Kill Her Again (A Thriller) (13 page)

While all of this was happening, the car lurched into motion again, continuing its descent, and a moment later the door slid open at the ground floor, inviting Pope to flee.

Hands grabbed at him before he was able to clear the threshold. He jerked an elbow back again, half-expecting to feel the heat of Arturo’s knife sinking into his ribs. But the hands had a fairly good grip on him now and spun him around until he was face-to-face with Sharkey, who was still struggling to breathe.

As Pope tried to pull away, Sharkey slammed him back against the door’s rubber bumper and pinned him there, wheezily sucking air.

“Don’t . . . even . . . try,” he said between breaths, then reached around and jabbed the emergency stop button.

Pope stopped struggling, resigned to the fact that he had pretty much shot his wad. So much for all that time in the gym. It was only then that he glanced down at the floor and saw Arturo lying in a heap, out cold, blood pooling around his now-broken nose.

Pope knew he’d caused some damage, but this?

“Jesus. Did I do that?”

“Hardly,” Sharkey said. “I wanted some alone time.”

Apparently past the worst of his pain now, Sharkey released Pope, who considered bolting, but didn’t figure he’d get far.

“I should shoot you just for the knee to the ’nads,” Sharkey continued, “but I’ve never killed a civilian, and I don’t intend to start now. Especially one as pathetic as you.”

Pope looked at him. Civilian?

“Am I missing something here?”

“I could fill a warehouse with the things you miss.”

“So what exactly is going on?”

“What do you think?” Sharkey said. “I’m letting you go.”

Pope was flabbergasted. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Does it look like we have time for a detailed conversation? Rumpelstiltskin here isn’t gonna sleep forever, and he damn sure won’t be happy when he wakes up. Let’s just say I’m not who you think I am.”

Pope ran that little morsel of information through his head for a moment, completely stymied.

Then it hit him. “Holy shit. You’re a
cop
?”

It was the only thing that made any sense.

“Just know
this
,” Sharkey said. “Our mutual benefactor is gonna be pissed when he finds out you’re on the loose. So you need to get low and stay low, because I can damn well guarantee he’ll be sending us after you. And God save you if he unleashes The Ghost.”

“What about you? Will you be okay?”

“I’ll tell him you hypnotized me.”

Pope smiled. “How do you know I didn’t?”

“Ha-ha,” Sharkey said. “Now get out of here, and don’t say a goddamn word to your FBI friend. I don’t want two and a half years of hard work blown because of some second-rate lounge performer.”

Pope patted his shoulder. “Thanks, Shark. Sorry about the balls.”

He was about to head down the hallway toward the rear exit when he suddenly realized he’d forgotten something. Turning, he went for the stairwell instead.

Sharkey said, “Are you outta your mind? What are you doing? I said get out of here.”

“The kid,” Pope told him. “I almost forgot the kid.”

L
ESS THAN A
minute later, he was pushing open his hotel room door. Evan was still fast asleep on the bed, but Kelly was curled up in the armchair, Pope’s pipe and lighter in hand, glazed eyes staring at the miniature
Metamorphosis
disco ball that sat spinning on the table next to her.

“These things really trip me out,” she said, then looked up at Pope, offering him the pipe and lighter. “You want a hit?”

Pope immediately crossed the room and snatched them away from her. “What the hell is wrong with you? There’s a kid in the room.”

“He’s asleep and I was bored,” she said. “You ever heard of cable? Books maybe? Magazines?”

She was twenty-four years old and all woman, but sometimes acted as if she were still sixteen. She’d never made a secret of the fact that she was attracted to Pope, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to close the deal. It just didn’t feel right.

“First,” he told her, “a kid’s a kid, asleep or otherwise. Second, you shouldn’t be rummaging around in my personal stuff. And third, I need to borrow your car.”

The last one threw her for a loop. “What?”

“Your car. Right now.”

“You’re kidding, right? You haven’t left this place in—what? Like a year?”

“Things change. And I’m in a hurry.”

“What about
your
car?”

“I signed it over to Troy, remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Hey, what can I tell you? I like breathing.”

Speaking of which, time was wasting. In his mind’s eye, Pope could see Arturo coming awake on that elevator floor. He needed to get the hell out of here.

Moving to the bed, he lifted Evan into his arms. The boy stirred, but didn’t awaken, instead laying his head on Pope’s shoulder, snoring softly against his neck. The move was so familiar and natural that Pope was immediately flooded by memories. He felt the heat of emotion rise, settling in his chest and behind his eyes.

Fighting to turn it off, he said to Kelly, “I really do need that car.”

She eyed him coyly. “And what do
I
get out of it?”

“How about a year’s worth of cable and a subscription to your favorite magazine?”

“Really?”

Pope sighed. “The key, Kelly. Give me the goddamn key.”

I
T WAS A
fourteen-year-old Toyota Tercel with faded paint that had once been cherry red. She kept it parked in the employee section at the far end of the south lot. Getting to it was tricky, especially with the sky growing lighter and a kid in his arms, but Pope managed to make it without running into Sharkey and crew.

That could change, of course.

Glancing around, he popped open the passenger door, tossed a backpack in back, and carefully strapped Evan in. The boy stirred again, murmuring something Pope didn’t catch, then settled against the seat and got quiet.

Pope closed him in, then moved around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat, which he quickly adjusted for his longer legs. It was an odd sensation, sitting behind the wheel after so long. Especially in a car he wasn’t used to.

He was about to turn the key in the ignition when he saw headlights in the distance.

A Lincoln Town Car. About fifty yards away.

It could be anyone, but Pope knew the twins drove a Lincoln and wouldn’t be surprised if the alert had gone out and they were cruising the lot, aisle by aisle, in hopes of catching a glimpse of him.

He reached over, adjusting Evan’s seat back to full reclining position, then followed with his own. A moment later, the Town Car approached, moving slowly.

Did they know this was Kelly’s car? Had someone gone to the room and confronted her?

He’d find out soon enough.

Pope held his breath, listening to the low rumble of the Town Car’s engine as it came close, then, thankfully, rolled past. He was tempted to take a peek, see if it really was the twins, but he’d been foolish enough for one morning and saw no point in compounding his troubles.

Once it was gone, he waited a full minute before putting his seat upright again. Glancing around, he saw no sign of the Town Car. They must’ve headed over to the north lot. Quickly starting the engine, Pope shifted into drive and pulled away.

He was nearing the parking lot exit when Evan stirred again.

“. . . watching her,” he murmured.

Pope looked at him. The boy’s eyes were closed.

Talking in his sleep?

“. . . watching . . . ,” Evan said.

Could he be dreaming about Kimberly? Was he remembering what happened? Pope reached over and gently stroked the boy’s forehead.

“What was that, kiddo?”

Evan said nothing for a long moment and Pope returned his attention to the road.

Then the boy spoke. More clearly this time.

“He’s watching her . . . been watching her all morning.”

“Who’s he watching?” Pope asked. “Kimmie?”

Evan’s brow furrowed, but his eyes remained closed. “No . . . Anna . . . ,” he murmured.

Pope had no earthly idea who Anna was.

Another sister?

No. Wait a minute.

Wasn’t that Agent McBride’s name?

They were approaching the freeway now. Pope took the westbound on-ramp, heading toward Ludlow. If he floored it, he could be there in less than twenty minutes.

“
Who’s
watching her, Evan? Who’s watching Anna?”

“The man,” Evan said.

“What man?”

Evan didn’t respond, his brow continuing to furrow as if he were battling some unseen force that was trying to prevent him from talking.

Then he said, “The man in the red hat.”

1
6

B
Y THE TIME
she reached the arcade tents, he was nowhere in sight.

Pausing near the patch of ground where he had been standing, Anna noted two crushed cigarette butts in the dirt. If they were his, it meant he’d been standing there for quite a while.

Had he been waiting for her?

Continuing on, she moved between two tents and emerged at the far end of the football field. More tents, about a half dozen of them, were lined up along the right side of the field with a wide aisle between them, flaps closed and tied down for the night.

Anna had been to enough carnivals to know exactly what was behind those flaps. Ring toss, balloon darts, shooting galleries, milk bottles—games all designed to take your money and give you nothing in return.

When she was a teenager, one of her boyfriends had known how to beat them all and she’d had a room full of cheap stuffed animals to prove it.

Moving down the aisle, she searched the grounds, but saw no sign of the man in the red baseball cap, wondering now if she had only imagined him. At the rate she was going, that certainly wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

But assuming he
wasn’t
a figment of her imagination, who, then, was he? Could he be the same man from her visions? The one who was terrorizing the little girl?

And, if so, how was he connected to this case?

Down the center of the field were the food booths. Smaller canvas tents and gaudily painted trailers that promised caramel apples, snow cones, hot dogs, and cotton candy. A few of the tents were sponsored by local businesses and the PTA.

As a young child, Anna had spent a weekend working in a carnival food booth, alongside her mother, who had been the leader of Anna’s Bluebird troop. They’d worn matching blue and yellow uniforms, selling hamburgers and chili fries to Anna’s classmates and their families.

Two years later, her mother was dead.

Turning now, Anna moved into the adjacent aisle, searching the shadows for any sign of movement.

The left side of the field held the carnival rides, all eerily dormant in the early-morning darkness. Ferris wheel, carousel, Tilt-A-Whirl, miniature roller coaster, and a couple of newer rides she’d never seen before. All were painted in vibrant reds and yellows and oranges—although some of that paint had faded over time and no one had bothered to slap on a new coat.

Once again feeling the sensation that she was being watched, Anna swiveled her head toward the carousel, about fifteen yards away. All she could see were the painted ponies, half-hidden in darkness.

Yet the feeling persisted.

Stopping in her tracks, she kept her gaze steady, waiting. The world seemed to have gotten very quiet. The commotion behind her, the carny encampment under siege, was little more than a faint murmur now.

Then, after a long moment, something inside the carousel moved. A subtle shift in the waning darkness.

Was he in there?

Reaching to her side, Anna pulled her Glock free from its holster and raised it, pointing it toward the shadows. “You,” she said. “Lock your hands on top of your head and come out.”

No response. No movement. Nothing.

“FBI. Lock your hands on top of your head and come out.
Now.
”

Still nothing.

Anna inched closer, about to chalk all of this up to her overworked imagination, when she spotted something in the dirt just three yards away. A small object, made of plastic.

Checking the carousel shadows for movement again—and seeing nothing—she holstered her Glock and stepped over to the object, crouching down to take it in her hands.