Because of a Girl (23 page)

“Detective Moore's car could break down,” Asher put in. “And then he'd lose Mr. Bouchard.” He was leaning forward between the seats. “Or something else could happen.”

Meg's imagination produced a dozen terrifying scenarios. Jack's car being pushed off the road, rolling, maybe bursting into flames like they did on TV cop shows all the time. Or the bark of a gun, and Jack dropping. If Mr. Bouchard had even a minute to shove Sabra into the trunk, if he got away...they would never find her in time.

With the landscape so empty, how could he
not
start to wonder about the car that had been behind him since he left Frenchman Lake?

Stomach in a knot, Meg checked to be sure there was no unexpected traffic and started forward again. “We'll go a little bit farther,” she said weakly.

“Hurry, Mom. We can't lose them.”

* * *

T
HE
ROAD
HAD
turned into a gentle roller coaster, the kind where teenagers would want to gun their cars and catch some air.

Jack's gaze kept returning to his rearview mirror, but if Meg was defying him, she was hanging back enough he couldn't see her. Bouchard just drove on.

Although it felt like forever, a glance at the clock told Jack they'd really only been on the way for thirty-five minutes. The morning Sabra disappeared, Bouchard had had roughly an hour and fifty minutes to stash her and get back to the high school.

Unless, of course, he'd left her at his house, say, then moved her after school.

But Jack was betting that was the window they were operating inside. Which meant they had to be arriving at their destination in the next five minutes or so.

The lavender farm appeared on the left, a faded sign indicating a driveway that led between thin, brown scrub on volcanic soil and a field of winter-gray vegetation that at this season didn't look so different but for the neat rows. The farmhouse and barns had to be three-quarters of a mile off the road.

As he topped the next rise, he saw a panorama dominated by vineyards. Miles of vines, the rows sweeping gracefully along the contours of the landscape. In the distance, the gentle, rolling slope descended into the Walla Walla Valley. Last count he'd heard, Walla Walla was home to something like seventy wineries, far outstripping Frenchman Lake.

The BMW slowed. Jack maintained his speed, as any other driver taking this road would. He was almost on top of Bouchard's car when it turned into a track that led between a row of wind-scoured poplars. Jack swept past, not even turning his head in case Bouchard was watching.

Only a few hundred yards down the highway, Jack braked and did a U-turn. He could no longer see the BMW; it sat low to the ground, hidden by rows of vines, leafless or not. Which meant Bouchard couldn't see him, either. In summer, a cloud of dust would have risen behind any passing vehicle on that lane, but the recent cold snap after winter precipitation would allow Jack to follow without betraying his presence from a distance.

He stopped on the shoulder just short of the first of the tall sentinel poplars, got out and ran, bent over, to where he could see down the ruler-straight lane.

The BMW had disappeared.

Within seconds, he was back behind the wheel of his borrowed car and taking the same turn. And,
shit
, there was that Jeep Cherokee, just in time to allow Meg and Emily to see where he was going.

He snatched up his phone and stabbed it with his thumb.

“You will stay back at the road,” he all but snarled. “Do you hear me? Do
not
put two kids at risk.” Hadn't almost being killed given her pause at all?

“I won't.” Meg sounded subdued but not apologetic. “I promise. We just couldn't quit.”

He growled a vicious word in frustration and ended the call.
Focus on what's ahead.
If there was any chance at all Sabra was still alive, she wouldn't be for long.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

F
ORCED
TO
TRUST
Meg to stay behind, Jack pulled off the lane just before the alley of poplars came to an end, leaving his car door cracked so as not to alert Bouchard in case he hadn't heard the engine.

Ahead, he could see the corner of what appeared to be some kind of open shed and, over the rows of vines, a roof. Not a big structure—unless it was out of sight, there was no farmhouse in here, although the mature poplars suggested there might once have been.

Jack unholstered his handgun and took off at a trot, watching his footing to avoid so much as snapping a tiny branch. He couldn't hear a thing. At least that meant Meg had done as he'd asked, for once.

Unless they were all creeping down the lane on foot, too. He wouldn't put it past her, even if she had to hobble, and Emily had no goddamn sense at all. Pretty sad if he had to depend on a sixteen-year-old boy to rein them in.

Focus.

With an open front and weathered gray siding, the shed was large enough to park farm equipment in but currently empty. Right now, the only vehicle was the BMW left in front of it. Straight ahead, Jack saw the foundation of what must have once been the farmhouse. Half a chimney still stood. Blackened timbers told him a fire had leveled the house, probably many years before.

A couple more strides and he came in sight of a small cabin, maybe only one room. He didn't see any windows, then realized they had been boarded up. The front door—it, too, was covered by heavy boards.

And where was Bouchard?

Then he lifted his head, smelling something that chilled him.

Gasoline.

And he heard a frightened girl's voice. “Remy? Where are you? What are you doing?”

He ran for the side of the cabin, where he discovered one board had been pried away. A hammer lay on the ground next to the board, propped against the side of the cabin. Heart thudding, he stepped close enough to see a portion of a face. Blue eyes looked back at him.

Jack lifted his finger to his lips to shush her. She nodded, telling him she understood. But tears filled those eyes.

A creak of wood giving under a man's weight. Bouchard had stepped onto the small porch. Going utterly still, Jack heard something else: the slosh of liquid. The eye-watering smell of gas intensified.

Jesus.
Bouchard intended to torch the cabin, with Sabra inside. Presumably, he would first wish her goodbye by pumping a bullet in her from the gun belonging to Asher's dad. He might even plan to “accidentally” drop it somewhere beyond the reach of the flames, or even toss it inside. He might have done enough research online to know that a lab would still be able to read the serial number and identify the owner of the pistol.

Jack gestured to Sabra to move away from the window and crouch down. She gave a jerky nod of understanding and vanished, leaving Jack to retreat as silently as he could around to the back of the cabin.

Here, the walls had already been splashed with gas. Rage rose in him. This was as cold-blooded a plot as he had ever seen.

Then he lifted his Glock in a two-handed grip and prepared himself.

“Sabra.” Warm, friendly, Bouchard's tone suggested he'd just been playing a little joke on her. “Honey, where are you?”

Jack stepped around the corner. “Police,” he said sharply. “Drop the weapon
now
.”

Bouchard had to be pulling the trigger as he turned. Even as he did the same, Jack was slammed backward. Pain exploded across his chest.

* * *

K
NOTTING
HER
HANDS
together so tightly they hurt, Meg paced a few feet away from the car, then back. The absolute silence was terrifying. Not even a breeze stirred the poplar branches.

When they first parked, Asher had had her pop the hatch door. She understood when she saw him hefting the tire iron. Emily had gaped at it, then shut her mouth. Since then, the two teenagers had stood without talking, staring up the lane. Waiting. Asher had his arm around Emily. Meg was glad for Emily, and jealous, too, because she ached to have Jack's arms around her, and instead he'd put himself in danger.

She kept expecting to hear a yell. A car engine.
Something.

At last came the sound of distant voices, too indistinct for her to make out words. She didn't have even an instant to react before gunfire erupted. Two, three, four shots.

Her body jerked with each sharp
pop
.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Jack, oh, please—”

Teeth chattering, Emily spun to face her. “We have to
do
something.”

Asher broke away from Emily. “I'm going.”

“Asher, come back here!” Meg cried.

Her daughter started after him. “I'm going with you.”

He broke stride to swing around. “No.” The word was final, hard, and Meg saw the man he was becoming, not the boy he was.

Emily froze, probably in shock that he'd talked to her that way.

Having absolutely no idea what to do next, Meg stared after Asher until she lost sight of him as the lane curved. She didn't know if she
could
just stand here and wait.

Was Sabra still alive? What about Jack?
What if—

Her eyes focused. Asher was running full tilt back down the lane toward them.

“In the car!” he yelled. “Get in! He's coming.”

“In,” Meg snapped. She waited until she saw Emily reach for the door handle before flinging herself in behind the wheel. She had the engine running and was ready to go by the time Asher dove into the back.

“Go!” he managed between gasps for air.

Meg stomped on the gas even as he was closing the door. They rocketed forward.

Suddenly Emily had her face all but pressed to the side window. “I see smoke.”

“I know.” Asher's breathing was still audible. “I smelled it.”

“But...” She spun to look over the seat, then at her mother. “We need to go back!”

“He's coming fast. He must have a gun. If he sees us...”

Praying Bouchard turned back the way they'd all come instead of their direction, Meg pushed the speed up. Forty, fifty, sixty. Too fast for this road, when she couldn't see over the next hill. What if they came upon a tractor?

What if Bouchard came up behind them and started shooting?

* * *

J
ACK
GROANED
AND
rolled over. Swearing viciously, he managed to get to his hands and knees. He had broken ribs, at least. Could a sternum break? Probably. But at least he was breathing.

The crackle of flames drove him to his feet.

He staggered, flinched from the heat. Smoke swirled, the gasoline taste filling his mouth. Coughing, he covered his nose with his forearm.

The BMW was gone. Had he lost consciousness? Could he have missed the sound of one more gunshot? If Bouchard had shot Sabra...

Not having been splattered with gasoline, this side of the cabin wasn't engaged yet.

He reached the barricaded window. Profound relief filled him at the sight of Sabra's face pressed to the opening. She was screaming, shoving at boards too heavy and firmly nailed. He had a fleeting glimpse of torn fingernails and bloody hands.

The hammer was gone. Jack would have gotten more creative with his profanity if he could have afforded the air.

“Let me!” he shouted, and began wrenching at the first board he could get his fingers around. The pain was excruciating. One groan after another was torn from him.

He'd have been dead if he hadn't been wearing a vest.

Suddenly there was some give. Nails screeched. He braced one foot against the cabin side and put all his weight into yanking.

When the board ripped free, he fell back.

* * *

“I'
M
GOING
TO
turn around,” Meg said suddenly, lifting her foot from the gas. “I don't see him behind us.”

Asher was craning to see, too. “Yeah, he must be going back to Frenchman Lake.”

It took her a minute to slow enough to make a U-turn in the middle of the road. Long enough to give Meg a chance to think, and to see a rising column of oily, dark smoke.

“What if...what if he killed Jack?” Her voice shook. “He'll get away.”

“And what if he has Sabra with him?” Emily asked.

“We saw him.” Asher's assertion was undeniable. “We know he was there.”

“But we didn't see what he
did
,” Meg argued.

The lane came in sight.

“Let me out,” Asher said suddenly. “Me and Emily. Then you can tail him. We'll call the second we know anything.”

Meg drew a shuddering breath. She wanted to go to Jack. Tell
Asher
to follow Bouchard. But he was an inexperienced driver. What if he was tempted to speed, and lost control? Plus, she was in no shape to help anyway.

“Yes. Okay.”

She braked. The two leaped out and ran. Meg was reassured to see that Asher still carried the tire iron.

Once again, she stepped on the gas and rocketed forward.

* * *

A
NOTHER
THICK
BOARD
gave way with a groan. The gap was finally wide enough for a petite teenage girl to wriggle through.

But not a hugely pregnant one.

One more.

His body was screaming at him, but he couldn't listen. Fire had wrapped the corner from the front porch and flames licked the dry shake roof. As he gripped yet another board and yanked, putting his weight behind it, a terrified Sabra was pushing from the other side. Sweat and tears ran down her face.

He heard a yell, but he didn't let himself turn. Long spikes anchored this board. It wasn't surrendering a millimeter.

Suddenly someone else was beside him. Asher, and out of the corner of his eye Jack saw Emily, too, hand clapped to her mouth in horror.

Asher brandished a tire iron. Close to Jack's ear, he called, “Let me try to wedge this in.”

Jack wrenched backward with everything he had. Nothing. The gap wasn't wide enough for the tire iron to be any use. Asher flung it aside and grabbed hold, too.

Jack looked him in the eye. “One. Two.
Three.
”

Both yanked, Jack giving a raw bellow. The board came loose with a screech. Asher fell back. Jack gave one more pull and threw the board aside. Sabra was already scrambling out.

Jack held out his arms, and she fell into them. He turned and stumbled away, the heat searing his back. His face felt scorched. He wouldn't have been surprised if his hair had been on fire.

Ten feet, fifteen.

Sabra struggled free. He took one of her hands, Asher the other, and they ran.

Behind them came a crash accompanied by a leap of fire and sparks.

Jack let go of the girl's hand and fell to his knees, retching.

* * *

M
EG
TOPPED
THE
last hill before the highway and saw the BMW had already made the turn. At the corner, she braked only enough to be sure the intersection was clear before she accelerated in pursuit of the monster who either had Sabra with him or had left her for dead.

Who must think
Jack
was dead.

She groped for her phone and managed to dial 9-1-1.

“What is the nature of your emergency?” a dispatcher asked with brisk efficiency.

“I'm pursuing a man in a black BMW who I think shot a police officer, Detective Jack Moore from Frenchman Lake.”

The dispatcher requested location and direction of travel. “A state patrolman is approaching from the north. You need to stay within the speed limit and not risk a confrontation.”

“He's sticking to the speed limit right now. But if he doesn't... I can't let him get out of sight. He could dump a body.”

That bore a whole lot of explanation. Meg wasn't sure she was coherent enough for the dispatcher to understand. All Meg knew was that they could give her a damn ticket for speeding, but she wasn't letting Remy Bouchard out of her sight until she saw him in handcuffs.

An RV passed going the other direction, momentarily rocking her car.
Not
my
car. Asher's.
Lucky. Her poor old VW would have been left behind before they reached the Frenchman Lake city limits.

Nobody had come up behind her. As far back as she could see, the highway was deserted.

She stole a glance at the speedometer to see that her speed had now crept up without her being aware. Five miles over the speed limit. He had to have started wondering about her. What if he realized he'd seen this same Jeep Cherokee earlier? Oh, God—could he shoot while he was driving?

She should back off, but the highway ahead was empty now, too. Meg didn't remember any real turnoffs, but she wasn't sure she'd have noticed them earlier, especially once she was on the phone with Jack. What if she got too far behind, and he just...disappeared?

Ten miles over the speed limit. The Cherokee had begun to shake, as if its bones rattled.

Clenching the steering wheel, she willed her phone to ring. A state patrol car to appear ahead.

She thought she might be praying.

* * *

O
N
HIS
HANDS
and knees, Jack heaved violently. Every spasm felt like a bomb blast inside his body. Asher hovered, his fingers opening and closing into fists, wanting to help but unable to do anything. A few feet away, the two girls clung to each other, sobbing. Jack kept hearing, “You came for me. I can't believe it. You found me.”

“You're my best friend,” Emily wailed.

He had to get a grip.

“Call Meg,” he gurgled.

“What?” Asher crouched next to him.

“Call Meg,” he ground out.