Chill Factor (30 page)

Her sobbing brought on a coughing fit. The spasms racked her
whole
body, contracted every muscle, squeezed precious air from her lungs.
While she struggled to breathe, her mind registered Tierney's elaborate
swearing and his redoubled efforts to break the lock on the handcuffs.

It took several minutes for her to bring the coughing under
control,
but finally it subsided into loud wheezing.

She raised her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. Tierney
had
kicked the blanket off his legs and was straining against the cuffs
like an animal caught in a trap, willing to tear off his hands in order
to reach her.

"It's true that I've given you very few reasons to trust me,"
he
said. "And many reasons for you not to. But I believe you know, you
know
,
that I'm not someone you have to be afraid of. Rely on your instincts.
Trust them, even if you don't trust me." He continued looking at her
for several beats before adding, "Don't die on me."

She analyzed each feature of his face, looking for a telltale
sign
of villainy. If he were a sly abductor of women, wouldn't she be able
to tell? Wouldn't she sense a disguised malevolence?

She looked, looked hard, but could find no trace of duplicity.
If it
was indeed there, he'd mastered the art of hiding it. He seemed
sincere, trustworthy enough to make her doubt herself.

But his victims hadn't detected his guile, either. They had
trusted
him.

Her expression must have conveyed her determination not to be
duped,
because he said angrily, "All right,
ignore
your
instincts and plain common sense. Forget our day on the river. Never
mind the kiss last night. Discount all that, but play the odds."

"Odds?"

"Stay alive, and you'll have a chance of capturing Blue. Die,
and
you'll have none."

I don't know what
to do
,
her mind screamed, but the only sound issuing from her throat was a
terrible gurgling noise.

"Even a slim chance is better than none, Lilly."

His argument was sound. But as soon as she released him, he
would
probably kill her. Her slim chance of incriminating him would die with
her.

Taking advantage of her hesitation, he said, "I've saved the
most
obvious argument for last. The pistol. You still have it, and you know
how to use it. What could I do to you as long as you're holding me at
gunpoint?"

She gave that rationale a few seconds' thought. He was tight.
When
all the arguments and second-guessing were pared away, it came down to
her playing the odds. Slowly, she came to her feet. Warding off the
light-headedness caused by oxygen deprivation:, she turned and walked
into the living room.

"Lilly! Goddammit!"

She returned just as quickly as she'd left, carrying the
pistol in
one hand, the key to the handcuffs in the other
.

His shoulders slumped with relief. "Thank God."

She set the pistol on the chair, far
out
of his reach. As
she ap
proached the bed, she extended the
key toward
him. "You.. do… it."

As soon as he had a grip on the key, she backed away hastily
and
reclaimed the pistol, aiming it at him.

There was just enough play in the cuffs for him to angle one
hand
down and the other up. With amazing dexterity, he fit the key into the
tiny hole and turned it. The bracelet on his left wrist came free. In a
matter of seconds he had the other bracelet off.

Then, in one fluid motion, he vaulted off the bed and yanked
the
pistol out of Lilly's hands. It happened before she could blink,
insufficient time for her brain to process that she should pull the
trigger. She wheeled around and tried to run from him, but he hooked
his arm around her waist, bringing her up short and trapping her right
arm against her side. He lifted her off the floor and held her against
his chest.

"Stop it!" he ordered when she began screaming.

"I knew," she wheezed hysterically. "I knew. You're
him
."
She thrust her free elbow against his rib cage and sank her nails into
the back of his hand.

"Son of a bitch!" Ungracefully hauling her into the living
room, he
pushed her onto the sofa, then raised his hand to his mouth and sucked
at the blood flowing from the deep scratches.

Lilly perched on the edge of the sofa only long enough to gasp
several breaths, then launched herself at him again, flailing at his
head. But the shortage of oxygen had affected her coordination. Her
arms felt heavy and rubbery. She tried to connect her fists with his
head, but the attempts were futile. Most of her blows fell short, went
wide, or landed with negligible impact.

When he took her by the shoulders and pushed her back onto the
sofa,
she was helpless to do anything except fall heavily into the back
cushions. He crammed the pistol into the waistband of his jeans and
swiped his bleeding hand against his leg. The angry-looking scratches
immediately leaked as much blood as he had wiped away.

His breathlessness was almost as bad as hers. He was noisily
inhaling great drafts of air and rapidly blinking as though to stave
off dizziness. His upper torso was angled forward from the waist. The
blow she'd given his sore ribs had made standing upright impossible.

Good
, she thought.
I hope
you're suffering terrible
pain
. She would have gloated out loud, but she didn't have
enough
breath.

But she looked up at him defiantly. If he was going to kill
her now,
she wanted to be looking him in the eye. She wanted him to take her
defiance into hell with him and remember it for eternity.

He seemed on the verge of saying something but, without
a
word, went to the door and opened it. Within seconds he was back with
an armload of firewood, which he dumped onto the hearth. He knelt down
and stirred the coals to reignite the logs already on the grate.

This mystified her. "You aren't… going
to…kill me?"

"No," he said brusquely as he came to his feet. He motioned at
the
logs he'd just carried in. "As they dry out, add them to the fire.
They'll last you a couple of hours."

Only then did she realize his intention. He didn't need to
kill her.
All he had to do was abandon her, leave her in the throes of a fatal
asthma attack, and let the bothersome matter of Lilly Martin resolve
itself. Why chalk up another murder on his roster of crimes when he
didn't need to?

To cover the ones he'd already committed, he had the presence
of
mind to retrieve the evidence against him from the bedroom. He replaced
the handcuffs and ribbon in his backpack. As he zipped them into
separate compartments, he avoided looking at her. Was he feeling a
twinge of guilt?

Because by not killing her, he was condemning her to her worst
fear.
While she'd been debating whether or not to release him, one scenario
she hadn't considered was that he would abandon her to live through her
nightmare before succumbing to it. Her heart constricted. "You
promised—"

"I know what I promised," he said, cruelly cutting her off.

He pulled on his coat and worked the watch cap down over his
head.
He draped the stadium blanket over the cap and folded the ends of it
across his chest before zipping it inside his coat. He wound the wool
scarf around his neck and the lower half of his face, then pulled on
his gloves. Last, he picked up his backpack and slung it over his
shoulder. Every motion caused him to grimace and gasp in pain.
Nevertheless he moved with haste, purpose.

As he walked toward the door, she was tempted to call him
back, beg
him to shoot her now. It would be a swift and painless death, not the
prolonged and terrifying one facing her. She was more frightened of the
fear and dread of dying than she was of death itself.

But she had too much pride to beg him for anything, nor would
her
survival instinct concede a voluntary death. So she watched him walk
away, leaving her to struggle for each breath until she could struggle
no longer, leaving her to die alone.

When he reached the door, he paused with his hand on the knob
and
turned only his head. Above the scarf, his eyes connected with hers,
but only for an instant, no longer.

He opened the door. A swirl of snow engulfed him. Then it
vanished
as quickly as he.

Lilly's cell phone rang twice before the connection was lost,
which
was more tormenting to Dutch than if it hadn't rung at all. The aborted
call increased his frustration, which was already strained to the
breaking point.

The anteroom of police department headquarters was more
crowded than
he remembered it being since he was hired as chief. The feebs were
there. Agent Wise was solemnly—did that guy ever crack a
smile?—introducing Begley to Millicent Gunn's parents. Mrs.
Gunn looked
scrawnier today than she had yesterday.

Wes, for reasons unbeknownst to Dutch, had been there when
they
arrived and was drinking coffee and chatting with the officer manning
the desk. He was head of the city council, but since when was a police
investigation any business of his?

Harris had followed them from the hospital in his squad car.
He was
starstruck by Wise and Begley, trailing them like a puppy, stumbling
over his own big feet in his eagerness to assist. Why wasn't he out on
patrol, where he was supposed to be? And why wasn't he, Dutch, ordering
Harris back to his unit and onto the streets, where he could be of some
use, instead of in here, further crowding the place, getting in
everybody's way?

For some reason, Dutch didn't have the wherewithal to correct
the
young officer. It didn't seem worth the effort it would take to issue
an order and put any level of authority behind it. He felt oddly
detached from what was going on around him, and he wondered not only at
what point he had lost control but when he had ceased to care.

When the FBI entered the picture in the form of big shot SAC
Begley?

Or when Wes Hamer, his so-called best friend, started kissing
Begley's ass as often as possible?

Or maybe when Cal Hawkins asked him the question he'd begun
asking
himself:
Does your old lady want to be rescued
?

He hadn't felt this defeated since his last screwup in
Atlanta. It
had been the coup de grace, the mistake that was too serious for a
disciplinary action like suspension or probation. Only being fired
would suffice. When you pulled your service weapon on a nine-year-old
kid, mistaking his aluminum baseball bat for a gun because you were
shitfaced drunk, the APD had no choice but to fire you. Do not pass go.
Do not collect your pension. You're outta there.

He felt equally defeated today. Betrayed by all: his wife, the
weather, his best friend, his career, fate or the stars or God or
whoever the hell was in charge of guiding his not-worth-a-crap destiny.

He needed a drink.

Officer Harris was leading the Gunns and the FBI agents down
the
short hallway toward Dutch's private office. Begley, bringing up the
rear of this parade, turned back to address him. "Are you joining us,
Chief Burton?"

"I'll be right there. Soon as I grab my messages."

Begley nodded, then continued on and entered Dutch's office
through
the door that Harris was holding open for him.

When they were out of earshot, Wes turned to Dutch and
assessed the
cuts on his face. "How're you doing?"

He snatched a wad of pink memo slips from his dispatcher.
"Just
great, thanks."

"Face hurt?"

"Like a son of a bitch."

"Didn't they have something to put on it?"

"It'll be okay."

"I could go over to the drugstore, pick up something from
Ritt."

Dutch shrugged. "Whatever." He started toward the hallway, but
Wes
hooked his hand around his elbow.

"Are you sure you're all right, Dutch?"

He threw off Wes's hand. "Shit, no, I'm not all right!"

Realizing that his subordinate officer was all ears, he
lowered his
voice to a mumble. "In case you haven't noticed, it's been a lousy
morning."

Wes sighed, ran his hand over his cropped hair. "Stupid
question.
I'm sorry. Look, Lilly is okay, Dutch. I'm sure of it."

"Yeah." Actually, he was more afraid that she was better than
okay.

"Tell you what," Wes said. "I'll run over to the drugstore
while
you're talking with Millicent's folks. Pick up some salve for those
cuts on your face, have Ritt or Marilee make some sandwiches to bring
back."

Dutch looked into Wes's face and could see nothing
disingenuous
there. Just his old friend's handsome features and a sincere regard
that, despite their friendship, Dutch was coming to mistrust. "That
would be helpful. Thanks."

"You bet. Now get on back there. This is your show, don't for
get."

Wes's parting words drilled their way through the bedrock of
his
defeatism. It
was
his show, but God. Everyone,
including
himself, seemed to have forgotten that. High time they were reminded.

As he headed down the hallway toward his office, he squared
his
shoulders and forced more confidence into his step. Harris was standing
outside the door like a sentinel. Dutch hitched his thumb toward the
front of the building. "Your squad car is getting cold."

Harris looked at him stupidly. "Sir?"

"This isn't a snow day, Harris," he barked. "See to your
duties."

"Yes, sir." The young cop rushed down the hall.

Dutch entered his office in time to hear Mrs. Gunn telling
Wise and
Begley that they'd had no serious problems with Millicent other than
her eating disorder, and that she'd been cured of it.

"I can't bear to think of her out there somewhere in this
weather,"
she said.