The Pact (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 17) (27 page)

Alex raised his hand. A set of keys dangled from it.

“I didn’t just bring any cop up to the room. I needed to bring one that drove here. One that would have car keys in his pocket.” Alex pointed at the cruiser. “He came here in that car.”

“Brilliant.”

They started around the trunk of another car and Alex unlocked the cruiser. In the darkened area of the parking lot, they secured Ansgar in the back seat.

Alex jumped in the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. That made the most sense as he wore the uniform. Aaron hopped in and slammed the door.

“Get us clear of this area.”

He thought of Sarah and of the times she had stolen a police car. He couldn’t wait to see her again and tell her what Alex had done for him and what he endured with Ansgar. He would be sure to include the stealing of the police car, the attack on the policeman, and the stolen uniform. They would laugh over drinks when this was all over.

Just Sarah and him.

Within minutes, they were out of the area and headed toward the hospital where Daniel had taken Benjamin.

Things were finally shaping up.

Chapter 39

Parkman hadn’t thought about anything the entire time he tried to get Sarah breathing again. He couldn’t bear the thought that Sarah had died. To comprehend it would be to accept failure. He was supposed to be in Skanderborg for Sarah. The man who took Sarah’s life had walked right by him. After attacking the two girls, the man had eluded Parkman’s search long enough to take Sarah and murder her.

It was Parkman’s fault. All of it. There was no way he could live with that knowledge. The things Sarah had done for so many people was incredible and Parkman let her die. How could he face her parents now? How could he face Aaron?

If Sarah were alive, she would kick his ass for letting her die.

The authorities arrived and banged on the door. Olafson cowered in the corner, bleeding from his wounds. Sarah was dead on the floor in front of him. Twenty minutes or more now. Loss of oxygen to the brain. He had tried everything to get her heart going again. What could they do? At least once, maybe twice, he thought he saw her chest raise as she took on air, but it was a trick of the lighting.

Reluctantly, as Clara’s father screamed in pain in the corner, Parkman pushed up off the floor and walked in a daze to the front door. He flicked the lock and pulled it open.

They spoke in rapid Danish.

Parkman shook his head and pointed at the room.

“They’re in there,” he muttered, his body, his being, his soul, utterly defeated.

Sarah was dead and it was his fault. Sarah was dead and he had no idea what he was going to do about it or how he could move on. Numbed, he watched as five men entered the house and slipped by him. Two were uniformed officers.

Parkman released the doorknob, crossed the small foyer, and entered the room. Two men examined Olafson while another touched Sarah’s neck. After a moment, the man left Sarah and moved to help with Olafson.

The officers separated, one moving toward Olafson, the other to stand beside Parkman.

“What happened here?” the officer asked.

Parkman pointed at Olafson. “He killed her. When I tried to revive her, he came at me with a knife. I disarmed him and stabbed his feet so he couldn’t get away.” Parkman looked down at Sarah’s peaceful face. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

“Who are you? How did you come to be here?”

Parkman faced the cop. He felt tired, like he hadn’t slept in a month.

“I’m a friend of hers. I was looking for her. When I called Sarah’s parents, they told me she might be at this address with Olafson.” He moved slowly to look at Olafson. The man glared back at him, listening to what he told the officer. “Sarah’s father texted me a picture of Anton’s face. When I saw him, I knew who he was. Anton Olafson is the man who pepper sprayed those two girls by the water earlier tonight. I’m sure they will verify my story.”

The cop glanced at Olafson, then back to Parkman.

“How are you inside this man’s house?”

Parkman frowned, then pointed at the room’s window. “I broke that when I saw Sarah on the floor tied up.”

“You broke into this man’s house?”

Parkman squared his shoulders and turned to face the cop. “He murdered Sarah Roberts and you’re worried about me breaking in?” If that were true, he would spend a few years in a Danish jail because he would clobber the young cop upside the head for being an inane imbecile.

“No sir, just trying to establish everyone’s role in the events this evening.”

Parkman unclenched his fist and looked back at Sarah.

“Everything that man has said is a lie,” Anton shouted.

The ambulance attendants were placing gauze over his feet wounds as he winced.

“That man broke into my house. He killed that girl and attacked me. He’s the only one still standing. I’m Anton Olafson, Director at the NC3. Arrest that man for murder and attempted murder at once.”

The officer touched his belt where handcuffs were stored.

Parkman placed a hand on the cop’s shoulder. The cop didn’t attempt to remove it.

“I will go with you. I will answer questions for days. But if you attempt to arrest me, I will break the hand that touches me.” He stared bullets into the young cop’s face. “I’m an American citizen and that woman is an American as well. She is important to a lot of people. I ride with her to the hospital. Once she’s officially pronounced dead, we will talk. Arrest me then if the story supports that. But for now, I ride with her. Understand?”

The cop’s hand came away from his belt. He exchanged a glance with his partner. The partner nodded.

“I’ll ride with you,” the cop said.

Parkman took one more look at Sarah, then trudged with heavy feet toward the open front door.

“Just keep me away from Anton. If I am within ten feet of him I will rip off his face and piss in his eye sockets.”

He made it outside, took a deep breath of the night air, and started for the ambulance. Halfway across the parking lot he pulled out his small package of toothpicks, dropped them in the grass and stopped to stare down at them. Somehow, they looked pathetic. Lost and lonely. Slim tiny pieces of wood made to pick food from teeth. He’d used them as a toy for as long as he could remember. Something to soothe him. A vice of comfort. They offered him nothing, lying on the lawn of the man who murdered his Sarah. They had nothing to give him.

He bent to retrieve them, then fell to his knees beside the package. He covered his face with his hands and let the grief out. It came in waves. His shoulders hitched as he flipped to his side, then rolled over and stared up at the Danish night sky. Tears moved down the side of his face and collected in his ears. He blinked them away and tried to stop crying. He needed to get through the next few days, be strong for Sarah.

Someone walked by him. Then someone else. He rolled away from them. The toothpicks were right in front of his face now. He wrapped his hands around them and held them tight, thinking of Sarah in Mexico recently. Sarah in Vegas. When she foiled the woman who wanted to use a bomb at a convention. When Sarah saved all those women in Amsterdam and Toronto.

Sarah had been there selflessly for so many over the years. Where was Vivian when Sarah needed her the most? Was Parkman Vivian’s answer? Was he supposed to be here an hour earlier? If that was the case, Vivian failed Sarah miserably when she needed her the most. Sarah couldn’t count on Vivian and now everyone would know that Sarah couldn’t count on Parkman.

He curled into a ball and tried to keep the wave of grief in. This wasn’t the time. He was Sarah’s only contact in Denmark. He could positively identify the body. He could help with arrangement to have her flown home to her parents.

Her parents.

What would Caleb and Amelia think of him now that he failed her?

Someone tapped his shoulder.

“Sir,” the cop said. “They’re loaded up and waiting for you.”

Parkman rolled over and got to his hands and knees. He pushed off the ground and stood up. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped his face and let the officer lead him to the back of the ambulance.

“Where’s Anton?” he asked.

“He left in the other ambulance.”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a thirty-minute drive to Silkeborg’s Regional Hospital. They will tend to Sarah there. When that’s done, I’ll need to take your statement.”

The cop helped Parkman up into the back of the ambulance. He sat on a side bench by Sarah’s head. The cop hopped up and his partner closed the back doors. A paramedic sitting by Sarah’s feet knocked on the wall that separated the back from the driver. A moment later, the emergency vehicle started away.

Parkman stared at Sarah’s face. Her lovely, unblemished face. She looked so peaceful now. Like she could finally sleep, get the rest she so deserved in life. It wasn’t any consolation, but rest in peace would actually mean something for Sarah Roberts.

Her chest moved.

He blinked and leaned closer.

Nothing. Sarah’s chest was rigid, only moving with the vibrations of the ambulance.

Something crinkled in Parkman’s hand. He looked down and saw he was holding the toothpick package.

A small, short chortle escaped his lips. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the cop glance his way.

He pulled out a toothpick and slipped the package into his back pocket. Examining the small piece of wood for a moment, he held it between his thumb and index finger. Then he popped it into his mouth.

Sarah would want her final ride in an ambulance with Parkman at her side, a toothpick in his mouth.

In life, Sarah was perfect.

In death, even more so.

He leaned back against the ambulance wall, rolled the toothpick from side to side, and stared at his Sarah remembering the good times.

Sarah would live on in his memory until he died.

Sarah would always live on.

He cried.

Chapter 40

Ben Wilson rolled out of bed cautiously. The pain in his lower back could flare at any time. After such a long nap and a day of eating horribly, the pain usually flared up. Any wrong movement and he would end up stumbling around the house eating anti-inflammatories for the rest of the night. This evening would be important and he didn’t want to screw that up by moving too suddenly.

He had fallen asleep five hours ago and now, if the clock in the corner was right, it was two in the morning. So much was happening out there. He didn’t want to miss a thing. The fear of losing Ansgar when he was so close. The thought of Anton not doing what was asked of him. Clara escaping. Jessy’s brother walking away unscathed. All these things kept him busy and right now he needed to be busy. It kept his mind off the pancreatic cancer that the doctors told him would take his life one day. Their stupid mortality-rate charts were ridiculously low. Even Stage One barely made it to double digits. He had to be Stage Four by now. Ben recalled Stage Four as having a survival rate of about one percent.

Fuck cancer.

A Mars bar rested on the bedside table beside him. He idly wondered if he’d ever get sick of them. Without looking, he dropped his hand onto the table, felt around until he bumped the bar’s packaging, then brought it over his face in the dark and ripped it open. Like other people woke to steaming cups of coffee, Ben savored the taste of his Mars bar when waking. He ate slowly, rolling the nougat around his tongue, sucking the chocolate off it. He would always remember the day Mars Dark came on the market. Unlike the American version of the Mars bar, the Canadian one he bought by the case never had a trace of peanuts. The average amount of bars per day for him were in the dozen range. Did it matter that he knew the time and date of his death? Could the chocolate bars affect his health in any negative way in the short time he had left to live? No way. There would be no let up on the Mars bars or something stupid like that. No reprieve. Maybe tonight he would eat an extra dozen just to make sure he got his fill before he died next week.

Becoming obese, early stages of diabetes setting in, Ben had gone to the doctor with his mother before she died to discover he had exocrine pancreatic cancer. Also known as adenocarcinoma pancreatic cancer. The abdominal and lower back pain and the yellowing skin were worsening, but what did it matter? He was dead regardless. Why do chemo? Why be prodded and poked for years? Why not sit at home and enjoy the few years he had left?

Once the chocolate bar was finished and he’d licked his soiled fingers, he rolled out of bed slowly, waddled to the bathroom, and did his business.

Hair mussed, teeth unbrushed for days, he trudged out of the bathroom and headed for his bank of computers. Where was everybody? What was The Clock doing? Had Anton found a random girl to kill yet?