Dead Wrong (34 page)

Without a word, she fell into step next to him on the way to the bank of elevators. She pressed the call button and began searching for something to say—anything to initiate small talk again, to relieve the tension sparking through her. The doors slid open and he pressed the button with the floor number.

They were off the elevator now, approaching the room door, neither one speaking. He slid the plastic key card into the lock and the latch snapped.

She scooted in first, letting him follow her into a beautiful contemporary sitting room.

She said, “First dibs on the shower,” implying that they would go separately. At least that would be a start to defining some rules. Picking up the phone, she asked, “What time would you like a wake-up call?”
Assuming I can sleep
.

Tom checked his watch. Almost 2:00
AM
. “Does seven work for you?”

“That’s fine. There’s a Starbucks across the street. I’ll run over to get something to eat.” She felt her face reddening at how domestic this all sounded.

He studied her face a moment. “Thanks. Thanks for all your help.”

Instead of kissing him on the cheek like she wanted, she said, “No problem,” then paused searching for a better way to end this. “Okay then.” She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, thinking, maybe we should talk a few minutes. No, just take a hot shower and get some sleep.

A
FTER SARAH CLOSED the bathroom door, McCarthy turned down both queen beds, sat in a chair, and waited for her to finish. She didn’t take long, coming out of the bathroom in a white terrycloth robe, her clothes folded and in her arms.

S
TEPPING INTO THE shower spray, McCarthy faced the full force of hot water. He turned slowly, letting stinging drops knead his back, massaging away a fraction of the remaining tension. It felt wonderful to clean the sweat and grime accumulated while in the false ceiling. He checked the knee injury from the climb down the rock wall and found an ugly purple bruise tender to the touch.

While soaping down, he fantasized Sarah stepping into the shower with him, the feel of running the bar of soap over her wet body, his slippery palms lightly massaging the tips of her hardening nipples. Jesus!

He forced the thought from his mind, dried off, wrapped himself in a similar white robe, folded up his jeans and turtleneck, rinsed out his mouth, then returned to bedroom. Sarah was in one bed with the lights off except for the reading lamp on the nightstand. He slipped between the sheets of the other bed, turned off the light, and settled in on his back. The room was so quiet he could hear Sarah breathe and knew she was not yet asleep.

He tried to focus on the things he needed to accomplish in the morning but couldn’t concentrate. He gave up, figuring he couldn’t deal with it now. Best to rest, although he doubted sleep would come while this keyed up. Maybe just shut his eyes and try to relax, think …

Eyes closed, he took deep measured breaths, a technique learned during residency to help relax during nights in the call rooms when constant anxiety from not knowing when the phone would ring made sleep impossible. His mind drifted back over the weird events of the day.

I
N THE OTHER bed, her back toward McCarthy, Sarah rehashed their conversation over breakfast, in particular his unasked question. Why
had
she become involved with Jeff when she knew perfectly well the odds of it going anywhere?

She’d grown up a daddy’s girl, the only daughter of two successful professional parents in an affluent Chicago suburb: Dad, a cardiac surgeon; Mom, a patent attorney. The tragedy was, her parents never seemed happy together. Oh sure, they lived in the same home and always gave the impression of a perfect couple. But she knew that deep in his heart, Dad wasn’t happy with Mom. She vowed to not make the same mistake, to never continue a dissatisfying marriage. She would find her real soul mate, a man she could connect with on multiple levels.

Jeff had seemed to be that man.

Crap, it just didn’t work out the way she’d hoped.

She’d told almost no one about her affair with Jeff. Partly out of embarrassment over her stupidity. Partly because the subject triggered memories she needed desperately to bury.

Before hearing his words she hadn’t been sure. Part of her wanted to believe that once he knew, he’d want to … what? Divorce his wife and marry her? Help raise their child?

Yes, exactly! That’s exactly what she had hoped.

She’d just never had the nerve to admit it to anybody. Not even herself.

But that day, standing there seeing the panic in Jeff’s eyes, she had realized how ridiculous her fantasy had been. In the next moment she realized how alone she was. Pregnant and single.

During the next twenty-four hours she vacillated between the I’ll-Go-It-Alone-Single-Parent-So-Fuck-Jeff phase and the I’ll-Get-An-Abortion phase. Either way, Mom and Dad would be angry at first but would stick by her. Having the baby would screw up that year of med school, but she’d find a way to eventually finish and practice.

Then, on further reflection, she grasped just how deeply raising a baby as a single parent would transform her life and dreams. Before facing the decision personally, arguments pro or con abortion had been abstract, leading her to believe women held the right to choose. She still did. And eventually she chose to terminate the pregnancy. She’d used all the rationalizations: It wasn’t her time to have a child, or she’d be a lousy parent. In the end, she believed it was the right decision. Still did, but she couldn’t erase the thought of the little cluster of cells that had, at one time, been seeded in her womb. Boy or girl? What if? Now the memory of it haunted her.

She curled up tighter, knees and hips flexed, and fought to stop the inevitable memory of the procedure. The harder as she tried to submerge it, the stronger it became.

Tears rolling down onto the pillow, Sarah knew there was no way she would ever forget that terrible sucking sound.

B
ERTRAM WYSE AWOKE to a dry mouth, granular eyes, and momentary disorientation. A moment later he realized where he was: he’d fallen asleep in his office. He started to push up from the leather couch when a bolt of pain tore through his neck. He dropped back onto the cushion, rubbed his sore muscles, tried again. It’d been close to 2:00 am before he’d calmed down enough to curl up on the couch, doubtful he’d go to sleep. Might as well try because he couldn’t bear to go home to bitchy Samantha. Besides, if something went down with McCarthy it’d most likely be in the downtown area. Being in the office put him close to the action.

Christ, he couldn’t believe he’d actually slept. Not only that, but with the way his neck felt, he hadn’t moved in hours. His Rolex showed two minutes past seven. What the hell was Cunningham’s team doing? Jerking off? Sikes, his top man, never failed. Yet the bastard hadn’t captured McCarthy. The longer McCarthy stayed on the loose, the higher the risk to him.

Sitting upright now, he massaged the screaming neck muscles, working out a tight little knot. Was that bottle of Motrin still in the desk? He shuffled over, found it, and dry swallowed two before firing up the coffeemaker. Call Cunningham and ask for a progress report? No, that’d show weakness. Besides, Cunningham knew enough to call if there was anything to report. Wouldn’t he? Hmm, good question. Wouldn’t put it past that asshole to mind fuck him.

He stripped, ran the electric razor over his stubble, and showered, all of which made him feel halfway decent. By the time he finished toweling off the coffee was ready.

He poured a cup, added two packet of sweetener, stirred in soy milk, and settled into his desk, the TV tuned to the Northwest News channel. He washed down a PowerBar while pondering, “Where would I hide if I were McCarthy?” He drew a blank.

The news coverage of the manhunt was disappointing, already eclipsed by a ten-car pile-up on I-5 and a hiker lost in the Cascades. He took some comfort in the fact that the McCarthy story continued to be mentioned, although it was no longer a headliner.

Another wave of anxiety struck. Regardless of media coverage, McCarthy remained at large. Worse, he undoubtedly knew who was responsible for the charges against him. McCarthy always hated him. And if allowed to survive this, McCarthy would surely try to seek revenge by ruining him. He had to do something other than wait passively in his office.

What?

He flashed on a gun shop on Aurora Avenue. Butch’s or Bart’s or Buck’s or some macho-sounding bullshit name. He’d never owned a gun. Never had a need to. But now …

Yes, that’s what he’d do. Buy a gun. First thing this morning. What hours did a gun store keep? Maybe he should simply drive over to the place and wait for it to open. Damn right, that’s what he should do.

Yeah, buy a gun. Then find that cocksucker McCarthy and …

He smiled at the idea of killing him. If McCarthy was going to ruin him, he’d make damn sure to take the bastard with him.

S
IKES WATCHED THE barista top his triple-shot grande with an artistic swirl of tan-colored foam before slipping a cardboard insulator around the cup.

“Here you go,” the kid said, setting the drink on the oval serving platform.

Sikes carried the coffee over to the window table where his coat and half-eaten blueberry muffin waited. After leaving McCarthy’s home, he’d spent the rest of the night parked on First Avenue watching the windows of Hamilton’s condo. They had remained dark. He planned to enjoy his meager breakfast before having the manager reopen her condo so he could verify she hadn’t slipped in without turning on the lights. Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to sneak past a stake out.

Savoring the latte and the remains of his second muffin, he called his other operatives on the cell, just to make sure they were all present and accounted for. Then he double-checked his e-mail.