Middle Of Nowhere

   "They all live on-island," she replied, that door handle still calling to her.

   The cars up ahead started their engines, and the foul smell of exhaust filled the old car nearly instantly. Eldorado—the glove box read. He pulled the transmission into gear. As he did, she heard the familiar click of all the doors locking at once. She didn't look. She didn't want to make a point of it, but she knew he'd locked the car, or the vehicle itself had done so automatically upon leaving PARK—but it seemed to her it was too old a car for that safety feature.

   Very subtly, she adjusted her arm on the door's armrest and fingered the window's toggle. The window didn't open—whereas it had moved for him only a moment earlier. Flek had disabled the windows with the child lock from the driver's door controls. How much was paranoia, how much reality? She felt an icy line of sweat trickle down her ribs.

   The cars and trucks began to roll. She understood perfectly well that this was her last chance to attempt to flee. To do so would alert Flek and cause him to break any patterns he had established. The psychologist battled the cop, and the cop battled back, and the psychologist argued again, and Flek took his foot off the brake.

   In the end, the decision was made for her. He drove off the ferry and into traffic.

C H A P T E R

48

Mac Krishevski's offer of a trade left Boldt's head spinning. He didn't know how much the hotel video might have caught, but it didn't matter—it would look worse than it had been. Liz and the kids would suffer, and so would Daphne. SPD's brass would require one of them to transfer departments, and Krishevski was right that it would be him. He'd never work Homicide again.

   He took a long walk up the hill and into Woodland Park, all the while mulling over the possibility of trying to steal or leverage possession of the damning video. It wasn't his style: he'd need LaMoia if he were to try such a thing.

   He wasn't thinking about returning any phone calls. He intentionally left his cellular and pager turned off to give him the peace and quiet necessary for the decision he had to make now. He knew that when faced with a difficult tangle, if you pulled one way the mess miraculously came undone, if you pulled the other it ended up an unforgiving knot. He couldn't remember ever being cornered like this. He rebelled against it, but recognized too that he couldn't let his own rebellion get in the way of clear thinking. He knew the wrong decision would have horrible consequences.

   From somewhere up in this same park his would-be assassin had thrown a bullet at him. He realized a little too late that he wasn't wearing the vest. A part of him would have welcomed a sniper's bullet at that particular moment. But he knew one wasn't coming. He wouldn't be that lucky tonight.

C H A P T E R

49

"Y ou don't look like a hitchhiker."

          "No," Daphne agreed. The trick was to control her nerves, to not let her concern show. As a professional, she knew all the tricks, though as a possible victim, many of these now eluded her. She explained, "I'm meeting a friend in Poulsbo. One of the deckhands told me there's only a couple taxis here at the dock, and I'm late as it is, and if I missed that taxi—"

   "From the city?"

   "Yes."

   "I thought so."

   "And you?"

   "Here and there," he answered.

   "As in here and there?" she asked. "Or as in anywhere? You mentioned Suquamish."

   "Friends there."

   "Are you Native American?" He looked more Polish, with a hint of Mediterranean in the skin color and around the eyes.

   "No way. Just friends up there. You know. Some business acquaintances."

   "What do you do?" she asked.

   He glanced over and grinned, though not playfully.

It was an asocial grin, a grin that said to leave well enough alone, a grin she had seen worn on the faces of child killers and rapists and multiple murderers. Too many to count—but only the one mattered at the moment. She experienced that glance as voltage deep within her. It disemboweled her. Disturbed her. It dawned on her then. He knows who I am!

   "Electronics," he answered. "I'm kind of like a sales rep. I handle a lot of lines." But there was that look again that said he could tell her anything he wanted because she'd never have the chance to repeat it. She saw Maria Sanchez lying in that hospital bed as still as a corpse except for the lonely eyes. Was he the man who had done that to her?

   "Like electric company stuff?" she asked. "Or more like my VCR? You can't program my VCR, can you?"

   He laughed at that, and pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket and offered her one. When she declined, he cracked his window and lit up.

   "Can't get my window to work," she said, as innocently as possible, her finger showing off the problem.

   "Oh, here," he said. And her window operated again. They were traveling a busy roadway at forty-five miles an hour. "Thing is constantly on the fritz," he offered.

   "Electronics. Maybe you could fix it."