The car rattled and bounced and she blamed the pounding headache as much on the seeping fumes as the blow to her head. A pinkish-red light from the taillights seeped through the car fixtures. Her blouse, soaked in tequila, radiated a sickening smell of her own fear, perfume, and the alcohol. She had no idea where they were, no idea where they were headed, though by the sound of oncoming traffic passing quickly, she knew they were traveling fast, and with so few roads in this area, it meant either toward or away from Poulsbo. If headed away, then her message to Boldt had failed. Only the open phone line presented any ray of hope— however faint—and only then, if Boldt figured it out.
She credited her training—her ability to transcend the moment, to rise above a patient's despair and think clearly—for the steadiness of thought she experienced. She did not wallow in self-pity or succumb to fear. Instead, after a quick flirtation with the latter, she began to reposition herself in the trunk, knowing what had to be done.
She had been inside a trunk once before in her life. A different life, it felt like. A different woman. She had no intention of this experience resulting in the same outcome. This time someone would die. And she wasn't going to allow that person to be her.
C H A P T E R
53
The ferry steamed on through the dark, churning waters interminably. Wind and rain frothed the waters into sharp, angular chop, unique to the Sound, but the ferry plowed down the peaks and beat them out its wake as a subdued, white, rolling foam.
Boldt and LaMoia sat off by themselves on a mostly empty deck. A few tired businessmen occupied the other seats, and a couple of kids with backpacks. On these milk-run legs, the ferry definitely lost money.
"You shouldn't have come along," Boldt said.
"True story," LaMoia answered through his clenched jaw.
"What do we feed you?"
"Ensure, through a straw. If I puke, I die. Nice thought, isn't it?"
"Then why?"
"The last time this happened, she got cut bad, and you . . . you beat yourself up pretty hard over that. I hear you been beating yourself up over my little accident. It ain't worth it, Sarge. My gig. My choice. My bad," he said. "I'm slow, but I'm not useless. Besides, I knew you could use the company."
Boldt's cellular rang. It was Gaynes. She said, "Os bourne provided Daphne with a location for Flek that probably pretty well matches where you are right now— in the middle of the Sound."
"And she went off of that?" Boldt asked.
"She had a time to work with: the eight-thirty ferry to Bainbridge."
"So we're at least an hour behind her."
"You're right about Osbourne. He has the capability of pretty much pinpointing a call's location, the only bummer being that none of it is real-time. It's taking him about fifteen minutes per transmission signal, which ain't bad, but ain't great."
"Transmission signal?" he asked.
"The phone, being on an open circuit, was constantly transmitting. So he asked me to pick various times of the call for him to reference. I chose three different times, each several minutes apart. Her call originated less than a mile from Sandy Hook—west, northwest of there. When you get near the Agate Passage Bridge, you should call me. I'll help direct you."
"And a few minutes later?" Boldt asked. "Where was she then?"
"He's still processing. Says it's west of there, probably near Lemolo. He'll have an exact in a few more minutes. Maybe five more minutes, he says."
"Let's plot the last known reference," he advised.
"But unless we know where he was ahead of that," she suggested, "we won't know in what direction he was headed. You want the direction, don't you, L.T.?"
"We'll be off this ferry in fifteen minutes," Boldt
said. "I want answers by then. What if Flek's headed back for this ferry? I need to know that! I could drive right past the guy."
"Understood."
"So have Osbourne pull some help. An officer's life is at stake here."
"I'll suggest that."
"Don't suggest it, order it!"
"Right," Gaynes said, though she didn't sound convinced.
"Whatever you can do, Bobbie," Boldt said. It was as close as he could get to an apology.
"He has a couple guys working on another technology. We could pull them, but I don't advise it, L.T. What they're working on is some kind of real-time technology. It could be the ticket."
"She disconnected the call!" Boldt objected. "That's not real-time, that's waste-of-time."
"These guys are cell phone nerds, L.T. They think they've got something going. I'm reluctant to butt in on that. I will if you want, but I think we cut them some slack here and see what they can do for us. They're pretty excited about this other possibility. Your call," she said.
Boldt said to LaMoia, "Osbourne's using manpower on a long shot, and Gaynes wants me to go along with that." Boldt never consulted LaMoia on such decisions, and the sergeant's obvious surprise reflected that.
LaMoia said, "A wise old cop once told me that the dick in the field's in a better position to make the judg ment call than the suit back in the office." He was quoting Boldt back to himself, though not verbatim.
"I'm not in the office!" Boldt protested. "And I'm not a suit." It was the ultimate slur, and Boldt wanted nothing of it.
LaMoia's words garbled. "You're on a boat in the middle of nowhere, Sarge. That's even worse." LaMoia was looking a little green. "I think maybe I need some air."
Middle of nowhere, Boldt thought. To him, it summed up both his professional and private lives. It had started with the Flu, this feeling; he had no idea where or when it would end.
Into the phone, Boldt said, "It's up to you and Osbourne. Just get me something by the time we're back in the car."
"Thanks, L.T. Back at you." She disconnected the call.
C H A P T E R
54
"Y ou know what a talented person can do with a color scanner and a paint program these days? And I'm talented. Yessiree. Courtesy of our corrections programs, which taught me damn near everything I know. Maybe not hundred dollar bills, but you, Lieutenant Daphne Matthews, just gave me my passport outta here. You and your ID and your badge. Before that, what choice did I have? Hide out jumping islands for six months, lift a driver's license and give it a run at the border before it's reported. That's shaving it a little close for this boy. But a cop's badge? Are you kidding me? I surrender your weapon at the border and drive right across, all official-like. Slam dunk. Gone and lost forever. The way it should be."
They were parked in dark woods, the air laden with the pungent smell of pine sap. Flek had propped her up to sitting in the trunk, the rain falling down on both of them. Her clotted blood began to melt and paint her blouse that eerie but familiar rose. He held a cellular in his hand, switched on. Hers or his? She wondered if he had disconnected her original call to Boldt, or if it had been transmitting all this time. She held to that hope.