Thread of Fear (20 page)

The stars sparkled in the distance behind him, small dots of light in the black sky.

I held the gun on him, aimed at his chest.

My stomach tightened into a large coiled knot.

“Yeah,” I said, the trigger cold against my finger. “Let's get this over with.”

FORTY THREE

I pulled into Vegas just as the sun was waking up the valley.

It had taken me about five hours from Yuma, a straight shot north through the dark western Arizona desert. For most of the drive, it looked like I was driving on something that resembled the surface of the moon.

I'd texted Anchor when I hit Henderson, telling him I needed to meet in thirty minutes. He'd texted back immediately, naming a diner just off the highway, on the north side of the Strip area. He was the only one in there, a steaming mug of coffee on the table in front of him. He looked like he always did – dark suit, dress shirt and a tie perfectly knotted at his neck. His perfectly combed hair was damp and he was staring at the screen on his phone through the horn-rimmed glasses.

I slid into the booth across from him. The red leather was cracked and pieces of yellowed stuffing fluttered to the floor.

“Good morning, Mr. Tyler,” he said, setting his phone down. “I was surprised to hear from you.”

“It's done.” I wasn't interested in small talk with him.

“It?”

“Dennison.”

He tilted his head to the side. “It is? That was quicker than I anticipated.”

“I located him,” I said. “It's done.”

Anchor stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well. Was the money with him?”

“It wasn't,” I said. “But you indicated you weren't very interested in it, so I didn't waste time looking.”

He smoothed the tie. “That's fine. But...?”

I nodded. “It's done. As promised.”

He eyed me again. “Just like that?”

“I told you I'd do it. And I did.”

“You had reservations about completing your task,” he reminded me. “I'm just confirming that the outcome I requested is the one you delivered.”

I yanked my phone out of my pocket and slammed it down on the table. “You want fucking proof?” I shoved the phone in his direction and it slid across the Formica. “There it is.”

Anchor sipped his coffee, his eyes on me. “Photos, I presume?”

I gave a slight nod.

He glanced down at the phone in front of me. He picked it up and stared at the blank screen. Then he slid it back to me. “That won't be necessary.”

I shoved it back in my pocket. “I'm deleting them.”

“That would be wise.”

“So we're square,” I said.

Anchor nodded. “We are, yes. I appreciate your willingness to work with me on this.”

I slid back out of the booth.. More stuffing spilled to the floor. “Right.”

“Mr. Tyler?”

I looked at him.

“If you ever need assistance in the future—”

“I won't,” I said.

I turned and walked out of the diner, hoping I never set eyes on John Anchor again.

FORTY FOUR

Thirty minutes later, I set the duffel bag on the table in front of Matthew Delzano.

Delzano looked at it, then motioned to the other side of the table. “Have a seat.”

“I'm good,” I said. “It's all there.”

After I left Anchor, I'd called the number on the card Delzano had tossed me when we'd met the first time. He'd answered and I told him why I was calling him. He gave me the name of a bar near the downtown area and told me to meet him there. Two guys patted me down before they let me in to the small concrete building. They led me to Delzano, who was sitting at a small round table next to the bar in the dimly lit room. A guy at a table next to him was counting cash into fat stacks and glanced at me when I dropped the bag on the table.

“You found him,” Delzano said.

I nodded.

He licked his fingers, then unzipped the duffel. He nodded at the two guys who brought me in. One of them grabbed the bag and set it on another table. Both of them started pulling the money out and counting it.

Delzano leaned back in his chair. He wore a royal blue warm-up suit that looked like it had been made for a guy a hundred pounds lighter, a black golf-shirt peeking out from underneath. Half an omelet remained on the plate in front of him.

“Where'd you find old Patrick?” he asked.

“Doesn't matter. You got your money back.”

“Am I gonna get my chat with Patrick?”

“No.”

“No?” he said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “How come?” I didn't say anything and he chuckled “Wow. Didn't know you had it in you, Tyler. Good for you.”

I didn't say anything.

“I'll bet he whined like a little baby,” Delzano said, grinning.

I didn't say anything.

“It's all here,” the one guy said, glancing up from the bag.

Delzano nodded.

“We're done,” I said.

“Looks that way,” Delzano said. He held out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

I ignored his hand, turned and walked out of the bar.

FORTY FIVE

I drove out of the parking lot and picked up my phone from the passenger seat. I thumbed through the directory, found the number I wanted and dialed.

“Metro Homicide,” a voice said on the other end.

“I need Detective Toball, please.”

“One moment.”

A moment later. “Toball.”

“Detective,” I said. “This is Joe Tyler.”

The line buzzed for a moment. “Mr. Tyler. You leaving the area? I didn't expect you to give me the courtesy.”

“I didn't. I've already left and come back and I'm leaving again,” I said. “You know an asshole named Matthew Delzano?”

“Unfortunately, I'm familiar with him, yeah.”

“Carina Armstrong,” I said. “He's your guy.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“If I could, I would,” I told him. “But he's your guy. Not him, I'm sure. But one of his guys.”

“And you know this how?”

“Like I said. If I knew more, I'd share it. I'm just letting you know you'd be smart to look there,” I said.

The line buzzed again. “That isn't much, Mr. Tyler.”

“No, it's not.”

“You wanna come in and tell me more?”

“I already told you,” I said. “I'm leaving again. And I won't be back.”

“No? You found Mr. Dennison?”

“I quit the case,” I said. “So I'm done.”

“I really think you should come in and—”

“Then you're gonna need to drive to San Diego and arrest me,” I told him. “Because I'm going home and don't plan on coming back. Delzano's your guy.”

I punched off the phone and tossed it on the seat next to me.

I took a deep breath and glanced in my rearview mirror. Las Vegas was in it, both literally and figuratively. I hoped I wouldn't be looking at it again for a very long time.

My phone buzzed in the passenger seat and I grunted. I assumed it was going to be Toball calling me back, trying to cajole me into coming in. I wasn't going to. He was going to have to live with that.

I glanced at the phone.

It wasn't Toball.

It was Elizabeth.

I grabbed it and tapped the screen. “Guess what, kid? I'm driving home right now.”

“Dad,” she said, her voice, thin, strained.

I gripped the steering wheel. “Elizabeth? What's wrong?”

“Mom's in the hospital,” she said.

“What?”

“I just got a text. At school. She...she said she wasn't feeling good and that she was going to the hospital to get checked out. She said she was just letting me know and not to worry. But I'm worried. She wasn't feeling good this morning, either. Said her stomach hurt. I think something's wrong with the baby.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. “What?”

“I don't know!” Elizabeth's voice edged on hysterical. “She drove herself. She just texted me and I can't get ahold of her. I called and she won't answer. And I'm stuck at school and she needs me and I just...” She broke into tears.

“Elizabeth.” My voice was sharp. “You stay at school. I'm on my way. I'll let you know when I get there.”

“I want to go see her.”

“Stay at school,” I said again. I pushed the gas pedal closer to the floor. “I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Hurry. I'm scared.”

“I know you are,” I said, stepping harder on the accelerator.

So was I.

FORTY SIX

Lauren's eyes fluttered and her fingers flexed in my hand.

The monitor on the wall beeped and she fidgeted beneath the hospital bed sheet, the collar of her gown pulled down at an awkward angle. I reached over and pulled it back up to her shoulder, my fingers brushing her skin.

Her eyes fluttered again, then opened.

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then rotated her eyes to me.

I smiled at her. “Hi.”

She nodded, then closed her eyes again. A tear escaped, trickling down her cheek. I lifted my hand to brush it away, then stopped. I let my hand fall back to the bed.

She swallowed. “Where's Elizabeth?”

“Home,” I told her. “I told her I'd come get her in just a little bit.”

She nodded again. She shifted beneath the sheets, a ragged breath pushing its way out of her mouth.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

I reached out my hand again and moved the sheet so I could find her. I covered her hand with mine and squeezed. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I didn't know anything was wrong.” Her eyes were still closed, her voice raw, broken. “There wasn't a lot of movement yesterday but I... that happens sometimes. I didn't think anything was wrong.”

“There was no way of knowing,” I said. “The doctor said so.”

A nurse came in and I straightened a little but held tight to Lauren's hand. The woman smiled at us, a sympathetic, comforting smile. She checked the monitor closest to Lauren, then examined her IV fluids.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

Lauren gave a slight nod.

“I'm just going to check on your bleeding,” she said. She was on the other side of the bed and she lifted the hospital sheet. “Looks like it's slowing. That's good.” She replaced the sheet.

She tapped at the keyboard just below a mounted computer monitor. “There are counselors available. If you'd like to talk to someone.”

Lauren and I remained silent.

She finished at the computer, then patted Lauren's leg. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She left.

I looked back at Lauren. Her eyes were closed again. The tear on her cheek was gone.

I shifted my gaze to the window. The curtains were open and the sun was shining and cars buzzed by on the road outside. Lives were going on outside the four walls of our room. But here, in this bright, sterile environment, a life had just ended.

The door was slightly ajar and I heard the unmistakable squall of a newborn. My fingers tightened on Lauren's hand and I had to force myself to loosen my grip.

That was supposed to be us. Our baby.

“I wanted to name him Joseph.”

My eyes flitted to Lauren. She was looking at me. She'd heard it, too.

Tears pooled in my eyes and I just nodded.

“He was so beautiful,” she said. Her tears flowed freely now. “So tiny but so perfect.” She took a shaky breath. “And I
wanted
him. I wanted him, goddammit.”

The tears streamed down my cheeks. I let them come. “I did, too.”

FORTY SEVEN

One Week Later

I drove east past Yuma, the sun already high in the morning sky, its rays barely muted by the thin, ribbon-like clouds that threaded the vast expanse of blue. The landscape looked different during the day, not nearly as desolate. The green cacti and the small birds circling in the sky brought the area to life.

About fifteen miles past Yuma, I exited the highway and drove south, a two-lane road seeming to extend forever into the horizon. Twenty minutes later, I saw a small pick-up truck parked on the side, its red paint faded and dinged, a line of rust along the top of the tailgate. I pulled in behind it and got out, leaving the car running.

Patrick Dennison rolled down the window and said, “Hey.”

“You ready?”

He nodded.

I walked back to my car, got in and drove past him. He fell in behind me on the highway. We drove for nearly thirty minutes until we started seeing signs for a town called San Luis. We passed a Wal-Mart and other retail strip malls. Then we reached the line of traffic that led to the border crossing into Mexico.

I turned right onto a side street, parking my car in front of a place that offered insurance for visitors going into Mexico. Dennison pulled the pick-up in behind me. I got out and walked back to him.

He cranked the window down. “Now what?”

“Now I'm gonna walk back to the main road and watch and wait until I see you drive over,” I told him.

“I told you I'd go,” he said, frowning. “I mean, I met you where you told me to, didn't I?”

“What'd you do with your car?” I asked.

“Like you said,” he said. “I drove it somewhere out near where we were. Three nights ago. I torched the hell out of it and waited until it was done burning. Middle of the night. Just like you said.”

I nodded. “Where'd you get the truck?”

“Like you said,” he repeated. “I hiked into Yuma and bought it from some old guy. Paid cash.”

“You talk to anyone?”

“The only person I've talked to since I saw you was the guy I bought the truck from. I did everything you told me to do.”

I nodded again. “You have the money?”

He pointed at the backpack next to him. “Yeah. Man, I'm telling you. If I was going to run, I woulda done it the next day. I did everything you told me to.”

I looked down the block. The street was empty, save for the two of us.

I hadn't been able to pull the trigger. I'd probably always known I wouldn’t be able to do it, but in the moment, with him standing there in the darkness, I'd lowered the gun and told him I wasn't going to kill him.

I had another plan.

He could just disappear instead. Take Anchor's money, drive into Mexico and never be heard from again. I'd report back to Anchor and no one would be the wiser. I knew the risks, but I couldn't pull the trigger. I didn't know what he'd do with his life, but I didn't care. I just didn't want him to impact mine anymore.

So we'd agreed that he'd get his stuff out of the campground that night. Agreed that he'd get rid of his car and buy some clunker. He'd camp out in the desert waiting for me to come back at the designated time and place. We agreed that he could take the money and head into Mexico and not contact a soul and never come back. Ever. And we agreed that if he didn't do any of that, I was going to put together a team and come after him.

And I'd tell Kathleen he'd known about Aaron all along. That he'd kept it from her for years.

It was the coward's way out, on both of our parts. But I didn't want to kill again and he didn't want to die.

“Once you're over, you're on your own,” I said. “You can't come back.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I know.”

“If you come back, I'll find you.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Drive for at least a day,” I said. “Then you can start looking for a place to settle. Or keep driving. I don't care.”

He stared at the wheel for a moment, then nodded.

“Alright,” I said. “Go.”

I walked away from the truck and headed across the street. By the time I reached the road we'd come in on, he was turning the truck on to it. He didn't look at me as he passed and I watched him settle into the line of cars that was snaking toward the border.

I knew the risk I was taking. If he ever changed his mind and came back or made contact with Kathleen, there was a good chance Anchor would find out and he would know that I'd lied. If he found out that I'd lied to him, he'd come after me. I'd made a promise to him and then lied about it.

But I couldn't kill Patrick Dennison in cold blood. Was he a bad guy? I wasn't sure. Had he done some questionable things? Yes. But I believed him when he said he wasn't sure what else to do when he'd learned Anchor had been responsible for the accidental death of his son. Yes, he'd stolen money from Anchor and Delzano, but those were areas heavily shaded in gray. I'd killed before, but it had been different. It had been personal and what those men had done was unforgivable.

Patrick Dennison wasn't in the same category as those men.

I just wasn't sure he was worth risking my own life for.

His old truck idled toward the border booth, then stopped. The agent stepped out and stood next to the truck, looking serious. I could see his lips moving, but was too far away to hear what he was saying. He nodded a couple times, then waved him through.

The truck moved slowly through the secure area, then onto the highway and disappeared from sight.

Patrick Dennison was gone.