Middle Of Nowhere

   "All tied down for the night. One pilot was available, and he said with drive time and prep it would be an hour and a half before he'd be off the ground. Ferry's thirty-five minutes. I opted to have the car once I'm over there."

   "Hang on a second, Sarge. We got some action here. This guy's pulling off the road—some place bumpy." LaMoia handed the cell phone back to Boldt who listened intently.

   "He's pulling over," Boldt told his sergeant. "Stopping. . . . Oh, thank God!" he said with a little too much emotion.

   "What?" LaMoia begged.

   "She's groaning. It's her! She's alive!" A loud scratching. The line went dead. Boldt knew it was not just silence on the other end, but a full disconnect. "Oh, no . . ." he moaned. He passed the phone to LaMoia, who jerked it to his ear.

   "She may be alive," LaMoia said, "but this baby's dead."

   "He disconnected the call."

   "Or the battery went dead," LaMoia suggested. "How long has that thing been on anyway?" He added angrily, "And how the fuck did she find this skel ahead of you anyway, Sarge? What the hell's that about?"

   "I found him," Boldt answered. "She just took the call. Flek's cell phone records," he said, the words catching in his throat like chicken bones. "I . . . had . . . them . . . work . . . their . . . call . . . logs."

   "Sarge?" LaMoia knew that tone of voice in his boss.

   "That's why she left the call open, John. It wasn't so I could listen in, it was so I could find her."

   "Sarge?" LaMoia repeated.

   "Get Gaynes over to AirTyme Cellular in the Columbia Building. A guy named Osbourne. Wake him up if we have to. Escort him, I don't care. Just get him downtown. Now!" He added in dry whisper, "Now, before her battery dies . . . and she along with it."

C H A P T E R

52

She awakened in a dark, confined space, foul smelling and warm. It took her a moment to identify it as the Eldorado's trunk. By now Flek had found her weapon and her ID wallet. By now he understood that to kill her—a cop—meant the death penalty, if caught. By now he was plotting what to do, this man wired on a glow plug cocktail. Whatever the stakes previously, for Bryce Abbott Flek they had just escalated.

   Her wrists were handcuffed, her ankles tied together with white plastic ties. Sight of the ties stirred memories of Sanchez and Kawamoto, and stole her breath. Her mouth was gagged with an oily rag. Pulled tightly around her sore head, it was knotted in the back. She felt a strange sensation on her neck and decided it was damp blood: whatever injury she had sustained, it was not life threatening. The man behind the wheel was another story.

   The car rattled and bounced and she blamed the pounding headache as much on the seeping fumes as the blow to her head. A pinkish-red light from the taillights seeped through the car fixtures. Her blouse, soaked in tequila, radiated a sickening smell of her own fear, perfume, and the alcohol. She had no idea where they were, no idea where they were headed, though by the sound of oncoming traffic passing quickly, she knew they were traveling fast, and with so few roads in this area, it meant either toward or away from Poulsbo. If headed away, then her message to Boldt had failed. Only the open phone line presented any ray of hope— however faint—and only then, if Boldt figured it out.

   She credited her training—her ability to transcend the moment, to rise above a patient's despair and think clearly—for the steadiness of thought she experienced. She did not wallow in self-pity or succumb to fear. Instead, after a quick flirtation with the latter, she began to reposition herself in the trunk, knowing what had to be done.

   She had been inside a trunk once before in her life. A different life, it felt like. A different woman. She had no intention of this experience resulting in the same outcome. This time someone would die. And she wasn't going to allow that person to be her.

C H A P T E R

53

The ferry steamed on through the dark, churning waters interminably. Wind and rain frothed the waters into sharp, angular chop, unique to the Sound, but the ferry plowed down the peaks and beat them out its wake as a subdued, white, rolling foam.

   Boldt and LaMoia sat off by themselves on a mostly empty deck. A few tired businessmen occupied the other seats, and a couple of kids with backpacks. On these milk-run legs, the ferry definitely lost money.

   "You shouldn't have come along," Boldt said.

   "True story," LaMoia answered through his clenched jaw.

   "What do we feed you?"

   "Ensure, through a straw. If I puke, I die. Nice thought, isn't it?"

   "Then why?"

   "The last time this happened, she got cut bad, and you . . . you beat yourself up pretty hard over that. I hear you been beating yourself up over my little accident. It ain't worth it, Sarge. My gig. My choice. My bad," he said. "I'm slow, but I'm not useless. Besides, I knew you could use the company."