“Thanks, Andy,” she said. He wore a bathrobe over pajamas, slippers. He still had the erect posture and flattop haircut of the state highway patrolman he’d once been.
JoBeth reached for Danny. Sara handed him over.
“Sorry to call so late,” she said. “I appreciate this.”
Danny laid his head on JoBeth’s shoulder and closed his eyes again. She carried him down a hall into a bedroom.
Andy took the knapsack. “Is everything okay, Sara?”
“It might be nothing. I got a phone call that bothered me.”
“From who?”
“I’m not positive. But I need to go back to the SO for a while, and I’d feel better if I knew Danny was somewhere safe.”
“Back to the office? It’s after midnight.”
“I know. I may ask you to keep him tomorrow night, too, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. But you’re worrying me.”
“Don’t be worried. And thanks. I’ll call to check in later, if that’s okay. I’d feel better.”
“Sure, Sara, whatever. He can stay here as long as need be. You, too, if you want.”
“Thanks, I’ll be okay,” she said. She took a last look down the hall where JoBeth and Danny had disappeared. Then she went back out into the fog.
On Cypress Creek Road the fog was so thick she had to slow to thirty-five. The metallic smell of it filled the Blazer, even with the windows up tight. Trees were ghostly shapes by the side of the road, moss-covered branches reaching out. She was glad Danny wasn’t with her.
She got her cell out, flipped it open, took her eyes off the road long enough to scroll down to the sheriff’s home number. She put her thumb on the SEND button for the second time that day.
One call and it’s over.
The road began to curve, the white line vanishing in the fog. She felt the right-hand tires bump on the shoulder and she corrected, nervous now, the visibility worse. The wipers clicked, swept moisture from the windshield.
When the road straightened, she looked at the phone again, found Billy’s cell number.
Last chance, Billy. Tell me what’s going on.
She pressed SEND, listened to it ring. Five times and then his voice mail kicked in.
“It’s Sara. You need to call me. And you need to do it right away.”
She hit END, closed the phone, and put it on the seat beside her. If she didn’t hear from him by the time she reached the SO, her next call would be to the sheriff. It would be his decision what to do next. Then it would be out of her hands.
Ahead, a glow in the fog, the fast blink of hazard lights. She slowed, saw the shape of a vehicle, not moving, slewed half onto the shoulder, half on the road, its rear end in the right lane. Headlights pointed out into the woods.
She could guess what had happened. They’d been going too fast and skidded on the wet road, or veered to avoid a deer or some other animal that had popped out of the fog in front of them. Any faster and they would have ended up in the trees.
She let the Blazer coast to a stop on the shoulder and switched her high beams on. It was the vehicle that had passed her earlier. The windows were tinted dark, so she couldn’t see inside. She got the emergency light from under the seat, stuck it to the dashboard, plugged it in, and hit the switch. It began to strobe red and blue, flashing off the side of the vehicle ahead, coloring the fog.
She opened her cell and called the main number for the SO.
“St. Charles County Sheriff’s.”
“Angie, it’s Sara Cross. I’m out on Cypress Creek, about… a mile north of the Artesia turnoff. There’s a vehicle out here, looks like it spun off the road.”
“Any injuries?”
“Don’t know yet. Can’t see anyone. Better send a wrecker, too, get this thing out of the road before someone hits it. It’s blocking a lane.”
“Tag number?”
“Can’t tell from here. I’m going to go out and have a look. Send a unit out, will you? I’ll call back if I need an ambo.”
“Everyone’s pretty busy out there tonight, with this fog and all. Lots of accidents.”
“I know that.”
“Not sure how quick I can get someone out to your ten-twenty.”
Sara breathed out. “Just send someone as soon as you can.” And drop the attitude.
“Where was that again?”
“Cypress Creek Road, north of Artesia. I’ve got my emergency flasher on. They can’t miss me.”
She ended the call, set the phone on the dash, cracked the door. Still no movement in the vehicle. She wondered if they’d walked on to look for help, gotten lost in the fog.
She switched her hazards on and got the spare Maglite from the glove box. When she stepped out onto the road, she adjusted the waistpack so the breakaway tab was in easy reach.
“Sheriff’s deputy,” she called. “Is anybody hurt?”
No response. The only sound was the slow swish of her wipers, the ticking of the hazards. She thumbed the Maglite button, sending the beam out into the fog. It played along the side of the vehicle, over the tinted windows. The air was heavy, the metallic smell of the fog mixing with the underscent of swamp. The vehicle’s hazards pulsed yellow, lit the wet blacktop.
“Hello? Sheriff’s deputy. Is there anyone in that vehicle?”
Silence. She considered getting back in the Blazer, waiting for the unit to arrive. Wondered if Angie would put the call out right away or leave her to sweat here for awhile.
Somebody might be hurt over there. You can’t just wait.
With the Maglite in her left hand, she circled the vehicle, giving it a wide berth. It was a Range Rover, late model from the looks of it. She shone the light on the rear bumper, saw the New Jersey plates, and then a shape came from behind her, silent in the fog. She saw the gun, heard the hammer click back. Cold metal touched her behind the left ear.
“Go ahead and make a move,” a low voice said. “You’ll die right here.”
TWENTY-FOUR
She froze. The steady click of the hazards seemed to grow louder.
Stupid. How did I let this happen?
“Put your hands on that window.” The voice a rough whisper.
She thought about turning the Maglite to blind him, pulling at the tab until the Glock was in her hand.
The muzzle touched the base of her skull.
“I’ll do you right now. I don’t give a fuck.”
The driver’s door opened, and another man got out. He wore a denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, his face in shadow. She wondered if one of them had been the driver of the gray Toyota.
The one behind her reached around and slapped the Maglite from her hand. It hit the blacktop, went out. He pushed her into the side of the Range Rover, pressing on the gun so her cheek touched window glass. His other hand came around, brushed across her stomach and down to the waistpack. He found the buckle and tugged at it until the weight fell away from her. It thunked on the ground.
The gun left her head.
“Open the door.” His voice husky as if from a throat injury.
Remember that detail. Remember everything.
“I’m not getting in there.”
The muzzle again, at the nape of her neck.
“I’m not,” she said.
“No? Then maybe we’ll go back to where you dropped that boy off. Do our talking there. Your choice.”
She closed her eyes. Don’t panic. Think.
“We need to hurry up,” the driver said.
“I called it in when I saw your vehicle,” she said. “There’ll be deputies here any minute.”
“Not soon enough for you.”
He caught the collar of her sweatshirt, pulled her away, and kicked her left leg out from under her. She went down onto her side, grunting with the impact, her leg twisted beneath her.