"I am relaxed."
"Good," he said with a smile. "How about calling Merrick's hotel, and I'll use my home phone to call Jim Ebersole?"
"Will do."
The director of the FBI answered on the third ring. The urgent request was quickly forwarded to the senior agent in Los Angeles. Scott gave Jackie the high sign and she told Merrick that help was on the way.
"Her friends were not Oriental," Jackie said, placing the satellite phone on the table.
"That's a relief."
"Earlywine didn't have an accident." She pushed her plate aside. "He was killed and we both know it."
"Yes, we'd better ask the FBI to investigate."
"I'll take care of it."
He could see the sadness in her eyes. "I don't know about you, but I've lost my appetite."
"Same here."
Scott folded his napkin and caught her eye. "Let's load the dishwasher and head for the airport."
She rose from her chair. "There's something very wrong with this picture, something sinister."
"Why don't you fly this morning — concentrate on other things."
"Yeah, good therapy."
Chapter 8
Entering the empty lobby of the hotel, Merrick felt a gnawing sense of uneasiness as she walked to the counter to check out. Glancing at her wristwatch, she was surprised to see it was almost 4:00 A. M.
"Is there something wrong, Miss Hamilton?" the desk clerk asked.
"No, there's nothing wrong. I've thoroughly enjoyed my stay, but my plans have changed."
"Well, we hope you'll visit us again."
"I'm looking forward to it."
Nervously alert, Merrick checked the accuracy of her hotel account. Satisfied, she folded the statement and slid it into a side pocket of one of her bags. A sudden flash of headlights caught her attention when a maroon Mercury Grand Marquis pulled into the drive.
The car stopped a few yards past the entrance to the lobby and two men got out. Assuming they were FBI agents, Merrick picked up her luggage and walked outside to greet them. As they approached, Merrick had a sudden feeling that something was wrong.
"Are you Miss 'amilton?" the man with the pencil-thin mustache and impish grin asked.
"Yes."
The middle-aged man and his partner, an Oriental man, flashed their official-looking badges.
"Chauncey 'arrington, FBI. We 'ave been instructed to escort you to our district 'eadquarters."
This doesn't feel right, Merrick told herself. The revelation dawned with gut-wrenching clarity when she glanced at their Mercury and noticed the rental-car sticker on the back bumper. Don't panic, for God's sake. These guys are imposters, probably the same ones who caused Earlywine's death. Think before you do anything.
"May we 'elp with your luggage, ma'am?" The mischievous smile remained the same — cheesy and insincere.
Merrick could feel the palms of her hands turning sweaty. Who are these people?" That's okay," she said, remembering that Jackie had specifically told her not to go near her car. Well, I have to take a chance. "I'll just throw them in my car and follow you to your, ah, office."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we 'ave strict orders to-drive you to our headquarters. It's standard policy, you understand."
Merrick was afraid to make a move. How did they know? There must have been a wiretap, a bug in my room. "I can't leave my car here."
The Oriental opened his suit jacket just enough to expose the handgun in his shoulder holster. There was no way out. The hotel parking lot was completely deserted.
I have to do something, but I have to pick the right time. With her heart in her throat, she silently prayed. Dear God, I need some help. "Would one of you gentlemen be kind enough to drive my car?"
"Of course." Harrington looked at his partner and nodded. "If you'll 'and us the keys, we'll be on our merry way."
If I try to run, they could easily shoot me.
"Ma'am, the keys," Harrington said.
With a great sense of trepidation, Merrick fished her keys out of her handbag. She handed them to the silent man and then picked up her two leather bags. With Harrington on one side of her and the other man slightly behind her, Merrick waited for an opportunity to draw attention. Harrington opened the back door of the Mercury and stepped aside as Merrick tossed her bags in the backseat and got in.
"Don't you want to know which car is mine?" Merrick asked, feeling a surge of adrenaline stab her heart.
Harrington's smile faded but quickly reappeared. "Indeed, that would be quite 'elpful, now, wouldn' it?"
"The gray Chevy Cavalier next to the end of the first row." With a wave of his hand, Harrington directed his partner toward Merrick's rental car.
She knew what to do, but it would take some luck. They knew which car was mine.
Harrington got in and started the Mercury. The other man retrieved Merrick's car and drew up behind the Grand Marquis. Leading the way down Highway 101 toward the Santa Ynez Mountains, Harrington remained quiet while Merrick nervously looked for a police car. She had to cause a commotion, anything to draw attention to her plight.
Nearing Santa Barbara, Merrick felt a pain in her chest. She reached inside one of her bags beside her on the backseat. A weight lifter and marathon runner, she would have to use her physical conditioning to escape. "What do you think of your new director of the FBI — what's his name?"
"Don't know—'aven't 'ad the opportunity to meet the gentleman."
Merrick began to ease her hand out of her bag. Wait for the right opportunity. You need to draw attention, not get yourself killed.
The Mercury rounded the curve northwest of the Amtrak train station. Out of the dark, a California Highway Patrol cruiser appeared from behind and accelerated past the two cars. It was time to act. She tightly gripped each end of a sturdy braided belt and flipped it over Harrington's head, then yanked as hard as she could.
He gasped and struggled like a man who knew he was about to die. His feet alternately mashed the accelerator and the brake, resulting in a lurching and swaying ride. Releasing the steering wheel to use both hands to claw at the belt, Harrington choked and gagged. Merrick pulled as hard as she could. Without warning, she felt something snap and he went limp. The Grand Marquis ran off the right side of the highway, dangerously swerving and swaying.
Merrick shoved Harrington toward the passenger side, at the same time desperately grabbing the steering wheel to get the car under control. The Mercury careened back on the highway and lurched to the right again. Merrick struggled to climb over the seat and Harrington's tangled legs. Take control!
An instant later, the cruiser's flashing lights came on. The officer began slowing the car and easing toward the shoulder of the highway. Afraid that he might be rear-ended, he kept moving while the Mercury driver was steering in such an erratic manner.
With one leg twisted behind her, Merrick swerved to miss the cruiser and smashed into her smaller rental car. The Oriental driver made an attempt to pass her and they collided again. Both cars sprayed glass and twisted parts on the highway as the drivers fought for control. The man floorboarded the Cavalier and continued driving, passing the Mercury and the CHP cruiser.
Shocked by the collisions, Merrick stomped on the brakes. She brought the Grand Marquis to a screeching, smoking stop on the right side of the highway. The patrol car pulled in behind the battered Mercury and stopped. The officer radioed a description of the gray Chevy to headquarters, while he kept an eye on the driver of the Grand Marquis.
Feeling the effects of the adrenaline boost, Merrick finally opened the door and stumbled out. Her knees were shaking as she turned toward the patrolman. He must think I'm falling-down drunk.
In the process of running the Grand Marquis's license plate, the officer opened his door. He stepped out of the cruiser and put his hand on his weapon. "Ma'am, step to the back of your vehicle and place your hands on the trunk."