“Fiddler,” Hunter said quietly. “I heard Zandra say her name a few times. You look like you’re in pain, Gideon.”
Gideon nodded. “I am. My head more than my arm, I think.”
Hunter went to the hatch of his SUV and pulled a bottle of water from a cooler, then fished something from the glove box. “Here,” he said. “Water and Advil.”
Gideon took the pain reliever and chased it with the water. He met Hunter’s concerned gaze. “Thank you . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know your first name.”
“It’s Tom.”
“Thank you, Tom.” Gideon drained the bottle. “Hell of a welcome to Sacramento you’ve had.”
Tom gave him a wry smile. “I hate to be bored.”
“Then this is right up your alley.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 11:45 P.M.
He took the exit for the airport, watching for cops but seeing none. He didn’t have a lot of time, after all. Once the fire at his house was discovered, they’d be focused on putting it out. Luckily, gas fires burned hot and fast, so by the time the fire department got there, they’d be containing it versus extinguishing it.
But once they’d eliminated the danger of the fire spreading to other houses, they’d figure out he lived there. Then it wouldn’t take them too long to figure out he worked for a charter airline.
But by then he’d be in Mexico. He’d have a plane, so he’d have income. Hell, he could even do drug runs like his father had. The only difference was that his father would only risk it occasionally, when they needed a revenue boost.
I’d do it full time. I’ll have a business built in no time. And I’ll make a new life.
He’d miss his basement guest room, but it wouldn’t be too hard to build another.
He’d put his blinker on and entered the turn lane onto their access road when he saw the flashing lights. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
There were police cars everywhere. Surrounding his hangar. The doors were open, the planes shining in the hangar’s overhead lights. A SWAT van out front. Uniformed men and women walking around in tactical gear with AR-15s.
Oh my God.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They know. He whipped back onto the main road, earning a horn blow from the guy behind him. They know it’s me. They know where I work.
How? How did they know? How had they gotten here so quickly?
His gut roiled. “What am I gonna do now?” he whispered aloud, cringing at the fear he heard in his own voice.
You are not going to lose it. You’re going to think.
He needed to figure a different way out of town. He could drive. But it was nine hours to the border and that was if he hit no traffic, which wasn’t likely to happen. Keeping to back roads would take far longer. Plus he’d need to buy a fake ID from somewhere. And a fake passport. And if he encountered any roadblocks, he’d be fucked.
He didn’t know how to cross borders on land. He’d always flown.
I should have killed Zandra when I had the chance. But he hadn’t and now she was a key witness against him.
But . . . what if she wasn’t? What if she died? His house was burning this very minute. There would be nothing left to incriminate him. He’d burned the car up north, had left no fingerprints anywhere.
They have your DNA. Daisy scratched you in the alley.
Damn forensics.
But . . . there had been no other witnesses to her attempted abduction. He could say she’d been willing. That she’d changed her mind and fought him. That he’d let her go when he realized his mistake. Without witnesses it would be his word against hers.
And she’s an alcoholic. Nobody will believe her.
He nodded to himself. That could work.
So basically the only thing between him and freedom was Zandra. It was time to snip off that loose end. But first he had to ditch the Mercedes. It would stick out like a sore thumb.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 11:45 P.M.
“Daisy, you’re making me crazy,” Frederick said quietly. “Please sit down, honey.”
Daisy paused in the middle of her living room, midpace. “I can’t.” Despite poor Brutus’s best attempts. “Those were fire trucks, Dad.” She’d heard the sirens, seen the flashing lights as the trucks had passed by at the end of her street. That they were going to the killer’s house was a certainty in her mind.
He’d set fire to a car on Saturday to get rid of any DNA he’d left behind. Like his blood that I spilled onto his car door. He was hurt badly enough to take that nurse. Then to kill her. And desperate enough to kill the owner of the truck.
And evil enough to murder at least eight women. And still out there, which was why a SacPD cop sat in her driveway and another stood guard at the back door. Because, according to the cop, Gideon and Agent Hunter had found the house, but the killer was gone. He could be anywhere now. He could be waiting for me or for Gideon. Or his next victim.
“Gideon’s out there somewhere, already hurt,” she said, knowing she was headed toward a panic attack, because Brutus was alternating between licking her fingers and patting her arm with her little paw. “Now he’s dealing with a fire?” While I’m stuck here doing nothing.
“I know,” Frederick said calmly. He sat on the sofa, one arm resting on the back, his posture relaxed as if he were getting ready to watch a football game.
She glared at him. “How can you be so calm?”
His lips quirked up. “Meditation.”
Her glare turned to an openmouthed stare. “You? Meditation? Really?”
“It calms . . .” He waved his hand in the direction of his head. “The static. Upstairs.”
Static upstairs. She wondered what those two little words really meant.
He lifted graying brows. “You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I do.” The words burst from her in a rush, but abruptly fizzled. “I’m . . . Well, I’m . . . surprised, that’s all.”
“Meditation helps,” Mercy said softly.
And Daisy spun to look at her. Mercy hadn’t said a word since they’d entered her apartment. She’d been examining the murals since she walked in.
Daisy tried to think of what to say, then said what was in her heart. “I’m glad.”
Mercy’s smile was small, but there. “Plus therapy. Lots of therapy.”
“Yep,” Frederick said, and Daisy looked back at him, even more surprised.
“You’re going to therapy?” She walked to her chair and sank into it, the moment having become almost surreal. Cuddling Brutus up under her chin, she added, “Really?”
He nodded, his smile rueful. “Really.” He sighed. “After . . . well, after you and Taylor found out about . . . you know.” He glanced at Mercy, who was studying him closely. “I was a POW in the eighties,” he told her. “In El Salvador. It was . . . unpleasant.”
“You were tortured?” Mercy asked her question in a barely audible whisper.
“I was. It changed me. Changed how I thought about things,” he confessed. “How I reacted. Screwed my logic up, like the pathways in my brain became like tangled string.”
Mercy only nodded, but her eyes held deep understanding.
“From what little I know, you were also a prisoner,” Frederick went on so gently that Daisy’s eyes burned with tears. This man, this kind, gentle, empathetic man, was not the father she’d known.
And she was ashamed to realize she wasn’t entirely happy to see him like this. The tense father who’d drilled her and Taylor like they were a paramilitary force—that was the father she knew. The father who’d made a snap, rash decision that had led to the death of her older sister . . . that was the father she knew.
And, she realized with a small intake of breath, the father she’d never forgiven.
She still blamed him for Carrie’s death. And she was certain that he blamed himself.
Which might not be entirely fair. Carrie had somehow managed to lay her hands on drugs when they were hours away from the nearest town. She’d been wild even before they’d gone to the ranch.
Who knew? Maybe, had they stayed in Oakland, Carrie would have run away and OD’d even sooner. No one could know. Yet still Daisy blamed him.
That wasn’t fair at all. And it wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right.
It wasn’t love.
She swallowed hard, pursing her lips against the need to cry. Later. She’d cry later. For now, she wanted to observe this man who spoke of meditation and therapy and his past to Gideon’s sister—a woman he didn’t really know.
Maybe because it was easier to disclose those truths to a stranger. But in a way that I can still hear. So that I can understand. And forgive him.
“I suppose I was,” Mercy was saying. “There was no war in Eden. Not in a traditional sense. But, yes, it was prison. Yes, there was . . . torture. And yes, it changed me.” She dropped her gaze to her shoes. “Hardened me.”
Frederick sighed. “Yes. Me too.”
Mercy darted a glance at Daisy, who figured she still looked gobsmacked, because Mercy gave her a sad little smile. “Therapy has helped. Took me a while to seek it. Took me even longer to put it into action.”