As soon as the screen came to life, the indicator light starting to blink, he hit the gas.
* * *
Gus Jardine must’ve had a come-to-Jesus epiphany on the way to Valley General, because as the EMTs were lowering him from the back of the ambulance, he demanded to see Rivers, who, with Mendoza, had followed the ambulance as it had raced, lights flashing, siren shrieking, to the hospital.
From his gurney under the portico of the ER, Jardine, pale and wan, stared up at the cop. “I want a deal,” he choked out. “If I make it through this, I want a deal.”
“For what?” Rivers asked. Mendoza was at his side, possibly recording the conversation, her phone in her hand.
One of the nurses who had run from the open doors of the hospital intervened. “We have to get him inside. STAT.” Thin, no-nonsense, in charge, and shivering in the cold, she motioned for the EMTs to roll Jardine inside. “Get him into ER2.”
“No!” Jardine croaked out. “A deal, Rivers! Immunity. No charges.” He cleared his throat. “And . . . and I’ll tell you where she is.”
“Who?”
The nurse interjected, “Hey, I’m sorry, but we really have to roll!”
“The missing girl. Megan Travers,” Gus said, his face pale as death in the flashing lights of the ambulance.
“This will have to wait.” The nurse was getting angry.
“I mean it, Rivers.” Gus looked like he might pass out at any second. His voice was the barest of whispers.
“Done.” Rivers didn’t have time to waste. “Where?”
“We’re going inside. Now!” the nurse insisted, and Rivers leaned forward just as Gus said, “Land owned by Cahill. Area called Regret Mountain. Spur off of Johnson Road.”
“But where—?”
Jardine’s eyes closed.
“Let’s go!” the nurse commanded and bustled into the hospital, leading the EMTs as they rolled Gus through the sliding-glass doors.
“Got it,” Mendoza said, scrolling through information on the phone as they walked back to the Jeep. “James Cahill owns a whole tract of land. Up in the hills.”
“Let’s go.”
Rivers didn’t dare hope they’d find Megan Travers. Gus Jardine could have been bullshitting him. But maybe not. When he’d held onto Jardine’s lighter for a few seconds, he’d had an image of Jardine driving Megan’s car, then another one with Megan bound and gagged in the back seat.
And his accomplice?
A blond woman who scared him just a little, whom he thought might double-cross him, a woman he called, “Julia.”
* * *
Where the hell was she going?
As Rebecca followed Sophia’s little hatchback through town, she tried to lie back with her rental car, which was difficult as there was still traffic, though very light, not many vehicles providing a buffer, the falling snow providing a thin veil. And it got worse. As Sophia left Riggs Crossing behind, Rebecca lagged even farther back, just barely keeping the taillights of the hatchback in sight.
Few cars were driving in the opposite direction, those that did passing quickly in the snow. Fortunately, a truck pulled out from a farmhouse lane and right in front of Rebecca’s rental car, offering cover. Though she worried she would lose Sophia, the truck drove fast and hard, so Rebecca could lag back a bit and hope the swirling flakes and the pickup’s headlights would be blinding, not allowing Sophia to know that she was being followed.
As she squinted into the night, Rebecca’s heart was thudding, anxiety twisting her insides. What was she getting herself into? She nearly called James, then thought better of it. After all, they were heading toward his property, and it occurred to Rebecca that Sophia might be meeting James at his house.
“Great.”
If Sophia turned into the lane leading to James’s place, so be it.
Rebecca would let it go.
This wasn’t about James.
It wasn’t about her.
It was about Megan.
Her gloved hands tightened over the wheel, and she felt sweat forming on her palms. For a split second, she considered phoning the cops, but what would she say? That she’d been staking out Sophia Russo’s apartment and now she was driving out of town?
She’d look like a nutjob.
Nope.
Better to just keep driving.
Rebecca followed the truck over the bridge, and to her despair, she watched as the driver pulled into the oncoming lane, then roared past Sophia’s little hatchback.
“Son of a—”
The pickup slid a little, and Rebecca held her breath and tapped her brakes. The driver was a maniac. Sophia’s taillights flashed for a second, and Rebecca lagged back farther as the truck sped forward and careened in Sophia’s path.
Now there was nothing between the cars, nothing but the falling snow to prevent Sophia from seeing her. She lagged back even more and was certain that Sophia was heading to James’s home, when suddenly, at a crossroads, she slowed and turned, heading east toward the mountains.
“What the devil?” Rebecca shot past the turn rather than make it so obvious to Sophia that she was being tailed. Instead, she drove south for a quarter mile, until she saw a driveway, nosed in, reversed, and headed back, taking the turn she’d ignored two minutes earlier. She only hoped she hadn’t lost Sophia, but saw no taillights, nothing but the ever-falling snow.
Crap!
She hit the accelerator. Speeding up, she crested a small rise in the road.
Nothing!
Just the wintry night and the whine of her rental car’s engine.
Her throat tightened.
“Come on, come on,” she said aloud, but wondered if she were on a wild goose chase. Sophia might not be doing anything nefarious, and here Rebecca was, trailing after her for what reason? A hunch? Because she’d stolen James from Megan? Well, if so, there was nothing to worry about; she was safe in her car, and if she lost Sophia, so what? The woman had a right to a private life.
Right?
Squinting into the
