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Authors: Nancy Bush

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BOOK: Nowhere to Run
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“What do you do down here?” she asked him.
“Down here?” he repeated, as if he weren’t really listening.
“In the States.”
“A fishing guide. Same as Canada.”
“Where’s your boat?” she asked.
“At a marina on the Columbia River,” he said, frowning. “You think
I’m
lying to
you?
”
“I don’t even care if you are,” she said. “Unless there’s someone else coming to this house.”
“Look in the other bedroom. I live alone,” he stated flatly.
“I need to figure this out,” she said.
What had precipitated the attack on Zuma? Maybe Auggie was right and it had something to do with Kurt Upjohn and his war games, or his finances, or maybe even his personal life. Or, maybe it was somebody else at Zuma? One of the geeks upstairs? But the upstairs hadn’t been compromised. At least she didn’t think so. She hadn’t gone up there herself, but the door at the top of the stairs wasn’t easy to breach. It was everyone downstairs who’d been gunned down.
Maybe Jessica or Paul or even Aaron had some desperate enemy willing to kill innocent people to get to them.
But why now? She was the one who’d gotten the package from her long-dead mother.
But what would the package have to do with anything? It was benign, really. A few photographs, a message from her mother, her birth certificate. Yet . . . yet . . . there was
something
there.
The pictures . . . the zombie stalker . . . it felt like there was a door cracking open inside her mind. Dr. Yancy had told her she’d buried her memories.
Who knew about the package? Hague. Della. Her father. Lorinda . . . the lawyers at Crenshaw and Crenshaw . . .
Was it about the package?
Was it?
How could it be?
How could it not be?
Last night she’d told her father and Lorinda and Della that she was going to look into the past. She’d declared and/or intimated that she was going to learn more about the serial strangler who’d been killing women in their area about the time her mother committed suicide. That she wanted to know who the people were in the photographs. That she might follow up with her birth parents.
Hague had called the man in the picture the zombie, the man who was always there, just out of the corner of his eye. But then Hague had mentally disappeared. He knew something. Something that had sent him away from reality.
Kill you.
And then today the gunman had come to Zuma.
“What?” Auggie asked when Liv suddenly jumped to her feet.
“I’ve got to go talk to someone.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to leave me tied here,” he warned her.
She pulled the keys from her pocket. “I’m going to have to.” She looked around, yanked out a drawer, then another, until she found a small knife, then cut off a hank of twine from the roll while he tried to reason with her as she lashed his legs together and to the chair. “There’s no need for this. Take me with you. I want to help you. Do you hear me?”
She wasn’t listening. It was all just noise in the background as her mind moved ahead. She tested the ropes and ignored his darkening expression as she grabbed her backpack from where she’d left it by the kitchen table, stuffed the knife inside, and, more gingerly, her gun, then gave a last look around the kitchen. The oven was freestanding with a bar for the handle. Following her gaze, he said, “No.”
With all her strength Liv dragged a struggling Auggie in his chair to the oven and then tied the chair to the handle of the opened oven door.
“This is dangerous,” he said through his teeth.
“Yes, it is.” She went through his pockets. Nothing. His cell phone was on the counter. “You don’t have a wallet,” she said, wondering where that was.
“Yes, I do. I—” He cut himself off, thinking hard. Swearing beneath his breath, he said, “If it’s not in my back pocket, I must have left it at the coffee shop. Damn.” He threw her a fulminating look. “Maybe you can get it for me?”
She tightened her lips, silently telling him that wasn’t possible, then she opened the back door, keys in hand. The last thing she saw was Auggie, glowering at her, clenching his teeth as if to keep himself from blasting her. She closed the door behind her, listened for the satisfying sound of the deadlock shutting tight and the ear-blistering sounds of Auggie swearing a blue streak. Then she headed to his Jeep with a length of twine to tie down the back hatch.
 
 
My brain is full of worms. It is failing me. What I did today . . . crazy. Crazy. Like fuckin’ Rambo . . .
My heart is pounding triple-time. I have to hide the gun. Hide my clothes.
Hide.
But she has to die. She knows too much. It’s planted deep inside her.
I have to kill her. I have to find her and kill her.
I can feel the need overtake me. Hot and smothering. My hands reach into the darkness, and I dream of that soft, white neck. Crushing the hyoid bone at her throat is almost like sex.
But what I did today! Fuckin’ Rambo. Too desperate and reckless and she
wasn’t even there
!
I’ve let her live too long.
Too long.
I need a new plan. Something less BIG, but it’s getting harder to keep my thoughts in order.
My brain is full of worms . . . it’s failing me.
I must finish what I started . . . accept who I am . . .
Before it’s too late . . . and little Livvie catches up to me.
Chapter 7
“Detective. Rafferty . . . ?”
September was in the process of striding back through the station’s main entrance and past Guy Urlacher after taking Phillip Berelli back to his car. She gave Guy a long look, just daring him to ask for her ID.
“Yes,” she said in a tone that warned him not to get in her way. It was like an uncontrollable obsession with him and though he contained himself with Gretchen most times as she would glare ice at him if he should even speak to her, he did not feel the same restraint when it came to September.
This was the curse of being the newest detective on staff. No uniform. No name tag. Guy Urlacher didn’t know how to handle it.
It was dark outside and she was tired. Too tired to deal with him in any professional way. She could feel the cloud over her head as she stepped around him with a dark scowl, then marched down the hall to the squad room.
She overheard Gretchen saying to George as she entered, “The guys upstairs didn’t know what went down. They don’t leave unless they absolutely have to, apparently. Someone takes a lunch order for them and otherwise they’re just there.”
“Who took the lunch order today?” George asked.
“A guy named Rad. Yes, Rad. He went out about twelve, got back about one, and then went upstairs. The accountant, Berelli, has an office in one corner, and Rad got him something, too.”
September already knew this as she and Gretchen had walked through the “control room” and spoke briefly to the nine or ten programmers. To a one they were slack-jawed with shock. Their world, apparently, was inside the games they developed, games that were rife with violence. But they were just games after all, and the programmers didn’t seem to know what to think about life and death events in the real world.
Rad had insisted he was the only one who’d gone in and out of the upstairs door that day other than Berelli, and September was inclined to believe him. Backgrounds were being checked but on first glance it appeared none of the computer geeks was connected to the grisly massacre that had taken place on the first floor.
Gretchen’s desk phone rang and she swiveled around to answer it, smashing the receiver to her ear. September, who, at a request from Gretchen, had stopped at a deli on the way back, plopped the brown bag on Gretchen’s desk. Gretchen was tapping her fingers and staring up at the ceiling, clearly irked at some delay on the other end as September pulled out tuna fish sandwiches for herself and her partner.
George said, “Nothing for me?”
“You gotta put in an order,” September said.
“Tuna,” he said, spying the sandwich and wrinkling his nose. He made a sound of disgust and turned back to his work.
“Yeah, well, tell me something I don’t know!” Gretchen snarled into the phone and crashed the receiver into its cradle. She picked up half of her sandwich and waved it at September. “Everybody’s an asshole,” she declared, before taking a bite.
“Everybody?”
“Everybody,” she stated firmly.
“What was that about?”
“The lab. Nobody can get jack shit done unless it’s an act of Congress.”
They munched on their sandwiches and Gretchen washed hers down with cold coffee. September got up, walked into the hallway and to the water cooler and poured herself a small paper cupful. She returned just as Gretchen demanded, “Where’s this Olivia Dugan person?”
George spoke up, “D’Annibal sent someone to find her. Wes, maybe.”
“Why hasn’t she called us?” Gretchen asked. “She should have called us by now.”
September shrugged. “Maybe she’s scared? Maybe she still doesn’t know we’re looking for her.”
“She’d have to live on another planet not to know, with all the press that’s come down. And she should know to wait for the police. Where’d she go after she left Zuma?”
September shook her head. No one had that information.
“Did you get through to the de Fores?” Gretchen asked George, who’d been tasked with finding the man’s family.
“Finally,” he said, exhaling heavily. “Mom and Dad live in Medford and are flying up, so they’ll be here in an hour or so. You gonna be at the morgue when they arrive?” he asked Gretchen.
She grimaced. “Yeah.” She turned to September. “How’d you do with Upjohn’s ex?”
“I talked to Camille on the phone. Camille Dirkus. She was at the hospital earlier, maybe still is,” September answered. “She took back her maiden name, but Aaron was their son together. Camille’s beside herself about Aaron’s death, and I don’t know . . . I think if Kurt Upjohn lives she could actually try to kill him.” She was half-serious.
George said, “Hmmm.”
“She blames him?” Gretchen asked. At September’s nod, she said, “We’ll go see her tomorrow.”
“What about the receptionist? Maltona?” George asked.
“Maltona doesn’t appear to have anyone but the boyfriend, a Jason Jaffe who’s an artist of some kind,” Gretchen said in a tone that suggested what she thought of artists in general. “I started leaving messages on Jaffe’s cell phone this afternoon and he’s texted me back stuff like ‘ok’ and ‘at hospital.’ I don’t really know if he’s telling the truth; nobody at the hospital’s seen him. He’s first on my list tomorrow to track down.”
“Upjohn’s first on mine,” September said.
Gretchen stretched her arms over her head. “It’s six-thirty. After the de Fores, I’m done for today.” She scooted back her chair and gathered up the second half of her sandwich.
“I hear ya,” George said and Gretchen shot September a sideways look. George did as little as possible when it came to dealing with people, especially bereaved people.
September thought of her rented condo. She’d lived there for three years, ever since the owners had bought it, and a number of other units, out of foreclosure and turned them all into rentals. When she’d first moved in she’d painted all the rooms and bought new towels and an overly expensive couch, but since that first flurry of pride of house, she’d spent more time advancing her career than caring about hearth and home. Now, she didn’t really relish going back to her empty rooms.
“I think I’ll stick around a little bit longer,” she said.
“Suit yourself,” Gretchen responded as she took a left out of the squad room. George hefted his bulk from the chair and headed down the hall after her in the direction of the staff room.
After they were gone, the squad room was nearly empty and had a strange echoey feel that didn’t exist during the rest of the day. She thought of her family—two brothers, one sister, her autocratic father and stepmother—and decided she didn’t want to talk to any of them, either.
Detective Wes “Weasel” Pelligree stuck his head inside the squad room from the hall to the lockers. A tall, lean, black man, he had a killer smile, a slow-talking manner and a dry wit. He made September’s heart race a little faster whenever he appeared, but he was firmly entrenched in a long-term relationship with his high school girlfriend and had been for fifteen years or so, so the rumor went. He was also on a mission to arrest every crack and meth dealer he could find, a result of the death of his older brother, a user, who’d nicknamed Wes “Weasel” long before Wes had grown to his full six-foot-three height.
“How ya doin’?” he asked her.
“Been a long day,” September admitted.
“Sandler’s a bitch, but she knows what she’s doing,” he said.
“I guess that’s a recommendation of sorts.”
He grinned. “Look forward to the day when someone says it about you. Then you’ll know you’re a detective.”
“Oh, joy.” When he ducked back out, she yelled after him, “Aren’t you on the trail of Olivia Dugan?”
“The Zuma employee? Uh-uh. Probably somebody D’Annibal thinks’ll look good on TV. Channel Seven’s all over this.”
“All the stations are,” September said.
“Well, try to stay away from Seven’s Pauline Kirby. That woman’s a barracuda.” He gave a mock shudder. “
And
a bitch.”
“So, she’s good at her job?”
He snorted. “You
can
be a bitch and a lousy detective,” he allowed. “You just don’t last long.”
“How about nice, or at least personable, and good at your job?”
He flashed her his pearly whites. “Never happen.”
September was still smiling after he was gone. “Then I guess I’ll just have to be a bitch,” she said to the empty room.
 
 
Trask Burcher Martin was a pothead. And a drunk, kinda. And definitely a slacker. But he was a good guy inside. Ya just had to look a little harder, sometimes, to see the good of it all. At least that’s what he told himself whenever he thought hard about the whole thing, like now.
He exhaled a lungful of smoke, lost in a bit of a weed dream-state. He liked Jo. Loved her, maybe. She was his woman and they were
together
. Taking another toke, Trask relaxed into the couch cushions. A little MJ from time to time kept him from noticing that he and Jo didn’t have too much going for them, really. Not cash-wise, anyway. Making the rent payment every month was kinda tricky, and well, his job pumping gas wasn’t gonna make them rich anytime soon. Jo was a clerk at the local convenience store, but she would only work the daylight hours because of all the sick fucks who held up places like hers late at night, so that kept her from any serious greenbacks.
Still, it was okay. Pretty okay. Kept Jo safe and that was good.
He squinted an eye at the television cable box. If he didn’t pay that bill soon, it would shut off and be over. But for right now, he could read the time: eight-thirty.
So, where was Jo, huh? It was getting damn dark.
“Jo,” he said aloud. And then burned the end of his fingers with the last ember of the doobie. “FUCK!” He dropped it and stamped it out with his foot, waving away the smoke. Lucky for him, his neighbor, Liv, was spooked by about everything so if she smelled anything she wasn’t likely to call the authorities down on him. Like the landlord. Or the police. Or anybody.
Shaking his head, he sucked on his fingers, then ran them through his hair and stepped outside onto the concrete balcony that fronted the parking lot side of the L-shaped building. A wave of August heat burned up from the pavement below; he could feel it rising beneath his bare feet, too. It was just barely dark, but still fuckin’ hot. He could see the faint glimmer of stars above the fir trees at the back of the lot.
And the GMC truck was there. The 2005 one that . . . was kinda like his old one.
Trask blinked. Tried to remember. What was that about? Oh, yeah. The lurking asshole in the hoodie outside Liv’s place who wouldn’t show his face.
He wondered if Liv was home. Maybe Jo was with her?
“That . . . would be . . . unlikely,” he said to the parking lot below, working on the thought to keep it from flying around inside his muddled brain.
But the truck . . . ?
Oh, yeah. The dude. He’d been in a truck like that. Asshole.
Trask lurched along the balcony toward the stairs. Whoa, man. He musta kinda overdid it. Was havin’ a few proble-mos with his equal . . . equality . . . equilibrium. Yessirree. Equilibrium. Maybe he should just talk to that dude? See what was on his mind. Ask him what the fuck he was doing hangin’ around Liv’s . . . place . . . room.
Nodding, he worked his way slowly down the outdoor stairs to the ground level, his soles scraping along the concrete steps. Shoulda put on some shoes, he realized belatedly.
He slipped down the last couple of steps, had to grab the metal rail. Whoa. Head rush. Pulling it together, he strode right over to the truck. “Hey,” he yelled, then was incensed when the bastard fired up the vehicle like he was gonna race away.
“Hey!” Trask yelled again. He pointed his finger at him.
I see you. You fucker. I see you!
To Trask’s surprise, the guy slid down his window . . . and pointed the barrel of a handgun at him.
“What . . . whoa, man.” Trask backed up, holding his hands in the air. Fucker! Geez . . . God.
Bang. Bang.
Two shots. No hesitation.
Pain exploded in his chest. In disbelief, Trask staggered sideways, staring down at himself. “You shot me. You fuckin’ shot me!”
The GMC sped out of the lot with a roar, tires burping on pavement. Through a haze Trask tracked its progress. He lurched and fell to one knee, looked around wildly, then gazed across the parking lot to the line of doors and windows of the apartment building. Silence. No one around. No one busting out of a door to help him.
“Hey . . .” he said feebly.
Wrapping one arm around his chest, vaguely aware this was gonna hurt like a son-of-a-bitch later, completely in denial that this was anything serious, Trask staggered across the lot and reeled and stumbled his way up the apartment steps.
He made it all the way to Liv’s apartment before he sank down in front of her door and died.
BOOK: Nowhere to Run
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