No Witnesses

solution. Had there been any choice, she would have gladly entered through Adler’s front gate. But Adler could not be seen having any contact with the police-the threats were adamant in that regard-and so she felt obliged to approach the estate from the back side, as he had asked of her. And to do so secretively, without being seen.

She had been on several long walks with Owen during which they had descended through the forest trail to this same picnic area, and farther down to where the same road looped back around and lower again to the condominiums that lived uncomfortably, like unwanted in-laws, on the shore’s edge bordering the marina. She had never hiked it in darkness, never by herself-had never climbed the trail’s precipitous steps, but only descended.

Her key chain carried a strong penlight, and despite Owen’s instructions to the contrary, she felt tempted to use it. She always carried her small handbag with her because of the weapon and identification it contained. It usually hung at her side suspended by a thin strap. But it was also capable of being secured to a belt, European- style, which was how she presently carried it.

This, the park’s steepest and longest stretch of steps, had not been maintained since the city park system, citing budget constraints and angry over Adler’s challenge of a right-of-way across his property, had abandoned its maintenance several years before. For his part, Owen claimed they had closed the stairs after settling a lawsuit out of court. The result of this abandoned maintenance was an impossibly steep and dangerous set of rotting railroad ties engulfed by untold species of junglelike plants. At a few of the more treacherous switchbacks, the route offered an occasional steel-pipe handrail, though they were not to be trusted. She entered the trail and began the arduous climb, finding more light than she had expected. The going was slow, and she stopped repeatedly to catch her breath and contain her frantic heartbeat. Halfway up, she wished she had made other arrangements.

It was during her third rest break that she at first sensed, and then heard, movement deep within the woods, realizing to her considerable alarm that she was not alone.

“Hello?” she called out reflexively, then chastised herself for doing so. Despite her suspicions over the past two weeks, she still failed to think like a victim. Ever a cop, never a victim. Within seconds of her outcry, she began moving again, aware that an object at rest offered an easy target. It occurred to her that it was faster to descend than continue to climb, but the sound had come from below and to her left-on the trail itself, and not very far back.

She moved quietly, her ears alert, telling herself that a deer, a dog, even a squirrel might cause such sounds. She stopped again, and there it was: but this time above her and to her right, nearly the opposite direction as before.

Struggling against the idea, she convinced herself that someone, not something, was out there, and he or she knew that she was on this trail.

The psychologist in her realized that fear could be dissipated only by acceptance, not challenge. To challenge fear was to succumb to paranoia and terror, both of which she had experienced in the last several weeks. She focused on turning off all thought and allowing the fear to rise in her chest. There was no choice but to take this back route. Tempted to cry out, she channeled this release into her legs and bounded up the trail at an all-out sprint. On the run, she reached into her purse, removed the handgun, and with the touch of a finger ensured that the safety was engaged. She welcomed the weapon defensively-a scare tactic if needed.

Finding her pace, she moved fluidly, following the steep switchbacks. Her eyes now fully adjusted, she kept watch for a place to duck off the trail and hide, deciding it would be foolish to lead a possible pursuer to Owen’s guest cottage. She had three strong candidates for who was back there: first-and the most likely, it seemed-a reporter; second, whoever had been following her; third, Harry Caulfield. But it was a possible combination that charged her with energy: Had it been Harry Caulfield following her and watching her?

Her foot punched through rotten timber and she fell hard, looking out at a short, level stretch of trail connecting to another set of steps. Hearing her pursuer even closer, she ducked into the woods. She was quite near the top, as little as forty yards to go, the surrounding terrain quite steep, the trail wedged between a V of rock and offering the only clear way up.

She hid herself against a cedar tree and muted her keys as she sought them from her pocket, interested solely in the penlight attached to them.

Below and to her right, her pursuer approached up the trail, not twenty yards back. She visualized the area through which she had just passed, settling her nerves with deep breaths and planning her actions like a hunter in a blind.

The next thing she heard was ragged breathing and the rapid approach of footsteps. And then complete and total silence-the drumming of blood in her ears. Her hands shook, belying her self-confidence. Again, she trained her fear into the center of her chest, allowing it a physical presence in her like some kind of demon, and her hands steadied.

How close was he?

No sooner had this thought entered her mind than the looming shape of a man appeared within a few feet of her, stealthily moving up the trail. He, too, appeared on edge-he had lost track of her.

She sprang with incredible force and speed, driving her heel into the side of his knee, her right shoulder into his left, and propelled him to the trail’s dirt floor. In this same steady motion she delivered her words loudly and with great authority: “Police! I am armed. Do not move!” The flashlight came on brightly under her direction and found him facedown. His hands were empty of any weapon, instead clutching that painful knee. He moved his arms slowly for her, like the wings of an awakening bird.

“Easy,” he announced. “I’m on your side.”

She knew the voice, though she could not place it. The light followed his motions. “Mackensie?” Formerly Detective Mackensie of Major Crimes. Recruited by-“Mac?” she asked again, though it was clearly he. She staggered back a step and made her weapon ready and returned it to her purse. “Why are you following me?”

“Following you?” Mackensie inquired, adding his own emphasis, working his knee carefully and sitting up. “Don’t compliment yourself.” Trying his knee again, he said, “Jesus, Matthews, you coulda broke it.”

“What are you-”

“What am I? What are you doing here? I’m perimeter patrol. Kenny’s got one of us on all four sides of the estate. You’re lucky it wasn’t Dumbo you tried that on-he’da broke your collarbone and then some.”

“Patrol?”

“He is the boss, Matthews. The CEO. Hell, he doesn’t even know we’re out here. But here we are.” He stood up and brushed himself off. “What’s left of us,” he said sarcastically. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, there’s a wacko out there drilling holes in his soup cans. It’s our job to make sure he doesn’t try to drill a hole in the boss. Comprendo?”

“Kill Owen?”

“It’s one of his stated aims, right? Or are you going to try and throw some psychobabble shit at me that says this boy is going to play by the rules? Don’t do that, okay? Not with me. Play Dr. Ruth with someone else.”

Mac Mackensie was so much the opposite of what she had expected that she felt momentarily speechless. Fowler had stolen him away from the department less than a year before for a huge salary, a company car, and six weeks’ paid vacation. Mackensie was a good cop-or had been. He was a prime example of the brain drain being effected on SPD by the private firms.

“What exactly are you doing here?” he asked in a lower voice, touching her hand and convincing her to extinguish the flashlight. “I mean I know you two … you know … but I thought … I was under the impression that …”

“It’s not that,” she fired back at him, realizing that sex was the only possibility in Mackensie’s perverted mind. “It’s an emergency,” she explained. “He wouldn’t say what. And if you make a crack about that, I’ll snap your other knee.”

“If you tell anyone about this,” he warned, defending his manhood, testing his knee and finding it sound, “I’ll make some serious trouble for you, Matthews. And that’s no shit.”

“Go lift your leg on a tree, Mackensie. I’m terrified.” She added, “Do not follow me any farther!” and broke off at a run.

As she approached the summit, she wondered why she had failed to consider the possibility of an attack on Owen, why this had not come up in her discussions with Clements. Had it been kept from her because of her