Killing Fear

She walked two blocks, turned onto Fifth Street and walked two more blocks to the loft she had bought three years ago. All the warehouses on this street had been bought by a developer who converted the bottom floors to businesses, and the upper floors to lofts. She was one of the first to buy, and the space was one huge room on the top floor. It had twenty-foot ceilings and lots of tall windows. She’d put up partial walls and designed the space to maximize the sunlight so she could paint in the mornings. She’d been making a name for herself in the art community and had her first big art show coming up next weekend. She’d started painting as a hobby and discovered she loved it. She created bold, colorful, vibrant pictures, taking familiar scenes and making them special.

Her lights blazed behind the tall narrow windows of her loft. A timer turned them on before sunset. She would never walk into a dark room.

Seven years ago she’d walked into a dark nightmare that had been revived tonight with Glenn’s escape.

She locked and bolted the door behind her, heart pounding.

“There’s no way he can get to San Diego that fast,” Robin said out loud. Her cat, Pickles, the fluffy gray and white tabby who used to belong to Anna, wound around her feet, purring. Robin picked him up and held him to her face. His purr grew louder.

“Yeah, I know, I’m not supposed to be home this early.”

She fed Pickles, saw the blinking light on her answering machine. She pressed PLAY.

The machine intoned, “Message one, seven p.m. Saturday.”

Then her mother’s voice. “Robin, it’s your mom. I’m sitting on the beach right now drinking a pina colada. Maui is so beautiful! I wish you were here with me. You work too hard, sweetheart. You need to have fun. I love you! ’Bye!”

Robin smiled, in spite of her mixed feelings. Didi McKenna had no idea of what anything cost. Her spontaneous trip to Hawaii drained her savings account and while there she would probably max out her credit cards. Robin wouldn’t have cared so much except that she had bailed her mother out of financial messes more than once.

“Ms. Robin McKenna, this is Officer Diaz from the San Diego Police Department.”

Robin froze as the answering machine continued with the message.

“I’m sorry to be calling so late, but this afternoon there was an earthquake near San Quentin State Prison and Theodore Glenn escaped when a wall collapsed in the prison exercise yard. We are taking precautions and notifying everyone who was involved in his prosecution that Glenn is missing and presumed at large. If you have any questions, please call me at 619-555-1100.”

Robin pounded the erase button, as if it could make tonight disappear. Like she didn’t know Theodore had escaped! What good would it do to notify her? What good would it do anyone? If Theodore wanted to get to someone, he’d find a way.

Petting her cat, she walked through the loft to her bedroom. Her sleeping area was separated from the rest of the loft by three antique black silk screens. She put Pickles on the bed and sat, staring at her nightstand. Her fear was palatable: she tasted it, her pores oozed it, her hair tingled.

Why me?

Robin rarely indulged in self-pity. Seven years ago she’d had to shore herself up against it as well. It would have been easy to hide forever, to move back home with her mother, to disappear. But she hadn’t. She’d faced the press, faced the court, helped put Theodore Glenn behind bars.

“Why don’t you like me, Ms. McKenna?” he’d asked.

How to answer a question like that? She’d felt his evil. Deep down, she knew it. The way he looked at her. The way he made her feel: cold and petrified.

He’d never said anything cruel to her. He’d never done anything to her. He simply watched her, but she had grown terrified. Irrational. At least she’d thought so at the time.

When Bethany was killed, she just knew he was responsible. After, he looked at Robin as if they shared a secret. The way he tried to hold her, to console her, when she found out. It was-odd. Different and strange. How could she explain something she didn’t understand?

Robin had put her gun away last year when Glenn’s first appeal had been denied. It had been time to put the past behind her, once and for all, and the weight of the gun had reminded her constantly of why she had a concealed carry permit in the first place.

When Glenn was convicted of murdering four of her friends, he vowed to the courtroom that he would kill Robin. When he stared at her that horrible day, she was certain he would do it the moment he had the opportunity.

She had to make sure he had no such opportunity. If he came back to San Diego, she had to protect herself. She would not be a victim. She would not allow him to win.

She opened her nightstand. There was nothing in the drawer except for her gun, her belt holster, and a box of bullets. She picked up the 9 mm and held it in her palms.

The fear she had repressed for the last hour overwhelmed her.

It was as if she were back in her old apartment. In the dark. She had walked in, wondered why the lamp wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Pickles wound around her feet. She picked him up. He was wet. The smell. God, the metallic, wet smell! It was like she knew, but still stepped forward. Tripped over something, fell in a slick, foul-smelling mess. It was Anna’s blood. Her blood was everywhere; Robin was covered in it.

Now she put her head in her hands, shaking. For seven years she had lived with fear, but she’d dealt with it. Minimized it. Robin forced herself to work, stand up to rowdy guests, defend her dancers, run her business. She would not be cowed into hiding. She’d taken self-defense classes while in college, had taken even more of them after Anna was killed. She had gotten the gun. Learned to use it.

One year ago she put the weapon away and stopped going to the range. It had been time to get on with her life. To finally conquer the cold fear that chilled her every night.

The fear was back.

She walked to her dresser and opened the top drawer, pulled out her favorite leather belt, and threaded her holster through it. She checked the ammunition, though she didn’t have to. The first of every month she cleaned the gun, reloaded it, chambered a round, and flicked the safety on. She’d never grown up with guns, but she was comfortable with this one.

If Theodore Glenn walked through that door, she would shoot him without hesitation or remorse.

The thought that she could kill repulsed her. What kind of person did that make her? What had fear created?

THREE

Detective Will Hooper came up from the basement where he’d retrieved the files on Theodore Glenn in preparation for the task-force meeting.

Chief Causey thought Will was crazy when he insisted on calling the meeting first thing Sunday morning, insisting that Glenn would head for the border. Will argued passionately, knowing Glenn would return to San Diego to make good on his threat.

Though unconvinced, Causey ordered everyone threatened by Glenn to be notified. He also agreed to put together the task force as a precautionary measure.

Chief Causey’s opinion aside, there was no doubt in Will’s mind that Theodore Glenn would try to kill those who had put him in prison. The only question: Who would he target first?

Carina Kincaid, Will’s partner, entered the bull pen and made a beeline toward the coffeepot, her dark hair still damp. “Bastard,” she mumbled when she saw Will. “You called me at four in the morning.”

“Wimp.”

“I’d tell you to fuck off, but I’m too tired.”

“Late night?”

Carina blinked. “Why do I feel we’ve had some version of this conversation before?”