My hand that followed the ledge of the cabinet brushed against something that moved. I froze, then allowed my fingers to search with extreme caution. A pen. No, not “a”. Two. The beginnings of a plan took root in my mind. All right, it wasn’t a very good one, but it was all I had. With luck he’d fall for it, simply because it was too unbelievably trite for me to actually try it.
I inched closer to the stairs, then waited, not wanting to get too close. The beam swept back. I ducked, but fixated on the place where the light had touched the metal steps. I could do this. I kept telling myself that my appalling aim, this time, would work, that for once I would throw something that would fly for more than ten feet.
The light swept in the other direction. Now or never. Well, now or I could crouch here like the coward I was until he caught me.
Without giving myself a chance for dithering indecision, I heaved one of the pens, missed the stairs and banged it instead against a copper still several feet from my target. Typical.
Adam reacted at once, though, with all the lack of reason I could have prayed for. He charged toward the sound, oblivious to the fact I could never have made any such noise by accident. But I wasn’t going to complain. I slunk backward, praying he would concentrate his search in the general vicinity of the pen.
His light focused, moving in slow circles, directed just where I hoped he would look. The outer fringe of it brushed the passage into the docks. And it had a door, too, one that could be closed and possibly even blocked behind me. I dove for it, banging against tables, heedless now of everything except reaching that opening before Adam.
I didn’t make it by much, but I did make it. I slammed the door shut, then wedged the other pen beneath it. It might hold him back for a few seconds, long enough for me to free the outer door, maybe even reach my car…
I had thrust my keys into my pocket when I’d entered the building. I dragged them out now, wanting them ready, wanting nothing to slow my escape. Adam already tugged and swore at the door I’d just blocked. It wouldn’t hold long. But would it be enough?
I pelted along the walkway in the dark, bumping against the railing, gasping for breath. I collided with the door, and sure enough, it wouldn’t open. Desperate, I felt along the edges until I found something wedged. I dragged at it, then bit back a cry as something sharp sliced my hand. Swearing under my breath, I felt it with more care. A pocket knife, open. The blade had been shoved in the door. But it was on my side, not like the pen I’d used to hold Adam at bay. If I could just pull it out…
I’d been so scared, I’d taken his word for it that he’d locked me in. But when I yanked at the knife, it came loose in my hand. I dragged open the door, then bolted through as Adam freed himself from my petty hindrance. I slammed the door behind me and shoved the knife into the space between the edge and the jamb, as he had done. I’d only run four steps before I heard it hit the ground.
Oh, damn, oh, damn, oh, damn. I hadn’t wedged it tight enough. Adam would be after me in a moment. I raced down the ramp to my car and scrambled into the driver’s seat. I had both doors locked in another moment and was trying to coax the engine to life.
Adam didn’t waste time trying to beat on my window or drag me from the car. It wouldn’t have worked, and he must have known it. Unless, of course, he’d given that damned flip-top a tug. Then he’d have opened Freya like a can of sardines. I blessed the fact he didn’t know-or at least think-about the faulty latches.
Instead he headed around the corner toward a stand of shrubs and trees. He must have concealed his truck in there, because as Freya’s engine roared and I threw her into reverse, I saw his headlights flash across the asphalt. And he was closer to the road leading out of here than I was. I stomped on the clutch, shoved the car into first, stepped hard on the gas-then swerved just feet short of my escape as he rammed the pickup across the opening.
I spun the wheel, skidding away, and as the duct tape holding the latches popped loose, the turkey screeched its fear. I didn’t blame it. It flapped, its wings hitting me on the back of the head, obscuring my view in the mirror. I made a wild swing, circled the lot, and amazingly Adam backed away to follow me. As soon as he’d turned from the narrow drive, I aimed Freya toward it once more and raced for escape. I had tremendous horsepower with that V-8 engine, but a finicky clutch that made it a struggle to shift gears.
Adam reached the road before me.
I slammed on the brakes and the tires shrieked in protest. The canvas flip-top wobbled and shot back on the over-oiled mechanism, and the turkey went flying forward. I wailed in fear for That Damned Bird.
Adam must have seen twenty-five pounds of terrified feathers coming straight at his windshield. He swerved, slamming on his brake, throwing himself into a spin. The pickup crashed head-on into the retaining wall, crumpling its hood. Steam hissed into the cold night.
That Damned Bird settled to the ground where it screeched and squawked in fury. I tried to shove poor Freya into reverse, but I was shaking too hard. For a long moment I stayed just where I was, trembling, my skin clammy with the aftermath of my terror.
I couldn’t just sit here like this, staring at Adam’s unconscious figure slumped over his steering wheel. Sarkisian lay in the building hurt, bleeding, most likely dying, and Adam would come around at any moment and come after us again…
I took a deep breath to steady myself. Help. I needed to get help. And the faster the better. When this was over, I promised myself, I was going to break down and get a cell phone, and to hell with people trying to call me. I could leave the damned thing turned off unless I wanted to use it.
I positioned Freya behind the truck, knowing that if Adam came around he would probably ram my beloved Mustang to make his escape. But I had to do something. I staggered back to the Honda, found it mercifully unlocked, dragged out the radio and called the dispatcher.
“An ambulance,” I screamed. “Sarkisian’s hurt. Officer down,” I added, remembering that line from some TV cop show Tom and I had laughed over. “We need backup.” I gave our location then hung up. I didn’t have time to waste on questions, such as who the hell was I and what I was doing on the sheriff’s radio.
A quick check of the backseat revealed a real live pair of handcuffs. Handcuffs. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I walked unsteadily to the Chevy.
Adam still slumped over the wheel, blood dripping from his forehead. Risking all, I pulled open the door. He didn’t move. Not a trick. He really was unconscious. I couldn’t believe my luck. I fastened one side to his wrist, the other to the steering wheel. I had no idea where the key was, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that bother me.
And now that I knew Adam couldn’t come after us again I could let myself worry about Sarkisian. And I did worry. Except for that hand that had twitched, he’d been so still, there’d been so much blood. I turned back, the rain mingling with the tears that slipped down my cheeks. If he’d been seriously hurt, if he were dead…
I raced back up the ramp to face the darkness of the interior. At least the parking lot lamps filtered inside through the door I left open, casting a garish amber glow over the cement. I should have looked for Adam’s flashlight. Or better yet, remembered the one I kept in Freya for emergencies. This was definitely an emergency.
Swearing at the wasted precious seconds during which the sheriff’s life’s blood might be seeping away, I ran to my rain-soaked car and found That Damned Bird once more a sitting tenant in the backseat. I fished out the small halogen flash from under the dash and flicked it on. A meager light wavered and went out. I shook it as hard as I could, and it came back on again, faint but willing.
This time I made it into the building and around the walkway before it failed. This time, no amount of shaking would get it started again. I groped my way forward until my fingers encountered an open door.
“If you move,” said a slurred, wonderfully familiar voice, “I’ll shoot you.”
“Owen!” I gasped his name in relief but obeyed orders and held my ground.
A moment passed. Then, “Annike? What the hell are you doing here?”
“The cavalry.” My voice quavered, but I didn’t care. He was alive. “Tedi Bird and I rode Freya to the rescue.”
Sounds of movement came from within, then the creaking of a chair as he eased himself into it. “Damn, that hurts. Turn on the lights, will you?” Then more sharply, “Where’s Fairfield?”
“Out cold and handcuffed to his steering wheel. And he cut off the lights, and I don’t know how to turn them on again. And he nearly wrecked my car.”
“Better it than you,” he declared with an intensity of feeling that shook me. “Annike…” He reached out, finding
