Guilty as Sin (71 page)

The NCIC request for unsolved child abductions, and abductions/ murders, in the geographical areas where Priest had taught had yielded them little. Nothing that matched the macabre game that had played out here. It hadn't struck her until after the bad news of the dismissal had come from the courthouse that they might be looking on the wrong side of the win-lose column altogether. It didn't appear Wright wanted this case to go unsolved. It appeared he had every intention of framing Paul Kirkwood. If he framed Paul, who was to say he hadn't done the same thing before?

Maybe they didn't need information on unsolved crimes. Maybe they needed to look at cases that had been closed. Unfortunately, no one in law enforcement was as eager to share information on cases they believed to be tied up, neat and tidy, as they were to share information on cases they wanted to clean up. Megan knew it would take days of hounding to get anything.

Newspapers were the place to go. Newspaper-morgue librarians, and public-library reference-desk librarians. She had started calling immediately, requesting any stories found be faxed to Jay's machine ASAP. She had wheedled and begged, pleaded and lied and tossed around a rank she no longer held, then crossed her fingers and hoped that in the end the story of Josh and Dustin Holloman was enough to compel complete strangers in other states to do work they didn't really have to do.

Several faxes had rolled in late in the day. None of them were the piece they needed. Jay had put out the same request over a number of computer networks, using his name and his fame as a lure. Nothing had come of any of it yet.

Except to dispel her sense of powerlessness and uselessness. Garrett Wright had taken so much from her, but he hadn't taken the most important things that made her a good cop. Her mind. Her heart. Her determination. She could still do the job. She would just have to go about it differently, that was all.

"Christ," Brooks muttered, staring at the computer screen. "Everybody in the damn country has a story to tell. Here's a woman in Arkansas who claims her Welsh corgi was abducted by space aliens."

"Sounds like a book to me," Megan said, easing herself up out of her chair, moving carefully against the stiffness in her aching muscles. "Have you attracted anyone besides lunatics?"

He scrolled down through the responses, skipping over states outside the regions they were searching and past stories of S-and-M queens and visitations from alternate dimensions. Megan watched over his shoulder, amazed and disappointed at once.

"You're a wacko magnet, Brooks. Is that the price of fame?"

"I don't mind paying the price," he drawled. "Just so long as I get reimbursed."

He blew out a sigh and rubbed his eyes. "I need a break. I gotta get out of here for a while."

"Sure, go ahead," Megan said. "I'll hold the fort."

"You sure you don't want a breather, too?" he asked, shrugging into his parka.

"I'm sure." She gave him a sly smile as she slid down into his chair in front of the computer. "Three's a crowd. Say hi to Ellen for me."

She heard the kitchen door close, listened dimly to the muffled rumble of his truck's engine as she continued to go over the responses. His taillights were still visible heading east on Mill Road when she hit pay dirt.

She read through the scant few paragraphs regarding a crime that had been solved nearly ten years past. Her sixth sense—her cop sense—was humming on high voltage. Logic told her it was a long shot, but it was the best shot they'd had.

Sandwiching the telephone receiver between her shoulder and ear, she punched the number for the Pennsylvania state police. "Mr. Brooks, I think maybe we just caught a break."

"We didn't think you'd dig that deep," Slater said, stepping casually into the room, his hands in the pockets of his black ski jacket. "The investigation isn't your job, after all."

"My job is to prove my case," Ellen said, using her peripheral vision to search out a usable weapon within reach.

He shook his head and smiled slowly. "If you'd left the investigating to the cops, we might not have had to kill you."

"Kill me and you'll be found out anyway." She was amazed that she could sound so calm, so rational, when every alarm inside her was screaming. "It won't take long for the cops to put two and two together. They'll follow the same trail I did."

"I don't think so. They'll be more apt to follow the same trail they allowed with Enberg." Feigning sadness, he said, "Poor guy, he just couldn't take the pressure."

The scene from Denny's office flashed through Ellen's mind. The blood, the gore. Brain matter clinging to the wall behind his body. His head mostly gone, blown away. Nausea swirled in her stomach.

"No one will buy that," she challenged, her fingers surreptitiously curling around the shaft of one of Cameron's fountain pens. She slipped her fists into the deep pockets of her heavy wool coat. "I don't own a gun. wouldn't have one."

Slater took another step forward into the room. "Don't be so literal, there are lots of ways a person can commit suicide. Hanging. Carbon monoxide. Pills. Razor blades."

Ellen stepped back. If she could keep enough distance between them, get on opposite sides of the conference table . . . If she could just get to the outer hall . . .

"All I have to do is scream," she said. "There's a security guard—"

"Nice try, Ms. North, but I happen to know Mr. Stovich no longer saw the need, what with the charges against Dr. Wright being dropped." He flashed a quick grin and chuckled. "According to my good friend Phoebe, ol' Rudy was pretty steamed about the way you blew the case."

"You should be proud of yourself," Ellen said, refusing the bait. "Your efforts paid off. Keeping the cops busy running from one incident to another. Planting that evidence in Paul Kirkwood's storage locker. The credit is yours, not mine."

He grinned again and tossed his hair back out of his eyes. "Yeah. I done good."

"You murdered an innocent child."

"Nice touch, huh?"

"You don't feel anything?"

He shrugged, looking all of sixteen, innocent, oblivious to the consequences of his actions. "Sure. It was a rush choking him."

"Then why didn't you kill Josh?"

"Because that wasn't the plan." He shook his head. "You still don't get it. The game is more fun when you spot the other team points."

"You're not worried about his talking?"

"No," he said flatly, moving forward. "And I'm tired of you talking. Let's get on with it, Ms. North."

Ellen had rounded the end of the table, putting it between them, but Slater was nearer the door. He stood quietly, without the bouncy energy she had come to associate with him. As if he had pulled that energy inward and held it at the core of him, burning hot and intense. His dark eyes were bright with it, watching her with predatory anticipation.

"If you think I'm just going to let you kill me, you're not as smart as I thought," she said. "I have every intention of fighting. Defense wounds will raise eyebrows."

"There won't be any."

She inched along the table, passing the stacks of files, the reports, the notes—none of which would have pointed to Slater. He was right.If it hadn't been for her own digging, if it hadn't been for her calling on old contacts in the world she'd left behind, no one would have looked at him twice. Christ, she hadn't looked at him twice. The only reason she had kept searching for information on the past Cowboys was that she had the connection and was desperate enough to play a long shot.

"When did Wright single you out?" she asked. "Did he find out about the Slater boy when you came into the Cowboys?"

Pride and amusement glowed in his too-young face. "He built the Cowboys around me," he bragged. "I'm the reason the Cowboys exist. Ain't that a kick in the head? The program exists because Garrett wanted me.

The irony was as twisted as barbed wire. A program heralded nationally for turning so many young lives around had come into being as a cover for the utter corruption of one.

"Is it just Wright?" Ellen asked, her fingers clenching and unclenching on the pen in her coat pocket. She stood directly across from him now. Equal distance to the door. He had fifteen years on her, but she would be running for her life. "Or is Priest in on it, too?"

"I won't tell you everything, Ellen."

"Why not? I'll be dead anyway."

"True, but I don't want you to die satisfied. I want you to die wondering. That's just another point for my team."

"What a waste," she said, focusing on her anger instead of her fear. "To take someone as bright and talented as you and turn you into a common criminal."

"There's nothing common about me, Ms. North." His expression turned stony. "Garrett searched a long time to find me—a child who understood the game, someone as superior as he is."

"Superior?" Ellen arched a brow. "He's nothing but a bully and a coward and a murderer."

His eyes narrowed above reddening cheekbones. From his left jacket pocket he pulled a stun gun, a black plastic rectangle that didn't look any more menacing than a television remote control. "No more talk, bitch."

Ellen bolted for the door. Slater caught her at the end of the table, grabbing hold of her left arm and swinging the stun gun to her chest. She wisted away from him, and sixty thousand volts of electricity went dead gainst the thick wool sleeve of her coat. Screaming, she pulled the fountain pen from her pocket and stabbed with all the wild fury of the survival instinct.

Slater shrieked as the pen sank into his face through the hollow of his cheek and tore downward. The blood came in a gush as the soft tissue ripped open. Ellen wasted no time looking. She pushed off and lunged for the door, shouting for help, knowing the building was empty, knowing the sound would never reach the deputies in the building next door.

She could hear Slater coming behind her as she ran through the outer office. Chancing a glance over her shoulder, she slammed a thigh into the corner of Phoebe's desk. Black stars bursting in her head, she half sprawled across the desk, and her right hand hit the stapler. She closed her fingers around it and ran on.

"You fucking bitch!" Slater sobbed behind her.

He launched himself at her as she flung the door open, tackling her with his arms wrapped around her upper body. They landed on the floor, Ellen taking the brunt of it as she was sandwiched between the floor and her assailant. Her forehead hit hard. Her breath left her in a painful whoosh. But she pulled her feet beneath her and fought to buck Slater's weight off her.

They wrestled across the floor, Slater grabbing at her shoulder, trying to turn her onto her back beneath him. Ellen bit at his fingers, the blood dripping from his face into her eyes, into her hair, running down her cheek. She twisted suddenly beneath him and swung the stapler against his temple and cheekbone, snapping his head to the side, dazing him and giving her just enough opportunity to roll free.

She scrambled to her feet and started to run, realizing too late that she was pointed in the wrong direction—away from the sheriff's department. Now she would have to get to the first floor and double back.

Slater caught her at the stairs, grabbing the collar of her coat and a handful of hair, yanking her almost off her feet. The stun gun came up and Ellen blocked the hit with her shoulder. The gun gave an angry, crackling buzz. No defense wounds, he'd promised. If he'd nailed her the first time, there would have been none. The voltage would have dazed her senseless, and he could have quickly and easily slit her wrists for her.

Her left arm was wedged between their bodies. Ellen groped, latching on to Slater's testicles, squeezing as hard as she could. A howl pierced her eardrum and he shoved her away, doubling over, clutching himself. Ellen's shins hit the steps, then she fell up on her hands and knees. The stapler clattered free.

Up.

Shit. No options. Run now, figure it out later.

"Time to die, birthday bitch."

Birthday. Thirty-six. The birthday Ellen had been dreading. Suddenly thirty-six seemed far too young.

She flung herself up the stairs, stumbling as one heel caught an edge. She grabbed for the handrail, her fingers scraping the rough plaster of the wall, breaking a nail, skinning her knuckles.

The stairwell was barely lit, drawing in the ragged edges of illumination that fell from the lights in the halls above and below. Security lights. They offered nothing in the way of security. In the back of her mind she heard a low, smoky voice, "Tour boss needs to have a, word with someone about security. This is a highly volatile case. Anything might happen."