Tightening her grip, she slowed the car and looked back to see Freya rolling down the steep hill, squealing like a tortured pig. There was a stream at the bottom, and Isabel couldn’t tell if Freya rolled into the water or landed just short.
Pulling the car to a stop, she glanced down at the passenger seat and saw the gun. Freya hadn’t taken it with her. There it was, sitting on the seat, the barrel pointed at her. She reached over, grabbed it, and lifted it to take a quick look. “Oh my . . . holy . . . ,” she whispered. The safety wasn’t on. With Freya jamming the gun into her side again and again, it was a miracle it hadn’t discharged. Isabel flipped the lever and dropped the gun on the seat beside her.
She was shaking so, she could barely breathe. She reached into her pocket for her phone, but it wasn’t there. Where was it? She was sure it was in her pocket when she got in the car. It must have fallen out while she was driving and dodging Freya’s fist. She had to call Michael. She frantically patted the floor, but it wasn’t there. Maybe it slipped behind the seat. The car was so close to the edge of the road she couldn’t get out to find it, and looking at the road ahead, she knew she was almost to the top. She also knew someone was there waiting for her and Freya. There was no way she could back up. She’d drive over the side of the mountain if she tried, and if she stayed where she was, Freya’s friend would come to her. Her only choice was to drive on. If she could just reach a safe
place to turn around, she would drive back down the road, pull over, and find her phone. There wasn’t any other option.
Okay, she had a goal. She drove the car slowly around one more curve to where the hill flattened out, and when she looked up, there he was, Graeme Gibson, waiting, with a rifle cradled in his arms.
Had he seen Freya jump out of the car? He had surely heard her.
He was bringing the rifle up now, his aim on her. Without thinking twice, she increased her speed, racing up the last stretch. She hunched down so she wouldn’t be an easy target and began to pray that Gibson was a lousy shot.
Gibson didn’t dive out of the way. Instead, he shot at her twice. The bullets went through the windshield, narrowly missing her.
She didn’t miss. She closed her eyes at the last second and hit him full on, propelling him into the air and sending him flying back toward the edge of a drop. He disappeared over the side of the mountain.
She slammed on the brakes, spinning the car and finally coming to a stop facing the road she had just come up.
Unbuckling her seatbelt, she twisted around and felt for her phone, ultimately discovering it lodged between her seat and the car door. When she dropped it into her lap, it was vibrating. She grabbed it with one hand, the gun with her other hand, and staggered out of the car. Her legs were too weak to stand, and she fell to her knees.
Michael was on the line. “Isabel?”
She was so relieved to hear his voice, she wanted to cry. “I did it again. Oh, Michael. I did it again.”
“What did you do?”
“I killed another one.”
THIRTY-SIX
WHILE ISABEL WAS BEING TERRORIZED BY FREYA, MICHAEL WAS GOING OUT OF HIS MIND
worrying about her. He rushed into the Rosemore Police Station looking for Inspector Sinclair just as the first call came in from a frantic driver.
Danny, the fast talker, answered the phone and—as was his habit—put it on speaker.
“This here is Sheldon Piers calling. There’s a young lady driving an older lady, and the older lady appears to be very upset. She’s screaming something awful. The driver is weaving and swaying in and out of traffic, and she’s going to kill someone if she isn’t stopped. She shot out of the roundabout and nearly crashed into me. You’d best get her off the road.”
The call was disconnected before Danny could ask which roundabout. There were quite a few in the Highlands.
Quick as a blink, another call came in. The woman didn’t identify herself, but it was clear from her shaky voice that she was distressed. “A driver in a blue car just clipped the bumper on my brand-new Range Rover, and she didn’t stop to see if she’d done any damage. There was another lady with the driver, and she was yelling. The driver kept drifting into the other lane. She was hitting her, too.”
“The driver was hitting the other lady?” Danny asked, trying to clarify.
“No, the other lady was hitting the driver. You better do something before they crash. I think the driver might be inebriated.”
From the description the caller gave, Michael suspected Isabel was the erratic driver. He felt a wave of relief because she was alive and, if she was driving, hadn’t been hurt, but the feeling didn’t last long. From past experience riding with her, he knew it was very possible she could accidentally kill herself by driving into a tree.
He needed to find her.
He had called her cell phone several times, but after several rings, it went to voicemail. He knew she had turned the phone on and assumed the ringer was off. He left a message in case she picked up.
“Where did this happen?” Danny asked the caller.
“On High Glen Way.”
There was a map of the area pinned to the wall. Michael studied it for a minute and became more frustrated. High Glen Way curved around Dunross and intersected with a major road that intersected with A9, the longest road in Scotland. There were too many exits, and Isabel could have taken any one of them.
They needed more information if they were going to find her.
Sinclair grabbed his car keys and headed to the door. “We’ll head over to High Glen Way. My car is equipped with a police radio, and hopefully Danny will call us with more information on Isabel’s whereabouts.”
Michael was right behind him.
Just then another call came in. Michael stopped in the doorway to listen while Sinclair ran ahead to get his car.
“This is Merlin Hopkins, and I just saw the damnedest thing. I had been fishing down at Lucky Nevin’s stream,” he explained. “I wasn’t catching anything so I packed my gear and headed home. I had climbed up that steep hill, and when I was halfway up, I had to stop to catch my breath, and that’s when I heard screaming. I looked up just as a woman came careening down the side of the hill. She was too far away from me to catch her—and going way too fast. She was rolling and screaming, and I think she might have bounced on into the water. I’m going to try to find her and fish her out, but I would appreciate some help.”
“Yes, we’ll send help,” Danny promised. “Is there a road near you?”
“Backer’s Road,” he answered. “The police should drive up that road to get close to the stream.”
“Is Backer’s Road off of High Glen Highway?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Danny answered.
As he rushed out the door, Michael shouted over his shoulder, “Call and give us directions.”
? ? ?
WHEN SINCLAIR PULLED UP TO THE DOOR, MICHAEL GOT IN AND TOLD HIM WHAT HE HAD
heard the last caller say. “We have to get to Backer’s Road,” he ordered.