Kayleigh hadn’t wanted her at the luncheon after all.
Chapter 34
KATHRYN DANCE HAD left the sheriff’s office fifteen minutes earlier.
After word that “Your Shadow” had been played at the football stadium during practice, the task force had split into three groups: one was trying to intercept Sam Gerber. Others were at the luncheon at the country club in northern Fresno, thinking that Edwin might try to find Gerber or maybe another victim there. And yet others were trying to find Edwin and his car, coordinating with Highway Patrol. Harutyun had also alerted medical teams that there might be an assault in progress. A burns center had been put on notice too; fire seemed to be one of the perp’s preferred weapons-inspired, perhaps, by Kayleigh herself.
Kathryn Dance was en route to the luncheon too; she didn’t know the roads in the area so it would have made little sense for her to participate in the manhunt. She thought it was best simply to be the point person at the country club and to reassure Kayleigh with her presence.
But as she piloted the SUV quickly through traffic, a thought occurred.
This happened sometimes, a little tapping, a hiccup in her mind, something she just couldn’t explain. A jump from Thought A to Thought B to… Thought Z. (Michael O’Neil had recently described it as her brain doing “one of its little
No, no, this isn’t right. Edwin would be aware of the logistical difficulties of targeting a victim at the luncheon. But the event
The crew was safe. Alicia was among people.
So who else might the target be?
Dance asked herself again the basic question: If Edwin was the stalker, what was his goal? Killing someone who threatened to keep them apart, whom Edwin was jealous of, who was perceived as Kayleigh’s enemy or whose death would bind them together forever.
Dance had recalled the gossip pages in the underground websites O’Neil had found, involving sensational stories reported by fans. A hot topic-since there weren’t many of them-was the tension between Kayleigh and her stepmother. There was even an embarrassing mobile phone video about a recent argument in Bakersfield.
This wasn’t a full-blown feud; Kayleigh seemed incapable of either the pettiness or the mean spirit that would involve. And from what Dance read, Sheri Towne seemed like a decent woman, solid, loyal to her new husband and even helpful in Kayleigh’s career. But Sheri was the most recent in a long line of stepmothers and she and Kayleigh never seemed to get along. The young woman hadn’t even invited Sheri to the luncheon she herself had helped with.
Dance now called Bishop Towne and identified herself.
“Sure, Officer Dance,” the man grumbled. “What’s going on with that asshole? Heard he’s played another song.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“Gone off to that luncheon thing. Kayleigh invited her, after all.”
An alarm pinged within Dance, though she’d half expected that answer.
“When did she leave?”
“’Bout twenty minutes ago.”
“Did Kayleigh call her?”
“No, she emailed. Wanted her to bring some CDs to the lunch. Giveaways. Also said it’d be better if her sister and Mary-Gordon didn’t come ’cause that asshole Sharp.”
“So she’s alone?”
“Right.”
“Bishop, I think Sheri might be in danger. Edwin might’ve sent that email.”
“No!”
“Maybe. Which way would she go?”
“Oh, no, no…”
“Which way?”
“From the house, have to be Los Banos Road to Forty-one. You’ve got to do something! Please! Don’t let anything happen to her.”
It was unnerving to hear the gruff man sounding so desperate, so vulnerable.
“Give me her number.”
Dance memorized it. Then told him, “I’ll call you when I know something. What’s she driving?”
“I think she’s in… yeah, it’s the Mercedes. Silver.”
Dance first tried Sheri but the woman didn’t answer. She then called Kayleigh and learned, after a brief, awkward pause, that, no, Kayleigh hadn’t really wanted Sheri at the luncheon and hadn’t emailed her. Dance hit DISCONNECT with her thumb and the brake with her foot, skidding to a stop on the shoulder. She punched Los Banos Road into her GPS, and raced back onto the highway.
Los Banos was a narrow, winding line leading into the foothills toward Yosemite. It would be the only place where Edwin could attack Sheri. If she’d gotten to Forty-one, a wide, multilane road, then she would probably be okay.
But Dance knew Edwin wouldn’t let her get that far. He would have planned out the perfect site for the attack.
She tried Sheri’s number again. No answer.
In two minutes she was speeding through the forests on Los Banos.
It was then she saw the smoke, maybe a half mile ahead.
She gripped the phone and started to dial Madigan, jamming the accelerator down even harder as she took a curve. Nissan makes a great SUV but it doesn’t corner like a sports car and she nearly went off the shoulder and into a ravine forty feet below.
You’re a bad driver to start with, she told herself. Don’t be stupid.
She brought the skid under control and slowed a bit. She called Madigan and left a message, telling him where she was and to get cars there immediately, fire trucks too. Soon she was speeding along a straightaway toward the smoke, which had gone from gray to black.
Burning tires? she wondered. Oil? A car wreck?
Dance skidded around this turn too and saw the horrific scene before her-the silver Mercedes had gone off the road and was in a ditch near the asphalt. The back end of the car was burning, though the front, not yet. The angle of the accident-with the car’s hood in the air-meant the gasoline from the ruptured tank was flowing backward. Still, the flames were spreading toward the passenger compartment.
There seemed to be movement from inside the car. Dance couldn’t see clearly but knew it would be Sheri, whose feet were kicking desperately against the windshield.
No, Dance thought. You’ll never break through a windshield! The side windows!
Dance brought the Pathfinder to a skidding stop on the shoulder and leapt out, opening the back door and reaching behind the seat to snag the small fire extinguisher. She pulled it out and turned toward the Merc but dropped the heavy canister. She bent to pick it up.
Which is what saved her from a bullet.
