“This?” He held up the bottle. “I bet you’re parched.” He pulled her head up by the hair, poured water into her mouth so she choked, gagged, wheezed. “Better? What do you say?”
She said thank you.
Thirty
They had more than he’d expected, but not more than he’d prepared for.
Tawney and his partner had been to College Place, though Kati couldn’t confirm they’d gone to his school or apartment. Even when he broke two of her fingers she couldn’t give him the exact locations. Her source hadn’t given her the data, or hadn’t had the data to give.
But they’d been there, he was sure of it. They’d pawed through his things, through the daily life of the person he’d once been. Not that it mattered, he thought. They weren’t his things any longer. They belonged to another life—the gray life.
They were, as he’d expected, watching the ferries. And Fiona had moved into her lover’s house. She was never alone.
He’d taken care of the first, and had plans for the second complication. The centerpiece of that plan lay unconscious on the plastic sheet.
He thought of the e-mail. A trap, just as he’d suspected. He was sure of it now. They thought they could trick him, outwit him, but he was much too smart for that.
He considered, briefly, tossing the reporter back in the trunk and taking the morning ferry back to the mainland or one of the other islands. But that would leave Fiona undone, and a debt was a debt.
More, the student would surpass the teacher when he killed Fiona. Correcting Perry’s mistake would be part of his legacy.
His song and story.
The pity was he could no longer take his time with Kati, no longer risk two or three days with her as he’d hoped. It left him little time for their collaboration on the book.
He’d need to do the lion’s share of that himself as he had to start the next phase sooner than originally planned.
He studied her, shrugged. Really, there wasn’t much more he wanted to do with her.
He decided he’d study his maps again, then get a few hours’ sleep, fry up a good breakfast. He’d want to get started well before dawn.
As he went out, he decided it was a good thing he’d broken her fingers instead of her toes. He didn’t want to carry her the whole way.
Simon kept his music turned off and found work he could do on the shop porch. That way he could see, and hear, who came and went.
Just something else he owed Eckle, he thought. The fact that he couldn’t focus on his work, couldn’t blast his music.
He’d already decided to give it one more week, then whatever Fiona’s schedule, he was taking her away for a while. Nonnegotiable. They’d go visit his parents in Spokane, which would kill two birds as his mother would stop nagging him about meeting Fiona every time they talked on the phone or e-mailed.
He’d already selected the hammer to drive home that nail. He’d sacrifice his dog’s balls. Fiona wanted Jaws neutered—and kept leaving information about it all over the house. He’d give her that; she’d give him this.
Sorry, pal, he thought.
Then they’d drive—the whole pack of them if she wanted—to Spokane. He’d rent a damn van if he had to. Driving took time, the more the better as far as he was concerned.
If Tawney and Mantz couldn’t run Eckle to ground by the time they got back, they didn’t deserve their badges.
He glanced up at the sound of a car, then set aside the brush he’d been using to stain a pair of bar stools when he saw the police cruiser.
He hoped to hell it was good news.
“Davey.” Fiona stepped out of the house. “You’ve got the timing down. My last clients left ten minutes ago. The next aren’t due for twenty.” She pressed her knuckles between her breasts where the breath wanted to stick. “Is she alive?”
“They haven’t found her yet, Fee.”
She just sat down where she stood, on the porch steps. Her arms went around dogs as they crowded around her.
“They sent us a picture. The best they could get from the two witnesses at the motel. I brought you a copy.”
He took it from the file he carried, offered it.
“It hardly looks like him—or like he did. The eyes, I guess. The eyes do.”
“The witnesses were shaky there. They’ve done a composite.”
“His face looks... beefier, and he looks younger without the beard. But... the cap covers a lot, doesn’t it?”
“The night clerk was next to useless—that’s the word we got. The other guy, he did his best. But he barely saw Eckle. He left prints in the motel room—Eckle did. They matched them with prints from his apartment. He’s not biting on the e-mail again, at least not so far.”
He nodded to Simon as Simon walked up. “They don’t think he will now so they’re releasing his name and this sketch to the media this afternoon. It’s going to be all over the TV and the Internet in a couple of hours. Somebody’s going to make him, Fee.”
Simon said nothing but took the sketch out of Fiona’s hand to study it.
“We’re going to plaster those on the ferries, at the docks,” Davey continued. “Starr’s paper’s offering a quarter-million reward for information that leads to her or Eckle. It’s blowing open in his face, Fee.”
“Yes, I think it is. I only hope it blows hot and fast enough to save Starr.”
He’d made her walk. Even with the speed and the protein drink he forced down her throat it took a full three hours. She fell often, but that was fine. He wanted to leave a good trail. He dragged her when he had to, and enjoyed. He knew where he was going and how to get there.
The perfect spot. Brilliant, if he said so himself.
By the time they stopped, her face was filthy, purpled with bruises, hatchmarked with scrapes and nicks. The clothes he’d washed and put back on her were little more than rags.
She didn’t cry, didn’t fight when he lashed her to the tree. Her head just fell forward, and her bound hands lay limp in her lap.
He had to slap her several times to bring her around.
“I have to leave you here awhile. I’ll be back, don’t worry. You may die of dehydration or exposure, infection.” He lifted his shoulders in a what-can-you-do? gesture. “I hope not because I really want to kill you with my own hands. After I kill Fiona. One for Perry, one for me. Jesus, you smell, Kati. All the better, but phew. Anyway, when this is done, I’m going to write the story for you, send it in, in your name. You’ll get that Pulitzer. Posthumously, but I think you’re a shoo-in. See you soon.”
He popped one of the black pills himself—he needed the kick—and started off in a brisk jog. Without the dead weight, he calculated he could make it back in under half the time it had taken to drag her pitiful ass alone. He’d be back at the cabin before dawn, or just after.
He had a lot of work to do before he made the return trip.
Simon watched her push herself through her next class, and decided enough was enough. When he’d done what he needed to do, he waited until the last car pulled away and she walked back into the house.
He found her in the kitchen running a cold can of Diet Coke over her forehead. “Hot today.” She lowered the
