"Where are you?"
"Just pulled over at Soquel. Not a sign of him, don't know which-"
"Cut over to San Jose. His car's at the airport, short-term parking. Wait a minute," Max said. "He just pulled out in a black Audi, no plate number."
Dallas swerved out of the gas station and hit the road again. "Who do you have up there? Why didn't they get the plate? Are they on his tail?"
"No one," Max said stiffly. "No law enforcement."
"What do you mean, no one? Who called in?" Dallas stared at the microphone in his hand, then back at the road.
"Mike's with you?" Max said.
"Affirmative," Dallas said, scowling.
"Lindsey's car is there. San Jose is at the scene. There's a woman in the front seat, wounded."
Mike grabbed the radio from Dallas. Max was saying, "A second woman ran, no sign of her."
"Is it Lindsey?" Mike shouted. "How bad is she? What happened?"
"No ID yet. We don't know who, or how bad. Medics are on the way."
"Step on it," Mike yelled at Dallas.
Dallas had already switched on the red light, heading fast for the 17 turnoff that would take them inland to San Jose; as he peeled up the ramp onto the freeway, Mike shouted, "Are they sure it's Lindsey's car? Can't the informant ID her?"
"Informant didn't stay on the line," Max said. "We're talking to uniforms at the scene. Car's registered to Lindsey Wolf but no ID on the woman, no purse."
"Description?"
"Brown hair. Hazel eyes. About five seven. Wearing jeans. A Levi's jacket on the seat under her. Informant said there were two women, thought both might have been shot."
Dallas hit the siren and gave it the gas. "Watch for the Audi coming this way."
Mike leaned forward nervously, watching traffic. "There must be a million black Audis." But he did the best he could, as fast as they were moving. "Why would he come back this way? Why not head north, on the 101? If he hurt Lindsey…," he said with cold threat.
"Settle down, you don't know that's Lindsey. You can't do her any good if you're all worked up. Settle down and watch for the Audi."
IN THE FALSE twilight of the parking complex, police and sheriff's cars were crowded around an EMT van, blocking Lindsey's tan Mercedes and four parking lanes. San Jose officers stood redirecting traffic as a pair of medics slid a stretcher bearing a blanket-covered figure into the emergency vehicle, and climbed in behind it. Beyond the tangle of law enforcement, down on the concrete at the level of tires and hubcaps, Joe Grey crouched beneath an old brown Jeep. He hadn't been able to glimpse the figure in the Mercedes. Couldn't see whether it was Ryder or Lindsey. And now all he could see were cops' legs, the place was wall-to-wall cops.
But there had been only one person in the Mercedes, he knew that much. As the medics had put her on the stretcher, he'd gotten a glimpse of slim, Levi's-clad legs, dull-colored jogging shoes such as Lindsey had worn-but so had Ryder. He'd been mildly surprised that she wasn't dressed fancy when he first saw her leaving the condo. And now, with uniforms all around him, he could hardly leap atop a car and peer into the medics' van trying to see more.
Sure as hell, an unattended animal in this setting would encourage some overzealous rookie to call the pound. And later, what joking comment would these guys, talking with MPPD, make about a weird gray tomcat sitting atop a car, watching the crime scene. And wouldn't that tear it, after his anonymous phone call.
Plus, Joe thought, I talked with Hendricks on the phone, and Hendricks knows the snitch's voice. Hearing jokes about a nosy gray tomcat, would Hendricks get curious enough to put two and two together? Put the gray tomcat and the voice together, thinking outside the box? No matter how far out that scenario seemed, it might get others in the department thinking, and watching him too closely, even if, at first, only in a joking way.
The EMT van started its engine, ready to head for the hospital, and Joe still didn't know who was in there. He was moving forward beneath the parked cars, hoping to hear someone mention a name, when the van driver killed his engine. Something was happening.
Joe could see the van rocking, as if, inside, the medics were moving fast. He crept closer, his paws sweating.
He felt certain that after his call, Mike and probably Dallas were on their way. He felt sick for Mike, racing to get here, imagining the worst-as Joe, right now, was trying not to do.
He knew how he'd feel if he thought Dulcie had been shot, he'd race to the scene wanting to eviscerate whoever had attacked his lady. Right now, Mike would be feeling the same.
Whatever was going on in the medics' van seemed to take forever; the van continued to rock, while outside, officers continued to protect the area, turning cars and pedestrians away from the scene. Creeping ever closer, he was only a few feet from the van when the back doors opened and a young, sandy-haired medic stepped down, stood talking with the San Jose sergeant who seemed to be in charge; the sergeant was a tall stringbeany, bald-headed guy. His few brief words chilled Joe.
"Go on out and help work traffic," the medic said. "I'll call for the medical examiner."
Whoever was in the van was with them no longer. Either Lindsey or Ryder had died as the medics fought to save her. Joe had to have a closer look, he had to know.
He was now only two cars away. Crouching against a front tire, he could see inside the van, see the body on the stretcher, covered by a length of sheet, the face also covered. His heart felt as heavy as lead. Despite the danger of being seen, he slipped out from under the car on its far side, leaped to its hood, and crouched in the shadows of a pillar from where he could see in through the van's open door.
A hank of wavy brown hair hung from beneath the sheet, over the side of the stretcher. He was trying to remember the exact shade of each woman's hair, trying to determine which sister lay there, when the whoop of a siren and the screech of tires sent him dropping under the car again, out of sight.
From beneath the greasy underpinnings of the older car, he looked out across the concrete that was reddened now by reflections of a whirling light. He had crept out far enough to see that the light was spinning atop Dallas's tan Blazer when the vehicle screeched to a halt and Mike bailed out, running for the ambulance.
33
IN THE NIGHT-DARK woods, Charlie headed back toward home carrying Sage in her arms, Kit riding on her shoulder. Her flashlight was nearly dead, just the weakest wash of fading beam as she tried to pick out hindering branches blocking her path. She felt sick that she'd had to shoot the two coyotes. Coyotes were in no way evil, they were only hunting as they'd been born to do, they were only what God had made them. Not evil in the way a human could be evil.
But she'd had no choice. She was just thankful that Sage and Kit were safe.
"More to the right!" Kit said. "You're drifting off again, Charlie." Nothing was the same at night. All that was familiar by day was, in the blackness, a jagged world of hungry branches grabbing and poking at her.
"The barn's just there," Kit hissed. "Five more minutes, straight ahead. Can't you feel it? Can't you sense it there?"
Charlie couldn't. "But of course you can't," Kit said, placing a soft paw against Charlie's cheek, making her feel grossly inadequate. But then in Charlie's arms Sage looked up at her, and though she couldn't see his face clearly, the trusting feel of him, so relaxed against her, the trust of this wild and shy little feral touched her and made her feel needed.
She was stepping carefully through a tangle of vines when her cell phone played its short tune. Hastily she answered, not liking that electronic sound here in the silent woods; her crackling, clumsy progress through dry leaves and twigs and fallen branches was quite enough intrusion in this wild place-and quite enough to stir other predators.