, most shocked now into near silence. Ben drew his gun. Other than a flying wedge, doomed to fail at this distance, there was no time for him to navigate around the back row. He took the quickest route and vaulted onto the runway.

Dave reached the steps and charged onto the stage. He knocked the moderator aside then grabbed the lectern. The microphone hit the floor with an ear-splitting squeal. The audience murmur rose again to a roar. The lectern came at Ben like a flying missile. He barely had time to leap aside and hope the thing didn’t bean someone in a front row. The macabre dance engaged him to the exclusion of everything else: the announcer’s voice, the stunned audience. The few moments it took to cross the stage were all Barnett needed to shove aside the curtain and barrel on through.

* * * *

Like everyone else in the dressing area, Allie had become aware of the commotion but was ignorant of its cause.

Then, everything happened quickly. Detective Thompson, followed by a uniformed officer, charged in from the rear entrance with guns drawn. As they rushed forward, another man flew in from the stage and crashed into them full speed. Thompson pinwheeled backward into the other cop, and both lost their balance. Several people dove behind chairs. The punked-out hairdresser backed into a fan and toppled over with it. Screams added to the chaos.

The intruder shoved aside anyone in his path and fled toward the rear exit. Seconds later, Ben hurtled into their midst. Designers, models, makeup artists and hairdressers scattered out of his way.

Allie dropped the bottle she’d just uncapped. Water sloshed onto her legs and shoes, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were glued to Ben’s retreating back and the policeman, who followed close behind him. Her breath, pulled inward, made a sucking sound. Michaela dug her fingers into Allie’s arm and shouted something unintelligible.

Allie’s hands flew to the sides of her face as Ben, now joined by Thompson and the other cops, crashed out of the tent from the rear exit. Her throat dry, Allie couldn’t utter a sound. As the upheaval subsided, she sank onto the dressing table chair. Fiona collapsed beside her and pulled a cigarette from the pack in her purse.

Allie’s experience with cigarettes consisted of taking three puffs when she was a senior in high school. However, for a nickel, she would have grabbed the butt out of Fiona’s hand, right then, and smoked it down to ash.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Ben stood on Van Ness Avenue, in front of City Hall, a cell phone pressed to his ear. A stunned citizen lay cold-cocked at his feet. The man’s wife could barely repeat the circumstances, involving them being carjacked. Nor could she remember the vehicle’s license plate numbers. The best she could offer were the last two digits: five and seven. At least he was able to calm her enough to coax the car’s make and color from her: a late model silver Lexus. By the time Ben called in all the pertinent information and got the full plate number, Barnett was nowhere in sight.

Thompson arrived minutes later in the passenger seat of a squad car. Local SFPD took over the scene, waiting for an ambulance. Ben scrambled into the back of the black and white while Thompson put out an APB for the Lexus. Their driver peeled away from the curb in the direction Barnett had headed. Ben suspected the fugitive was unfamiliar with the city, so he probably would drive around aimlessly, looking for an escape route. Or he might ditch the car and head off on foot, although Ben thought it less likely. Barnett would want to put as many miles as possible between himself and downtown San Francisco.

Unless someone sighted the Lexus, they could spend the night circling the city. The only good news was the usual traffic on Van Ness was as thick as an old growth forest. Cars, buses, and taxis clogged the blocks adjacent to Symphony Hall and the many restaurants in the immediate area. Barnett wouldn’t get far if he stayed on Van Ness. However, he’d find the streets darker and quieter if he peeled off to the east toward the freeway.

Ben instructed the driver to head in that direction. Problem was Barnett could pick up an onramp that diverged to highway 80, which headed east, or either 280 or 101. Those freeways turned south toward San Jose. Signs were prominently posted.

Just as they reached the onramp, the radio crackled. The Lexus had been spotted on the 280 freeway. Although it was now close to eleven o’clock, and the freeway was still congested. It would take some expert maneuvering to catch up to Barnett. The blaring siren and flashing lights provided an opening for the squad car with Ben in it to snake through the traffic. Almost immediately, another black-and-white joined them. Minutes later, they picked up two more. Then an alert came over the radio.

The reporting squad car had lost sight of the Lexus.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Physically and emotionally spent, Allie slumped in the back seat of an SFPD patrol car. So much had happened in the past hour it was almost impossible to put it into perspective. Freeze-framed in her mind were Ben, Detective Thompson and two SFPD cops barreling through the dressing area after the man she later discovered was Dave. The chaos caused by the commotion seemed never-ending. The moderator, whose voice crackled with high-pitched stress, needed a full fifteen minutes to settle the audience. Once the commotion died down, the designers, models and others backstage were too stunned to do much more than stand around asking each other what had just happened. Wild rumors flew of gun-nuts or homegrown terrorists. Allie kept what she suspected to be the truth to herself.

The reporters and TV camera crew, on hand to cover Designorama, got more than a fashion show for their time and trouble. Hustling to beat a deadline, they never made it back to the event. If she chose to, Allie could read their coverage in the
Chronicle
the next morning or check out the local TV stations while she waited for the Super Shuttle. She’d rather wade into the ocean and be swept out to sea before she relived the nightmare.

At the conclusion, two policemen had stood at a discreet distance from her. Ben had made the arrangement. They’d been instructed to escort her home and to make sure the house was secure. Michaela, shocked into near silence, agreed to forestall any further questions regarding Ben.

“Although I’m not letting you totally off the hook,” she warned Allie.

Allie nodded and promised to provide details once they arrived in Cabo.

Finally, the moderator had singled out the four designers selected to compete in the final leg of the contest. When Allie’s name was announced, she somehow managed to join the other three designers on the stage. She sleepwalked through the further announcements as well as the congratulatory comments of her family and friends.

“Please don’t try to tell me Ben is a fashion designer,” her mother exclaimed when her turn came to hug Allie. Allie only shrugged. But Hamilton, who’d been savvy enough to figure out Ben was a cop, cut off any further interrogation, assuring his wife Allie would explain everything in time. Although he appeared as disturbed as Delilah, he suggested now was not the right moment for explanations.

Allie had hugged him hard and whispered, “There’s nothing to worry about,” although she’d been anything but certain. The hollow place inside her stomach, where nausea threatened, told her something terrible could happen, even now.

Jen and Sarah had showed no significant signs of disturbance. They’d been either too shocked or too circumspect to give way to airing their concerns. Both had worn nonstop smiles as they congratulated Allie.

Now, the officers parked their squad car in Allie’s driveway. Shadows carpeted the nearby sidewalk and street. They climbed the front steps, and she used her key to unlock the door. The officers, guns drawn, entered first. Then one signaled for her to wait in the entryway while the other locked the door behind her. Light spread from the office lamp, enough to delineate the dim shapes that defined the room.

“Wait here,” one officer said. “Do you have a cell phone handy?”

Allie unzipped her purse and retrieved her cell.

“We don’t anticipate trouble but…”

“Yes, I know the drill.” Allie repeated a slight variation of the instructions Ben had given her the night the flowers appeared at her front door. At the first sign of trouble, she was to get the hell out of the house and use the speed dial on her cell phone to call 911.

The officers nodded then moved forward.

The track lighting in the sewing room, set to a low wattage, cast a soft incandescence. The naked dress forms took on sinister shapes. The lamp she’d left lit on her dressing table upstairs provided only the palest of glow. The comfortable familiarity of the house suddenly seemed shattered.

“Where does that lead?” One officer asked, pointing to the staircase.

Allie described the three rooms comprising her living quarters.

“I’ll take a look.” He said something to his partner, who headed toward the rear of the house.

She wanted to tell them a thorough search was unnecessary, the house was like a fortress, every door leading from the outside dead-bolted. No use wasting her time though. They had probably gotten their orders from Ben to search everywhere, including under the bed.

“There’s a switch on the wall by the landing.” Allie’s voice sounded more an echo to her ears than a whisper.

She dropped her purse on her desk. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed. She didn’t care which, her temporary pull-out or the one in the master bedroom. Tomorrow morning, she’d throw enough clothes into her suitcase to carry her through the week in Cabo. All she’d need were a couple bathing suits, shorts, some T-tops and a summery dress. No woman deserved a resort vacation more than she.

The officer flipped the wall switch, flooding the staircase with light. He headed up the stairs, gun drawn. A short time later, his footsteps echoed overhead as he headed toward the master bedroom. After what seemed a lifetime, , the cops finished searching the entire house, along with the garage.

After warning her not to leave the house—as if she would—the officers left but promised to do a drive-by every twenty minutes.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Allie climbed the stairs on legs as wobbly as gummy worms.

The thrill of becoming a finalist had been far outweighed by fear of Dave somehow eluding the local police. Although exhausted in mind and body, if she undressed and lay down, she suspected it would take hours to fell asleep. She couldn’t face the prospect of lying awake with her mind a jangle of dark, twisted thoughts. Not even becoming a finalist in Designorama had relieved the tension that squeezed tight every muscle in her body. She had ten weeks to agonize over a whole new set of fashions. Although she had time now, she couldn’t muster enough enthusiasm to pack her suitcase. Fatigue clawed at her brain.