Very subtly, she adjusted her arm on the door's armrest and fingered the window's toggle. The window didn't open—whereas it had moved for him only a moment earlier. Flek had disabled the windows with the child lock from the driver's door controls. How much was paranoia, how much reality? She felt an icy line of sweat trickle down her ribs.
The cars and trucks began to roll. She understood perfectly well that this was her last chance to attempt to flee. To do so would alert Flek and cause him to break any patterns he had established. The psychologist battled the cop, and the cop battled back, and the psychologist argued again, and Flek took his foot off the brake.
In the end, the decision was made for her. He drove off the ferry and into traffic.
C H A P T E R
48
Mac Krishevski's offer of a trade left Boldt's head spinning. He didn't know how much the hotel video might have caught, but it didn't matter—it would look worse than it had been. Liz and the kids would suffer, and so would Daphne. SPD's brass would require one of them to transfer departments, and Krishevski was right that it would be him. He'd never work Homicide again.
He took a long walk up the hill and into Woodland Park, all the while mulling over the possibility of trying to steal or leverage possession of the damning video. It wasn't his style: he'd need LaMoia if he were to try such a thing.
He wasn't thinking about returning any phone calls. He intentionally left his cellular and pager turned off to give him the peace and quiet necessary for the decision he had to make now. He knew that when faced with a difficult tangle, if you pulled one way the mess miraculously came undone, if you pulled the other it ended up an unforgiving knot. He couldn't remember ever being cornered like this. He rebelled against it, but recognized too that he couldn't let his own rebellion get in the way of clear thinking. He knew the wrong decision would have horrible consequences.
From somewhere up in this same park his would-be assassin had thrown a bullet at him. He realized a little too late that he wasn't wearing the vest. A part of him would have welcomed a sniper's bullet at that particular moment. But he knew one wasn't coming. He wouldn't be that lucky tonight.
C H A P T E R
49
"Y ou don't look like a hitchhiker."
"No," Daphne agreed. The trick was to control her nerves, to not let her concern show. As a professional, she knew all the tricks, though as a possible victim, many of these now eluded her. She explained, "I'm meeting a friend in Poulsbo. One of the deckhands told me there's only a couple taxis here at the dock, and I'm late as it is, and if I missed that taxi—"
"From the city?"
"Yes."
"I thought so."
"And you?"
"Here and there," he answered.
"As in here and there?" she asked. "Or as in anywhere? You mentioned Suquamish."
"Friends there."
"Are you Native American?" He looked more Polish, with a hint of Mediterranean in the skin color and around the eyes.
"No way. Just friends up there. You know. Some business acquaintances."
"What do you do?" she asked.
He glanced over and grinned, though not playfully.
It was an asocial grin, a grin that said to leave well enough alone, a grin she had seen worn on the faces of child killers and rapists and multiple murderers. Too many to count—but only the one mattered at the moment. She experienced that glance as voltage deep within her. It disemboweled her. Disturbed her. It dawned on her then. He knows who I am!
"Electronics," he answered. "I'm kind of like a sales rep. I handle a lot of lines." But there was that look again that said he could tell her anything he wanted because she'd never have the chance to repeat it. She saw Maria Sanchez lying in that hospital bed as still as a corpse except for the lonely eyes. Was he the man who had done that to her?
"Like electric company stuff?" she asked. "Or more like my VCR? You can't program my VCR, can you?"
He laughed at that, and pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket and offered her one. When she declined, he cracked his window and lit up.
"Can't get my window to work," she said, as innocently as possible, her finger showing off the problem.
"Oh, here," he said. And her window operated again. They were traveling a busy roadway at forty-five miles an hour. "Thing is constantly on the fritz," he offered.
"Electronics. Maybe you could fix it."
He laughed again, enjoyed a pull on the cigarette and made a spitting noise with his lips as he exhaled. He said, "Let me guess: you're a model."
Her turn to laugh. She threw her head back and chortled to the faded ceiling fabric. "I'm flattered! Thank you."
"I've seen you someplace," he said, his inquiring expression making her uncomfortable. She felt him undress her with his eyes. Men did this all the time with her, but this one actually penetrated beyond the clothing to where her skin burned hot, and she felt repulsed by him. She imagined him with Samway: abusive, sexually dominant, taking what he wanted when he wanted it. The woman in her wished the car could drive faster, that Poulsbo would arrive sooner. She could see him dragging her by the hair into the woods, tying her up to some tree and having his pleasure with her. Leaving her there, half naked, gagged, to starve to death or be consumed by the elements. Such things happened more frequently than the civilian population knew— women of all ages disappeared at an alarming rate. The Bryce Abbott Fleks were responsible—the professional in her knew this as well.
"I'm a psychologist," she said, hoping it would put him off as it did so many people.
"A shrink?"
"Not exactly. A counselor is more like it. People come to me with their problems." She debated going for the heart, or sitting back to see where he took this, but the desire to dominate won out. She didn't want him controlling; she wanted him back on his heels. "Relationship problems, grieving the death of a loved one, control issues. You'd be surprised how many people can't control themselves."
"The TV?" he asked. "You on a show or somethin'? Is that where I seen you? Sally Jessy? Somethin' like that?"
"I've been interviewed by local news a few times, but nothing recently."
"Maybe that's it," he said.
She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not. It felt a little to her like the cat batting the mouse in the face with the claws retracted, playing soft because there was plenty of time and both the mouse and the cat knew who was running the show. It was this control issue that she seized upon. She needed him off balance, or she needed to just shut up and get through the ride, but the psychologist in her wanted to get inside him in a much different way than he wanted to get inside her.