Sinclair must have been in quite a few car chases because he drove like a pro. Still, Michael wanted to shove him out of the way and take over.
Within seconds Danny called and gave exact directions to Backer’s Road. He added, “We have the license plate. The car belongs to Freya Harcus.”
Neither Michael nor Sinclair was surprised. But how had Freya gotten hold of Isabel? Michael knew she wouldn’t have willingly gone with Freya. Michael realized he was gripping his cell phone and once again called Isabel. She answered this time.
“Isabel, are you all right?”
“I did it again, Michael. I did it again.”
She sounded as though she was in shock. “What did you do?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“I killed another one.”
“You what?” He was having difficulty understanding what she was telling him. “Do you mean Freya?”
“Oh no, did I kill her, too?”
He didn’t answer. “Where are you?”
“I’m on top of a mountain. I had to drive up this awful winding road—”
“The inspector and I are coming to get you. We’re almost there. Sit tight and don’t drive. Did you hear what I just said? Don’t drive anywhere.”
Michael didn’t know how Isabel had made it up the road. Once Sinclair drove past all the trees with branches hanging down, there was a sheer drop on one side of the road and a steep hill on the other. It was a miracle she hadn’t driven off or crashed into a tree.
“This road is so steep in places I feel like the car is going to flip over,” Sinclair said.
“There she is,” Michael shouted as they reached the top.
Isabel was standing next to Freya’s car. Her hands were down at her sides, and Michael spotted the gun she held. Where had she gotten it? Sinclair hadn’t even stopped the car before Michael was out and running to her. He wrapped her in his arms and hugged her, then gently took the gun from her hand.
He could feel her shaking, but then he was shaking, too. It took a minute for her to calm down. It was going to take him much longer.
“When I couldn’t find you, when you disappeared and I . . . damn it, Isabel, you scared the hell out of me.”
“I was scared for you, too,” she whispered. “Freya told me she would shoot you if I didn’t go with her.”
Regaining control, Michael was finally able to let go of her and step back. Then he looked up and spotted the windshield.
“There are bullet holes in the windshield.”
Inspector Sinclair joined them, and Michael handed the gun to him. Sinclair also spotted the bullet holes. “Isabel, who shot at you?”
“Graeme Gibson.”
Isabel leaned into Michael’s side. She needed to be close to him to feel safe right now. The adrenaline was gone, and the horror was catching up.
“Inspector, you are not going to believe what happened to me.” She raced through her account and ended with her confession that she had deliberately hit Gibson with Freya’s car. “I don’t know if I sent him flying off a cliff. I’m not even sure how hard I hit him. I just know he disappeared over there,” she said, pointing to a drop-off.
“We’ll find his body,” he said.
Michael caught the sudden movement on his left before the other two noticed. He saw a rifle swinging up next.
Isabel didn’t know what hit her. One second she was talking to Sinclair, and the next she was flat on the ground. Michael had pushed her down behind Freya’s car and at the same time grabbed Sinclair’s arm and jerked him out of the way.
The first bullet whizzed past Sinclair’s cheek. Had Michael not acted so fast, it would have killed him. The inspector’s shoulder struck the car bumper hard when Michael shoved him down next to Isabel.
Gibson must have thought they were all defenseless because he kept shooting as he ran toward them.
“What the hell is he thinking?” Sinclair shouted.
Michael answered, “That he has nothing to lose.”
Sinclair tossed the gun to him. “Kill the bastard.”
As much as the idea appealed to him, Michael didn’t kill Gibson. Rising up from behind the car, he took aim and shot the rifle out of his hands. Gibson dropped to the ground, howling in pain.
Michael ran to him and grabbed the rifle. Sinclair followed him. Michael handed him the rifle, then patted down Gibson and found a pistol and a wicked-looking knife. The man had come prepared for anything.
Isabel stayed by the car. She was actually relieved she hadn’t killed Gibson when she hit him.
Holding his wounded arm, he was writhing on the ground and wailing, but she didn’t have an ounce of sympathy for him. He had tried to kill all three of them. He deserved to be in pain.
Just as Michael and Sinclair pulled Gibson to his feet, Danny and another officer came running up the hill.
Isabel rushed over to him. “Danny, has anyone found Freya Harcus?’ she asked.
“Two officers are looking for her.”
A couple of minutes later, Gibson was in Danny’s police car and heading back down the mountain.
Sinclair watched the car disappear down the steep road, then turned to Isabel. “Did you push Freya out of the car, or did she jump?”
Isabel was still so angry with Freya, she was sorry she hadn’t pushed her. “She jumped out,” she said. “It happened so fast. One second she was there, and the next she was gone. She was screaming at me and hitting me, and when I was driving around a sharp curve, she opened the door and jumped.
She was in such a hurry she left her gun on the seat. She had been jabbing it in my side . . . and she didn’t have the safety on.”
Michael shook his head, imagining the worst. “You could have been killed.”
Isabel was so relieved to have Michael next to her, tears came to her eyes. She didn’t want to be needy, and she usually wasn’t, but after the ordeal she had just gone through, she was feeling vulnerable.
“It was Freya all along,” Isabel told them.
“What?” Michael asked, still trying to sort out all that had just happened.
“She’s the one who planned to have me killed. It wasn’t Clive. She told me she and MacCarthy plotted the whole thing.”
“If Freya is alive, she’s going to be spending the rest of her life in prison,” Sinclair said.
“She painted that freaky clown hanging in MacCarthy’s office, and that should tell you everything you need to know about her.”
“That was some fancy driving, Isabel,” Sinclair praised.
“Fancy?”
“Driving like a race car driver, zooming in and out of traffic lanes to get other drivers to call the police. That was very clever of you.”
From Isabel’s puzzled expression, Sinclair realized she didn’t know what he was talking about.
Now he looked puzzled. “It was on purpose, wasn’t it?”
The inspector’s phone rang, saving her from attempting to explain how difficult it had been to drive a car where the steering wheel was on the wrong side. Trying to stay in the correct lane turned out to be a whole other challenge.
Sinclair finished the call and said, “Freya is crawling up the hill. According to Danny, she went into the water, pulled herself out, and is soaked through. She’s howling and cursing you, Isabel.”
Isabel was exhausted and ready to leave. “Where is your car?” she asked Michael.