Part 41 (2/2)

Misty Kanan wiped the sweat from her eyes. Her fingers were numb and bleeding. The paperclip-size screwdriver she'd fas.h.i.+oned from underwiring was bent and cracked, succ.u.mbing to metal fatigue. Inside the bedroom it was full dark. She had removed three of the four screws that held the locking mechanism and k.n.o.b in the door. She felt the lock a.s.sembly again for the fourth screw, fumbling like a woman trying to read Braille.

She ran a finger over the screw, found the groove, and inserted her handmade screwdriver. Her fingers slipped. The screwdriver popped from her fingers. She heard it ping against the floor and bounce into the darkness.

”d.a.m.n it.”

She sank against the door. Her shoulders jerked.

Whiskey padded to her side and nuzzled her shoulder. He whimpered. The sound was feeble. He was hungry and dehydrated.

She balled her fists and pressed them against her eyes. Screw these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, who'd let a dog die of thirst.

”It's okay, boy. I'll get us out of here.”

She got to her knees and felt along the floor.

Whatever's at hand, use it, Ian would say. ”A fork, a pen, a lightbulb. Nothing's ever just what it seems.”

”I'm just a school nurse,” she'd told him.

”No, you're not. Not 'just.' Not ever.” And he took her hand. ”You can't be. That's not the way the world works. And I won't always be here.”

Be prepared. The man was half-psychic, half-Boy Scout, all threat repulsion.

The bedroom was cold, but she was d.a.m.ned if she'd put on any of Riva's expensive clothing. Do that, and she'd be begging people to take one look at her-her long sleek hair and the figure she worked her a.s.s off to keep-and say, sadly, ”Yes, that was Riva Calder.”

Looking like Riva had been great, back when they were in college. Borrowing Riva's I.D. so she could buy beer or fool dumb bouncers at local clubs-that had felt harmless. But now the idea of swapping ident.i.ties didn't seem so festive.

Karma was remorseless.

She pressed her fingers along the floor in the dark. Her hand brushed the wire. She wiped her fingers on her blouse, picked up the screwdriver, and felt for the slot in the screw. Whiskey whimpered again and pushed his nose under her chin.

”It's okay, boy. I'm going to get you home to a big bowl of water. And a T-bone steak. And Seth.”

Saying her son's name, her voice cracked. She turned the screwdriver and felt the screw loosen. Yes. She spun the screwdriver and the screw fell out. She got to her knees and worked the doork.n.o.b loose.

Now came the tricky part. She bent the wire into a hook and began probing the innards of the lock. Ian had taught her this one, too.

She whispered to Whiskey, ”Finally, I get the profits of his misspent youth.”

And Riva had sniped that if she married Ian, the s.e.x would be hot but there wouldn't be any profit-sharing. Soldiers made no money.

With a click, the lock turned. Half-disbelieving, she stood and opened the door.

It creaked open to reveal the living room. The lights were off and it was dark outside. She held in the doorway, listening for the men. The house was quiet. It smelled rank. Outside the living room window she saw overflowing trash cans and weeds.

And headlights.

They swept the yard and a vehicle pulled into the driveway.

”Oh, s.h.i.+t. Whiskey!”

She ran across the living room toward the cramped and filthy kitchen. Whiskey bolted by her, pa.s.sed the kitchen, and ran down a hallway where the rest of the bedrooms were located. He rounded a corner, claws ticking on the parquet floor.

She clapped her hands. ”Whiskey.”

The kitchen door was locked. Outside, the vehicle idled on the driveway. She heard the garage door going up.

She heard Whiskey put his paws on another door. He barked and began scratching wildly. She whistled, flipped the dead bolt, and threw open the back door. Whiskey barked, pawing the door down the hall like he was going to dig a hole through it. She heard a thumping sound. She froze.

She wasn't alone. Somebody else was locked up in the house.

From the back seat of the Tahoe, Jo watched the garage door drone up. They were at a run-down ranch house in Mountain View, not far from San Antonio Road. The lawn was ratty with weeds. Trash cans overflowed next to the porch.

The garage door opened. The Tahoe's headlights shone on a single chair inside, sitting on the concrete under a bare lightbulb. Murdock hopped out and jogged into the garage to move it.

”Nice place you've got here, Riva,” Jo said. ”Didn't know you were a slumlord.”

Calder shot her a look, half Who told you? and half What are you trying to pull? Sarcasm, Jo thought, had its uses.

Vance eased the SUV inside the garage and the door began cranking down again. He opened the door to get out.

”Wait,” Calder said. ”Swap seats with Beckett. She's going to drive.”

For a second, it seemed that Vance would protest. But even he appeared to know his driving skills at the rendezvous had been p.i.s.s poor.

”Tie her to the steering wheel,” Calder said.

Vance opened the back door. Jo climbed out and got in the driver's seat. Her ribs were throbbing and it hurt to draw a deep breath.

Calder got back on the phone. ”Larry, it's Riva Calder. Yes, confirming the flight. There'll be three pa.s.sengers.”

Murdock went to a cabinet in the garage and came back with a handful of plastic zip ties. He leaned into the SUV and cinched Jo's hands to the wheel. Then he nodded to Vance and the two of them headed into the house.

The SFPD officer walked toward Stow Lake. The beam of his flashlight swung back and forth but found only fog. The bridge remained elusive.

Then, from the soup, he heard splas.h.i.+ng. He sped up. A weak cry curled through the mist. He broke into a jog and saw the brickwork of the bridge.

The splas.h.i.+ng continued, feebly, like a piece of cloth lapping against the side of a bathtub. He ran onto the bridge and aimed his flashlight at the lake.

He saw an arm batting at the water and a waxlike face sinking beneath the surface.

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