Damage Control Page 22

  “Do you think this guy could really work for Senator Meyers?”

  Logan pulled open the door and unsnapped his cell phone from his belt. “You sure about what you saw?”

  Ruby nodded. “I’m sure. Like I said, I won’t forget that face for as long as I live.”

  Logan pointed at the VCR. “You’ll let me know.” He turned to leave, already punching in the number to his home.

  “That’s it,” Ruby shouted. His thick fingers fumbled with the keypad of the remote control. The tape continued to spin forward. “Dammit. I can’t stop it.”

  Logan retrieved the remote and pressed the play button. The newscasters’ movements slowed from cartoon-character speed to normal.

  “Back it up,” Ruby said, eyes fixed on the screen.

  Logan hit rewind, and together they watched Robert Meyers walk backward up steps into a building. Then the television cut back to the news studio. Logan hit play, and Meyers walked back down the steps, his wife just behind him. The camera moved in for a close-up. Meyers waved with both hands over his head to a group of enthusiastic supporters carrying signs that read MEYERS FOR PRESIDENT.

  “This is it,” Ruby whispered. He slid to the edge of his chair. The back legs lifted off the linoleum, the front legs bearing the brunt of his weight. “Not yet. Not yet. There!” He lunged forward. The chair slipped out from under him, and he fell as if plunging down a slide, his backside landing hard on the floor. He teetered over, rolling to his knees. “That’s him.” He pointed at the screen, his finger touching the glass. “That’s the guy.”

  DANA WALKED BACK up the stairs to the kitchen. “Let me get my purse,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Her purse remained on the unfinished counter, the plywood covered with waterproof paper and chicken wire, the edges framed with metal strips that extended an inch above the counter. Logan had also left his tools there: tin snips, a hacksaw and hammer, and an assortment of screwdrivers, tile-cutting pliers, and a small crowbar.

  Because the house was open, with high-pitched ceilings, Dana heard the man walking below her. She yelled over her shoulder, “Here it is.” She picked up the purse. “Give me a moment to use the bathroom.”

  The telephone on the counter rang. When she answered it, Logan didn’t bother to say hello. “We have him. I think we have him.”

  “No, I’m sorry. He’s not home right now.” Dana tried to maintain a flat, even tone despite her anxiety.

  “What? Dana? The man I met, he’s legitimate. He was in the motel the night Laurence King was killed. He can identify the kill—”

  “No, but I would be happy to take a message for him.” She looked over her shoulder.

  Logan paused, but for only a second. “Dana? Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  “Yes. I’m hoping he’ll be home any minute.”

  “Someone is there,” he said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is it the same man who came to your brother’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the police officer there?” he asked quickly.

  “No. I’m a friend of Detective Logan.”

  Now she heard the panic in his voice. “Can you get to my bedroom? I keep a gun in the nightstand. You have to flip off the safety.”

  “Maybe, but that could be difficult. A Detective Holmes is here, however. He’s taking me to meet Mike. I could deliver—” Before she could finish, she heard a click.

  Then the line went dead.

  44

  DO YOUR BEST to stall. Do not get in a car with him. Dana?”

  Logan looked at his phone. The call had ended. “Shit.” He rushed back into the room where Ruby sat waiting to sign a sworn statement, and grabbed his coat from the back of a chair. “You’re free to go.”

  “But—”

  Logan rushed down the hallway, his pace quickening to a dead run, people getting out of his way. He pushed the speed dial on this phone as he slowed to take an interior stairwell to the underground garage. “Carole,” he shouted into the phone. “Where’s that patrol car you sent to my house? Why not? Have you heard from him?” Logan pushed through a heavy security door into the garage. “Then get ahold of the local police in Issaquah and the fire department. Tell them you have an emergency. I want any cars in the area, fire, ambulance, whatever you can get.” He paused to field her question. “My house! Send them to my house!”

  DANA THREW HER purse into the refrigerator, the only place she could think to hide it, but as she looked around the kitchen, she was struck by a sudden, seemingly incomprehensible, and incongruous memory. In her mind, she saw William Welles sitting calmly in his rocking chair, fingering the tiny earring with his rough fingertips.

  “Why design it at all?” Dana had asked him. “Why would you create a piece like that, a piece that represents sorrow and pain?”

  “Because to not create it would have made me just as blind. To see the world and those who live in it is to see the good as well as the evil. We cannot see beauty if we do not see what is ugly. We cannot feel joy if we do not feel pain. We cannot smile if we cannot cry.”

  “But that wasn’t the only reason, was it?” she had asked. “That wall you spoke of?. It was to protect her, wasn’t it?”

  “Can you believe such a thing?”

  She opened the refrigerator, removed the earring from her purse, and slid it in her bra. Then she reached back into her purse until she felt a cylindrical dispenser and shoved it beneath her bra on the other side. She closed the fridge and walked back to the staircase, peering over the railing. She saw no sign of the man. She slapped at the light switch, turning off the lights. With the dark clouds, the ambient lighting paled to a dusk gray. Every movement she made echoed up to the cathedral ceiling. The man would hear every step she took. She needed to get to the gun in Logan’s bedroom, but his loft was on the other side of the house, across three bridges. And even if she was able to retrieve it, she had never fired a gun in her life. She had no idea what Logan had meant about a “safety.” Besides, if the man had been listening to their conversation, he’d also know where she was going.

  She started across the suspended bridge connecting the kitchen to the office loft, felt it vibrate, and was again struck by an unmistakable image. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to see it vividly. Then she opened them and turned back to reconsider the tools on the kitchen counter.

  THERE WAS NO easy way to get home, not with a bridge to cross the lake and traffic on I-90 already heavy with the afternoon commute that wouldn’t let up until Logan took the exit for Cougar Mountain. He drove with one hand on the wheel, weaving in and out of traffic. With his free hand, he continued to punch the recall button on his telephone. He asked Carole for an update on the local police and fire department’s progress getting to his home.

  “You have one fire truck on the way. No police.”

  “No police?” he nearly screamed into the phone. “Why the hell not?”

  “Issaquah has an armed robbery in progress at a Bartell drugstore. The man is threatening to kill thirty hostages. All rescue and trained medical personnel are either there or on their way there.”

  He shut off the phone and dropped it on the passenger seat. The speedometer on the Austin Healey looked like a windshield wiper—accelerating one moment, downshifting and braking the next. He shot through the Mercer Island Tunnel, the yellow lights ticking past him at eye level. When the car emerged from the tunnel, Logan was still at least fifteen minutes away.

  DANA STRUGGLED TO control her breathing. Waves of nausea swept over her. She went over her plan again while continuing to listen for sounds below. The lofts were interconnected in a circular manner. The man could come from only one of two directions, and it was her intent to limit him to the spiral staircase.

  She picked up the remote control to the stereo and started back across the bridge. Eight feet long, it was suspended by spring-loaded clips resembling robotic clamps that gripped metal poles on each side. She aimed
the remote at the stereo in Logan’s den and pressed the power button. The front of the stereo burst to life in pulsating color. Guitars exploded from speakers throughout the house like the din of a shotgun blast echoing in a metal drum. An AC/DC CD had been loaded to play. As the singer’s voice screeched throughout the house, Dana dropped the remote control in the sink. Then she gathered herself, exhaled, and started down the spiral staircase. The man appeared from the shadows at the base of the stairs. Dana turned and started back up, but her injuries slowed her to an awkward hobble, and her ribs ached with each sudden movement. The staircase shook below her; the man was climbing quickly. At the top step, she felt his hand grip her ankle. She held the railing and kicked at him with her other foot, managing to pull free. Stumbling forward, off balance, she fell against the unfinished counter. The metal strip dug into the bruised flesh over her ribs, and the pain took the last of the strength from her legs. She collapsed to her knees.

  Just as quickly, the man was on her.

  He turned her over, sitting on her, one hand on her throat, cutting off the flow of oxygen. The room spun. The images blurred. He leaned down, screaming over the clatter of the stereo, “Where’s the earring?”

  “Don’t have it.” She spit her words through clenched teeth. The pain made her more angry than scared. “Logan took it with him.”

  The man’s eyes widened, indicating he hadn’t considered that possibility. Then he pulled her to her feet and pressed the barrel of a gun against the bandage on her forehead. “The earring, or you die here.”

  LOGAN DOWNSHIFTED, TAKING THE TURNS of Cougar Mountain Road at a ridiculous speed. Thunder rumbled and shook the mountain. Dark clouds had descended upon the top, swirling into a funnel cloud and turning the sky and woods dark. Then the clouds opened, releasing a torrent of water and driving wind. Logan fought the curves in the road, the tires of the Austin Healey struggling against centrifugal force. The cell phone on the passenger seat rang. Logan flipped it open. “Carole? Hang on.”

  He downshifted, slowing to make the turn onto the dirt road. The back tires spun in the loose gravel, the car nearly fishtailing out of control. Logan corrected and punched the gas, and the sports car shot forward around a blind turn. The red brake lights of the fire engine were suddenly windshield-high, flashing. Logan slammed on the brake pedal, the car skidding to a stop inches behind the truck.

  “The fire truck cannot get up the road,” Carole was yelling. “It can’t make the turns. They say there is no place to turn around.”

  45

  THE MAN SHOVED her against the refrigerator. Pain shot through her. He tightened his grip around her throat. With his other hand, he forced the barrel of the gun against her forehead. “The earring, and I just might let you live.”

  Rain battered the cathedral windows.

  Dana grunted at the man through clenched teeth, “I told you, Logan has it.”

  He jammed the side of her face against the refrigerator and pushed the gun in her cheek. She felt it pressing against her molars. “Then there’s no reason to let you live.”

  He pulled back the hammer on the gun and leaned forward.

  She resisted, stalling. He reached behind him, placed the gun on the counter, and picked up the tin shears. Then he grabbed her hand, tugging at her index finger, forcing it open, and pinched it between the blades at the first knuckle. Her skin tore, blood trickling down the back of her hand. She could feel the blade against the bone.

  “No,” she screamed, fear overcoming her judgment. “I hid it.”

  LOGAN JUMPED FROM the car, slipping in the mud as he ran to the cab of the fire truck. He leaped onto the running board, holding up his badge, and shouted at the driver over the rush of wind and rain, “Go forward! Go forward!”

  The driver shook his head, yelling back at him. “Can’t do it. It won’t make it around that last turn. We’ve been trying for ten minutes. We need a smaller vehicle, but if this storm doesn’t pass, nothing is going to get up here. Road will be too wet. I’ve never seen a cloud like that on this mountain.”

  Logan had, just once before, and the storm it brought had been monumental. He slapped the side of the fire engine in frustration. The narrow road did not allow the Austin Healey enough room to pass, and to back down the road and wait for the fire engine’s slow descent would take too much time. Sheets of water poured down on him. He looked up at the steep hillside into which the road had been cut. He estimated it was fifteen to twenty-five feet of dense, steep terrain to the top. In this weather, it would be like climbing a slide in his socks. Lightning crackled overhead. Whether it brought the idea or not, Logan was struck by a thought.

  “How high can you get those ladders on the back of the truck?” he asked.

  THE EARRING, MS. HILL, or I’ll take them off one knuckle at a time.”

  Blood dripped down her wrist. “All right. All right.”

  “Where is it?”

  She looked down at her blouse, torn at the buttons. The man released her finger and dropped the snips. When he reached for her breast she covered her chest with her hands and burst at him in anger and rage, “Don’t you touch me! Don’t you even think about touching me!”

  His body pressed hard against hers. “Oh, I’ve thought about it.” His breath had a bitter, acrid smell. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I like the fight. I like the struggle.” He licked at her cheek. Then he pulled back. “Get it.”

  Dana seethed and reached into her bra. AC/DC continued to shout at them. “Here.” She depressed the button on the cylindrical tube, sending a stream of Mace into the man’s eyes. He fell backward, growling, pawing at his face. Dana shoved him into the counter. She turned and started across the suspended bridge, using the railings on either side like crutches, each step bringing agony. It was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. When she reached the opposite side she collapsed, her back against the wall, facing the bridge. The storm had pulled a black curtain across the cathedral windows, but in the darkness, she saw the man pulling himself to his feet, wiping at his eyes. Then he stumbled forward, hands in front of him, feeling his way blindly to the bridge.

  “Come on,” Dana said to herself. “Come on, you son of a bitch.”

  LOGAN STOOD ON the third rung from the top of the ladder as it rose. The ladder operator hugged the hill as close as he could, but because it sloped away, the top of the ladder was four to six feet from the ridge. Logan gestured to move the ladder closer. The man signaled back that it was as close as he could get it. Logan looked down. Lower portions of the ladder were already embedded in the dirt and rock. This was as high as the elevator would take him.

  He took a breath, gripped the top rung with both hands, and cautiously stepped up, balancing like a swimmer on a platform, then leaped for the ridge. He landed just short of the top, gripped the roots of a bush with his hands to keep from plunging down the side, and kicked at the hillside in search of a toehold. It sent a small avalanche clattering on top of the fire engine. He pulled himself to the top, stumbled from his knees to his feet, and sprinted across the field toward the grove of trees surrounding his house. Though he was in good shape and worked out regularly, he could not control his breathing. He labored to catch his breath, adrenaline pushing him to an unbalanced speed. He swiped at branches, ducking and weaving between the trees, picking his footing where he could. He emerged from the grove twenty yards from the front of the house. The interior was dark. He saw no lights. Around him, the storm continued to overpower other sounds—the chimes in the trees were spinning and twirling mutely.

  He shielded his eyes from the rain and saw a shadow inside the darkened panes of glass: someone standing on one of the suspended bridges.

  THE MAN STEPPED onto the bridge, gripping the railing, continuing to wipe his eyes.

  “Come on,” Dana whispered. She fought through the waves of nausea brought on by the pain. “Come on.”

  The man took several uncertain steps. Then he stopped. He looked back in the directi
on he’d come, and for a fleeting moment, Dana thought he would turn back. But then he stepped forward again. Halfway across, he stopped again and brought a hand to his temple, as if struck by a thought or a sudden intense headache. He turned to the right, craning to see over the edge of the railing. The image was as clear to her as the one she had seen while standing in Logan’s kitchen, and as vivid as when she’d first seen the unfinished sculpture on William Welles’s counter.

  The man now gripped the railing with both hands, as if fighting vertigo that made his legs unsteady. He whipped his head from side to side in confusion, but his feet remained riveted in place, unable or unwilling to move. He looked across the bridge to where Dana sat. In the darkness, she saw the reflection in his eyes—no longer as dark as mining shafts. They had burst to life, reflecting the flickering red and orange of an unseen fire. He aimed the gun. Dana summoned what strength remained and pressed down on the raised end of the levered crowbar she had wedged between the clasp and the metal pole holding the bridge aloft.

  The man teetered as if the bridge had swayed beneath his feet. The gun tumbled over the side. Lightning crackled, sending an electric blue pulse throughout the room. Thunder clattered and boomed.

  The crowbar teetered on the block of wood stubbornly. Dana felt the strength in her arms waning. The man lurched forward, nearing the edge. She applied all her weight, her arms shaking. The crowbar gave way, the latch snapping like a tree limb, and the metal claws opened, releasing their grip.

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  46

  LOGAN FLUNG OPEN the front door, shouting her name, his voice suffocated by the din of the music and the rattle and pounding of the storm. He climbed the spiral staircase two steps at a time, saw blood on the kitchen floor, and stepped to the edge where the footbridge had once been but where there was now a twenty foot crevasse. On the other side, Dana sat slumped against the wall, unresponsive. He rushed around the house in the opposite direction, circumnavigating the bridges, feeling them bounce beneath his weight. He shut off the stereo, then knelt beside her. “Dana, are you okay? Can you hear me?”