Elden had done no wrong. Everything was going to be fine.' In fact, the way she felt, things were really looking up.
The Isuzu rode high in the traffic, making it an easy target for Daphne to follow. Wherever possible, Daphne kept at least one car between herself and Tegg, though by his hurried, nearly reckless driving, she doubted he was paying much attention to what was behind him. He seemed hell-bent on getting to where he was going.
He took 1–5 north but stayed on it only briefly, heading east on 90. He stayed on the Interstate through Bellevue, continuing on toward the 901. She had followed him out of the city limits, had driven right out of her legal authority as a policewoman.
She was a Seattle cop; out here police authority was divided between King County Police and the police departments of the incorporated townships. She was technically a civilian now.
He drove seventy wherever possible. The farther away from the city, the more isolated she felt. If he would only stop for gas-if he would only give her a minute or so to make a phone call, to call in some backup. But he barreled along into the night, and she followed a hundred yards back.
At Preston he left the interstate and took the 203 north toward Fall City.
The farther they went, the more nervous she became. She was in over her head and she knew it. What if he did lead her to Sharon? What then? The gun? A confrontation? In the last six years she had negotiated eleven hostage situations for the department and had a perfect record. But those had been team efforts, team pressures, team resources. The only hostage situation she had failed at-one that wasn't counted on the department records- had been her own. Boldt had solved that one with his weapon, but only after the abductor had drawn his knife across her throat.
Was she capable of using the gun as it was made to be used?
Cardboard silhouettes were one thing, a human life another thing entirely.
Only minutes later she followed Tegg into the small town of Fall City, and shortly thereafter he turned south on 202. She was alone with him now, and she worried he would spot her. She fell well behind, but with the increased distance she risked losing him.
They passed Spring Glen, crossed over the dark and sullen Tokul River and turned left toward Snoqualmie Falls. They drove through town, crossed the railroad tracks, and headed south, following the tracks.
Less than a mile later, his blinker signaled a left turn and the Trooper disappeared from sight. Had he taken this turn with the sole intention of losing her? Of trapping her? Was he waiting to see whether she followed? Or was he oblivious to her presence? There were glimpses of moonlight tonight, the sky a grid of broken clouds. She couldn't continue to follow him as she had been; they were too far off the beaten track for that. What to do? They had passed a tavern on the outskirts of town. Should she go back and telephone for help? Risk losing him?.
She slowed, a headache beating unmercifully at her temples.
She switched off her headlights and turned down the darkened lane, following his taillights just barely visible a half-mile in front of her. It was a macadam road, tar mixed with crushed stone. When the moon passed behind the clouds it forced her to slow to a crawl. When it reappeared, she drove quickly, closing the distance between them. Cat and mouse, she caught him and lost him, caught him and lost him. Her headache drove spikes down into her neck. Her calf muscle cramped from carrying the tension there as well.
The road turned to mud. Twice she drove past side roads where his taillights and his tracks said he'd gone. She backed up, worried he might spot the backup lights, made the turn, and followed. It was a spiderweb of dirt roads out here; mud sprayed loudly onto the undercarriage. The front-wheel drive held the car close to the road. A left. A right. She would never find her way out of here. If this was a spiderweb, she thought, then he was the spider and she was the prey. Perhaps he had her exactly where he wanted her. Perhaps he had known she was back here all along.
Pamela Chase fumbled awkwardly nervously-with the oversized brass padlock, finally inserting and turning the key. The dogs were going crazy in there. The lock came open with a loud pop. She leapt away as a dog's nose and teeth jammed through the crack in the door surprising her. Biting at her. She placed her hand out for the dog to smell. It whined. It tried for her again, and she recognized that nose. 'Felix?' she said. 'Did you get out of your cage, boy?' She eased the door open, her hand-her scent-leading her. Felix approached and nuzzled her. A few of the other dogs stopped barking. She closed the door behind her.
It smelled horrible in here. He hadn't been keeping it clean.
It smelled wrong. Not exactly like dogs. It was dark, and she could not see clearly.
She switched on the lights. The very first pen she looked at was unoccupied, and her mind jumped to the immediate conclusion that this dog had been the one to receive the surgery. Finding an empty pen was exactly what she had hoped for-it exonerated Elden; another warm wave of tranquility passed through her at the sight of it.
Behind her and farther into the structure, she heard a collar sound its warning beep, and one of the dogs smash into the cage wall. She turned to see who was being so rambunctious.
A woman! Her hair tangled and matted, one eye bandaged, her mouth gagged, lips worn raw, a shock collar locked around her neck.
Pamela screamed. The woman screamed soundlessly. The dogs began barking ferociously again.
A bandage covering a kidney scar. Badly infected, by the color.
'Sharon?' Pamela asked tentatively.
The woman's one good eye cocked toward her suspiciously.
Untrusting.
Pamela felt weak, unable to move, without strength. This roller coaster between euphoria and horror was nearly intolerable. Only a moment before…
The kidney bandage cried out to her. How could she have done such a thing? Was she to be party to a murder? And what did that mean about Elden? Had he ever told her the truth about anything? She felt sick to her stomach-the smell, the pleading expression on this poor woman's face. And then another wave of calm swept through her, and she felt much less upset. She could handle this; everything was okay.
And then it struck her again that she was at least partly responsible. Where did her own involvement stop and Tegg's begin?
The woman in the cage-Sharon-laced her fingers through the wire cage and shook, deliberately ignoring the punishment of the shock collar that beeped its warning.
No apparent pain. The dogs were wild with excitement, but Pamela was used to the dogs, she hardly heard them; it was this woman's exceptional behavior that impressed her and held her interest. Pamela took several steps closer. How could she inflict that kind of punishment on herself and endure it?
'I'm coming,' she announced, wondering why she was walking, not running. Wondering how she could feel this comfortable.
Pamela seized hold of the lock attempting to communicate to Sharon that she intended to get her out of here.
Sharon pointed and nodded violently. 'The key?' Pamela asked.
'Is there a key in this building?'
The woman shook her head. 'I'm going to get you out,' Pamela said confidently, unsure where such confidence came from.
The captive nodded enthusiastically. She looked around. Without a key, then what? The shovel? Could she beat the lock apart? She walked over to the shovel, knowing she should hurry, but strangely in no hurry. it was okay. Everything was okay.
Sharon became frantic. Shouting. Waving her arms. Slapping the cement floor. Hopping up and down. God, she looked like one of the animals.
What was this? Several of the dogs quieted; they all began pacing their cages at once.
Sharon kept slapping the cement, in an ungainly primitive dance.
Pamela struck the lock with the end of the shovel. Nothing.
She tried again. 'I'm trying,' she told the frantic woman inside. This woman's behavior was making her nervous. 'Stop it!' she said. Only when she identified this fleeting nervousness did she realize what a huge dose of Valium it must have been-there was a gulf between how she should have been, and what she actually was, feeling.
She struck the lock with the shovel again. Nothing.Now Sharon was shaking her wrist toward the main door.
