The Haunted (Sarah Roberts 12) (20 page)

She waited until the boat listed outward with a large wave, and then as it listed back, she jumped off the side walkway and landed on both feet just inside the railing, the gun out of her pants, up and aimed.

Roland sat on a bench on the other side of the open space, a large white towel stained red pressed to his face. Sarah kept her gun trained on him despite the fact that she couldn’t see one on him.

“You’re hurt bad,” she said.

He didn’t jump at her voice.

“I’d say so,” he said, his voice muffled by the towel.

Sarah took a seat opposite him and rested her gun hand on her leg, aimed at his crotch directly across the floor of the boat as it rode the waves.

“Frank’s dead,” she offered.

“I gathered that.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do what you do? You guys have to know how it’ll end.”

“I could ask the same question of you.”

“Sure you could.” A breeze picked up, ruffling her hair. She eased it back off her shoulder with her free hand to let it rest on her back. “But my answer’s different because I have an ally on the other side.”

“Oh yeah? Did you know that Superman helps me from time to time, but since they’ve removed a lot of the phone booths, it’s getting harder for him to change.” He clenched his teeth, moaned in pain and then said, “So lately I’ve been using the Easter Bunny.”

“Jokes aside, you’re in a lot of pain.”

He didn’t reply. Nor had he looked at her too well to see the gun.

“I’ve got my gun back,” she said. “And it’s aimed at your crotch.”

“Good for you.” He moaned again, pressing the towel on his face. “I figured as much.”

“So tell me, what were your plans?”

“Scare you off.”

She leaned back, surprised. “Scare me? I doubt it.”

“The cement was a prop. If we meant to kill you we would’ve done it when you were knocked out. Why let you wake up if you were supposed to die out here? What purpose—” He stopped talking as he leaned forward and whimpered, sobbing a little. “Damn this hurts. I can’t believe how fucked up this got.”

“Do you work for the dead Dr. Williams or for Cole Lincoln?”

“It doesn’t matter who we work for because we don’t kill people. We were hired to deliver you safe and sound. If you die at their hands, that’s not on us. We just deliver the goods.”

“Well, the delivery’s been cancelled.”

“Evidently.”

He sat up, the towel taking on more blood.

She looked out to sea. Still nothing. No boats, no land. She idly wondered what Aaron and Parkman were doing. If they put out the fire at the cabin, they would discover her clothes but not her body. A search party would form. But they’d never think to head out to sea, hours away from the cabin. She needed to get back. She needed to find Cole and end this.

“Where’s Cole Lincoln?”

“What’s it matter now?”

“Where were you going to deliver me?”

“This is gone too far. It doesn’t matter now.”

“So tell me.”

“Los Angeles.”

“Where in L.A.? It’s a big city.”

“Burbank.”

“Burbank? Why there?”

“Not sure, but I understand Cole’s something of a movie buff.”

“What?” Sarah asked, confused. “How does being a movie buff have anything to do with me?”

He lowered the white towel, now almost completely stained red with blood, and showed her his face. When her bullet had hit the door frame, chunks of wood had shot out. One of them, the size and shape of a butter knife, had pierced his right eye. It had started to swell, the wood still sticking into the center of his eyeball where blood oozed out and onto his cheek.

“How do I look?” he asked. “Pretty?”

“Sure, if you’re auditioning for a Stephen King movie.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He hadn’t answered her question. “What’s Burbank got to do with me? Tell me what you know, then I’ll turn this boat around, and we can head to Los Angeles to make your delivery. I’ll locate Cole and deal with him. You can go to the hospital for that eye wound.”

Roland moaned and hitched his shoulders. “I overheard Cole saying he wanted to relive a scene from a movie where James Gandolfini and Patricia Arquette had a fight to the death in some hotel in Burbank. Some kind of tribute to the late Gandolfini. But what do I care? Even if they fix this,” he pointed at the wood sticking out of his eye, “I’ll never see properly again. My life is changed forever because of you.”

She tightened her grip on the handle of the Glock. When the boat listed over a large wave, she looked out at the empty water around the boat to make sure Roland wasn’t diverting her attention from an approaching watercraft.

Roland moved, making her snap her head back toward him, gun raised.

The towel shot sideways. Underneath the blood-stained towel sat his weapon. He had it with him the whole time. He had waited for the chance that she would look away.

His gun fired before she could squeeze her trigger. Then his fired again, almost at the exact moment hers finally did.

She dropped off the bench and sprawled on the floor as she fired at him again and again until her weapon was empty. Roland dropped his hands to his side, his head lolled back at an odd angle. Three new holes on his abdomen leaked red. Sarah set her gun down and took a deep breath.

“Damn, that was close.” She shook her head to clear it. “How the hell did I miss the gun under the towel?”

She got to her feet thanking her lucky stars that Roland only had one eye, which left him with two-dimensional vision. That would affect the aim of any marksman. The seat where she had been sitting moments before didn’t have any holes. His bullets must’ve been high and wide, where they would eventually drop into the ocean somewhere behind her.

She left her empty gun on the floor of the boat as she walked over and checked for a pulse.

Nothing.

Roland was dead.

She rummaged through his pockets until she located a wallet. Inside, she found a small wad of cash and a spare key to something. Then she flipped the wallet open to the ID and stepped back.

A Los Angeles Police Department picture ID card was inside the small window where regular people would place their driver’s license.

“I killed a cop?”

This was bad. She would take heat for this. Even if it was in self-defense. Forget that there weren’t any witnesses. A Canadian police officer was killed in British Columbia and Sarah had taken the blame for it. The media had picked up the story, blasting her picture across the Northern Hemisphere. Later, when it was discovered that she had nothing to do with it, the same media frenzy didn’t ensue to vindicate her, which led to trouble with the LAPD when she was trying to help Detective Hirst with a priest killer in L.A. The cops had a hard time trusting her and now that she had actually killed one of theirs, it would only get worse.

Orders of shoot-on-sight came to mind.

Or was it two cops? Could Frank also be employed by the LAPD?

She jumped up, slipped the cash in her pocket, tossed Roland’s wallet into the ocean and ran along the side railing, careful she didn’t fall into the water. Then down the stairs and into the cabin below. Once at Frank’s body, she found his wallet, opened it and examined the ID.

Just as she thought. LAPD Officer Frank Manchelli.

“Shit.” She emptied the small wad of cash from his wallet and stuck her head out the door to throw the wallet into the ocean. She looked back at Frank’s body.

“Shit. Fuck.”

They had intended to deliver her to Cole. They tried to kill her. Both men deserved what they got.

“Dirty cops. Fuck the both of you.”

But as for her reputation and ability to remain alive and free from prison, she had to find a way to stop killing cops. There just couldn’t be any more dead cops. Eventually it would come back to haunt her no matter how innocent she was or justified the kills were.

She grabbed Frank’s hands and dragged him to the foot of the stairs. Then, weakening by the second without having eaten, she pulled Frank’s body up the steps one by one until she had his body sprawled out on the deck. In the late afternoon sun, the dent in his neck looked horrible. She must’ve crushed more than his windpipe when she stomped on his throat.

Using what strength she had left, she lifted Frank up to the edge and tossed him overboard. He landed with a loud splash and disappeared below the surface, his clothes weighing him down.

After watching Frank sink out of sight, she walked along the side of the yacht until she got to Roland. He was heavier, but she got him up, over the edge and into the water without much work. Alone on the boat, she headed to the captain’s chair, sat down and used the GPS to get her moving toward Los Angeles even though she hadn’t driven a boat before.

Ten minutes later, the boat cruising at almost fifty miles an hour en route for the Los Angeles harbor, Sarah picked up Roland’s cell phone thinking she would call Parkman to reassure him she was okay. Or maybe she should call Aaron.

After a moment of contemplation, she set the phone down. The less anyone knew about her whereabouts the better. Parkman had friends on the LAPD. She had just killed two of their officers and dumped their bodies in the ocean. She was probably on an LAPD boat of some kind. Maybe she’d call later.

Roland’s phone lit up as it rang. She grabbed it to see if the caller could be identified, but the screen said, private caller.

She set the phone down and let it ring.

Now, more than ever, it was prudent for her to find Cole Lincoln. Deal with him, then meet up with Parkman. He could give her a measure of what was happening, whether the police were looking for her or their two missing men and then she could make better decisions on what to do next.

As soon as Cole was dealt with she would be free. Free to make better decisions. Free to work with Vivian. Free of the nightmares, and of being haunted by Vivian’s memories, which seemed to have abated now that Cole was in her life.

Once she got to Cole and dealt with him, everything would work itself out. Even spending time in jail would be better than being in the same world as Cole Lincoln.

She brushed a tear as it slipped down her cheek. The handle of the throttle was wet with sweat inside the palm of her hand as she pushed it down. The yacht’s engine revved as the bow smacked the waves in rapid succession like the staccato of gunfire.

The boat cut through the waves.

And Sarah wept.

Chapter 28

Parkman dropped Aaron at the hotel with a promise to stay in touch as soon as he heard anything on Sarah. As he pulled out of the hotel parking lot, he called Sarah’s parents and discovered they hadn’t been contacted at all regarding any of the recent developments. Neither of them had heard from Sarah in almost a week. When Parkman hung up with Sarah’s father, his phone rang immediately. He looked down hoping to see Sarah’s name.

Nick Kershaw’s name filled the screen instead. Parkman pulled up to a red light and answered the call on his hands-free system.

“Yeah, Nick. Learn anything new?”

“There was no body in that fire at the cabin. Her clothes were out front, but who strips in the driveway? It was like someone wanted us to find the clothes, but no Sarah. Which means there’s a chance she’s alive.”

“Okay, but where is she? We have to find her.” Parkman accelerated through the green as the light changed.

“Unless Sarah did that herself. Would she burn the cabin to cover something up?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Burned her own clothes. Throw us off her trail.”

Parkman thought of something else. “Or throw someone else off her trail.”

“Fair enough, but there’s something you should hear.”

“What?” Parkman applied his signal and pulled to the shoulder of the road. “What is it?”

“Do you know a detective in Los Angeles by the name of David Hirst?”

Parkman stared out the windshield, eyes wide. He took a breath and thought about Hirst and their recent case in L.A. How Sarah almost died in that church fire and then in the hospital and in that car that fell five stories from a parkade—

“Parkman, you still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. What was the question?”

“Detective David Hirst out of L.A. You know him?”

“Yeah, I know him. Old friend of mine. Why do you ask?”

“He called. Said he heard you and Sarah were up in these parts.”

“And?”

“He has two missing police officers. Didn’t call in like they were supposed to. Haven’t checked in with the wives making them worried wives. You know how that is.”