Molly parked Ken’s car in the general vicinity of the curb in front of Rachel’s apartment building. Ken’s car was the last of her worries. Something wasn’t quite right in all this.
According to the names stenciled above the rusty black mailboxes hanging just inside the entrance, Rachel’s apartment was 1C. She heard the rhythmic pounding of someone’s too-loud stereo and smelled the familiar, spicy scent of instant microwavable noodles wafting through the unadorned building. She smiled as she recalled that meal. It was a required staple for the college crowd.
She found 1C at the end of the hallway, to the left of and behind the stairway. Good thing it was hidden, this was her first foray into breaking and entering, and she appreciated the small measure of cover afforded by the alcove.
Bright moment number two came when she saw there was no dead bolt. Just a simple, scratched, battered knob. She dug into her purse, wondering if she had anything that might slip between the jam and the latch. Her checkbook, no. A tube of lip glass, no. Three barrettes, maybe. She held them between her teeth. A tampon, no. The tube of pepper spray she’d had for the better part of a decade, no. And her wallet. A credit card, she thought excitedly. Just like in the movies.
Only, ten minutes later she knew it was nothing like in the movies. She’d broken two of her credit cards, one snapped into toothlike ridges that were so sharp she sliced her knuckle in the process.
She tried a third card, but it, too, snapped. She shoved the pieces in her back pocket as she tried to think of an alternative. Not finding one, she gave the door a little kick and it popped open.
“Step one,” she chided herself as she slipped inside, “check to see if the lock is sturdy.”
Rachel’s apartment was typical grad student. Mismatched furniture, worn cushions and a table that was covered with papers waiting to be graded and bills yet to be paid.
But nothing special. Nothing jumped out. She went into the bedroom. The double bed had neither a head-board nor a footboard, but the comforter was nice and the area tidy. Still, nothing out of place. A bed and a dresser. But something above the dresser caught her eye. Stuck in the edge of the mirror, she discovered half of a ticket stub that almost any other person on earth would have dismissed. But not Molly. The stub was for a reunion seven months earlier for the Porcellian Club. The club had been a tradition at Harvard since sometime in the late 1700s.
She got a chill.
There was only one person she knew who was a Harvard graduate and knew Rachel. Suddenly short of breath, she turned and discovered that very person standing in the doorway, with a gun trained in her direction.
“FIRE THAT GUY,” Chandler insisted, punctuating the remark by slamming his fist against the dashboard.
“It was a dispatch screwup.”
“I don’t care. That deputy should never have left her alone.”
“I can’t fire him,” Seth said, as he steered into a turn at such a high rate of speed that the SUV fishtailed briefly. “But he’ll be on doughnut run until hell freezes over.”
“What was he thinking?”
“Wires got crossed, Chandler. The dispatcher heard I had Jonas at the hospital and assumed that meant in custody.”
“And who the hell is Ken?” Chandler growled.
“The CPA from the office next door.” The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio, barely audible above the peel of the sirens. “This is Landry.”
“Just heard from the troupers, boss. They have Peter Geller, Jr., cuffed and en route here. Said to tell you they hit the mother load.”
“What about Molly? Does he have Molly?”
Seth asked, but the reply was negative. “Patch me through to the transport vehicle.”
There was some static, then another voice that said, “Womax, here.”
Chandler about screamed as Seth and the trouper exchanged pleasantries. When he could stand it no more, he yelled, “Ask about Molly!”
The trouper knew nothing about Molly, and the little jerk he was carting off to jail was spewing his name, birth date, rank in the Freedom Nation—Supreme Leader—and the serial number 068.
“Have the trouper meet us someplace secluded,” Chandler threatened. “I’ll shove the supreme leader’s supreme serial number down his supremely scrawny little throat.”
“Calm down,” Seth urged before he thanked the trouper. “We’ll find her.”
“Montana’s a pretty big state,” Chandler said, tasting fear as they careened into the empty parking lot.
Chandler’s feet hit the pavement before Seth had brought the car to a complete stop. The door to Molly’s office was open, but a quick check proved it to be empty. He dashed next door, tried the knob, found it locked and started pounding.
A milquetoast kind of guy opened the door. He seemed reluctant, scared almost, until he saw Seth appear.
“Sheriff Landry,” he began, then sneezed. “I’m quite worried. Molly took my car a half hour ago and she hasn’t returned.”
“Where was she going?”
He shrugged his thin shoulders. “She didn’t say. I only know that she was quite upset. She threatened me.”
Chandler took a step closer to the little man and glared down at him. “Threatened you? How?”
“She said she would…lick things.”
“Come again?” Seth asked.
“Lick things,” Ken repeated. “I am very particular about germs and I—”
“I don’t really care right this minute,” Chandler cut in. “Molly is missing. What did she say to you? Did she mention anyone?”
“She used my phone and gave me hers.”
Chandler looked down and recognized the phone as Molly’s. He grabbed it, much to the horror of Ken, and flipped it open. “It’s dead,” he told Seth.
“I’ve got some chargers in the SUV. I’ll get a list of the calls made from Ken’s place.”
“Can you do that without a warrant?” Ken queried.
Chandler’s answer was a withering look that sent the man cowering back into his plain little office. “See if you can get access to Molly’s voice mail, too,” Chandler called out.
While Seth was getting the phone records, Chandler sat sideways, half in, half out of the truck, trying different power cords on the phone until he found one that fit. He shoved the adapter into place and listened as a series of beeps and tones played. Finally he began scrolling through the menus, finally reaching the stored list of most recent calls. Jotting the numbers on the back of a fast-food napkin he’d found stuffed beneath the door handle, he quickly copied them down, then began dialing.
Because the phone stored all buttons pressed, he was able to access the same options as Molly. The first call landed him in the Human Resources Department of the college.
Since he didn’t have a name, he was put on hold while they tried to find the person she’d spoken with. Chandler was only vaguely aware of Seth’s activities, but he’d gathered enough bits and pieces to get that Seth was arranging for a representative to come out immediately to get them into Molly’s voice mail system.
“The woman is missing and I’m on freaking hold,” he grumbled. “Do you believe this?”
“Hang in there,” Seth called back.
His heel nervously beat against the running board, keeping time with his speeding pulse. Just when he thought he might scream, a woman came on the line.
“May I help you?”
“You spoke to Molly Jameson a little while ago?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask, about what?”
“She was interested in the employment application for one of her graduate teaching assistants.”
“Rachel? Rachel Mitchell?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Do you recall what you told her?”
“Basic information. But she was particularly interested in Miss Mitchell’s mother. It had—”
Nothing helpful. He should have listened when she told him Rachel wasn’t a viable suspect. If he had, she wouldn’t be missing. “Thank you.” Chandler disconnected and quickly dialed the second number just as a private telephone service truck pulled into the lot.
Seth dealt with the land-line issues while Chandler battled a busy signal. He went into Molly’s office and found Seth. Handing over a slip of paper, he pointed to one of the numbers and said, “I can’t get through on this one. Can you do a reverse and give me the name for this number?”
A guy in a dark-blue jumpsuit was working on the desk phone, pressing numbers as if playing an instrument. Seth was on his cell, speaking to yet another telephone representative, gathering information about other calls Molly might have made in the hours and minutes before she disappeared.
Seth held up his index finger, then said, “The number on her cell, the busy signal, it’s to Dr. Gavin Templesman.”
Chandler felt his heart sink. That wasn’t any help. He knew the two of them spoke often.
“Okay,” Seth began again. “From Ken’s place, they’ve got a call to the hospital.”
“Why didn’t we get it?” Chandler yelled. Knowing that she had called him for help only made it worse.
“Because we didn’t,” Seth answered.
The fact that his brother was calm and collected helped. It was pretty much the only thing keeping him from going out of his mind.
“A call to 911,” Seth announced. “Then nothing else.”
“911?” Dread washed over him in strong, dizzying waves. Chandler actually felt physically ill. That had never even happened to him in combat. However, not knowing where she was or if she was all right was eating him alive. He stood helpless while his mind flashed ugly images in a taunting, cruel slide show. He couldn’t stand doing nothing, so he called Shane. He’d gladly enlist every last one of his brothers in order to find Molly.
As expected, Shane went into action instantly, offering to organize a Landry posse to comb the entire county if necessary. Their only solid clue was Ken’s car, so Seth put out the official word to begin a search while Chandler organized the unofficial group, who were already loading into cars and heading out.
“I can retrieve from the main system now,” the nearly forgotten phone tech offered.
They gathered around the speaker phone as the messages played. Three patients asking to be rescheduled; four more needing prescription refills; a couple of hang-ups; one computerized solicitation to let her know she could have a free weekend getaway. Then they heard:
“Dr. Jameson, this is Rachel. I really need to talk to you but it has to be discreetly. Call me at home when you get this. Please, please, do not call me at the school. Thanks. I almost forgot, my home number is…”
“Play that back,” Chandler demanded, listening intently as the message was repeated. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah, something in the background,” Seth agreed. “Bells?”
“Six bells,” Chandler corrected. “Six bells is a ship’s clock. Was Rachel in the military?”
“Give me a minute.” Seth went back on his phone and rattled off the list of everyone they could think of for a search through the military records. He placed his palm over the mouthpiece and said, “This might take a few minutes.”
Minutes Molly might not have. Chandler forced his mind to go over every detail of every conversation he’d ever had with Molly. He didn’t remember a single mention of anyone associated with the Navy or ships or…
“I need someone with computer skills,” Chandler blurted out. “Anyone!”
Ken stepped in from the outside and raised his hand. Rolling his eyes, Chandler grabbed the upstretched arm and practically dragged the man into the back office where he’d left his laptop.
He made quick work of connecting the machine to the phone jack and parking Ken in front of it.
“I need to know about yacht races.”
“Like the America’s Cup? That sort of thing??”
He nodded, recalling that Molly had used that reference once. Maybe it meant something, maybe not. He was running out of options and desperate enough to try anything. “Crew members, captains, sponsors. Whatever. Can you do that?”
Ken smiled, then sneezed all over Chandler’s state-of-the-art toy. He didn’t care. If Ken came up with anything, he could have the damned machine.
Shane called in to say he’d picked Taylor up and they were heading to the college. Taylor knew the campus well, so she’d be leading that search.
“Tell her thank you,” Chandler asked.
He heard Taylor accept, then add, “I knew I was right about Rachel. There’s no way she could have hurt—“
“Boats,” Chandler interrupted. “Ask her about Rachel and boats, please.”
Chandler heard a rustling noise and figured Shane was handing the phone off to Taylor. “Boats? Like in water and sails and anchors?”
“Mean anything?” he hoped.
“No. Why?”
Chandler explained about the message and added, “Do you know anyone who has anything even remotely nautical in their repertoire? Someone at the college? A professor of naval history, maybe?”
“Not my area,” Taylor answered, “but I can check while we’re there. Have you called Dr. Templesman?”
“Got a busy signal, why?”
“He does all the hiring for the department. He probably knows more about the lives and hobbies of the faculty.”
“I’ll try him back, thanks.”
“Please do, Chandler. I know he’ll help. He practically worships Molly. Do you have his home number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me call a friend of mine who knows his secretary, and I’ll call you back with it, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“Hang tough, Chandler. We’ll find her.”
He rubbed her face and prayed that was true. The waiting was the worst. The only person who might know who had taken Molly wasn’t talking. Chandler had half a mind to go find the Freedom Nation freak and beat him until he told or died. Either option was acceptable.
“Taylor on my phone for you!” Seth yelled.
He took two steps, then caught the phone Seth had pitched to him. “Thanks, Taylor, that was quick.” He hung up and then immediately switched to his own phone to call Gavin, keeping Seth’s line free for official business.
“Got something!” Ken called.
“Me, too,” Seth added.
Chandler was listening to the recorded announcement and was about to start speaking when he heard the ring of bells on the tape.
“She was calling from Gavin Templesman’s house,” he told Seth. “Rachel was at Gavin’s when she called. The same bells are on his answering machine tape.”
“I found the racing rosters,” Ken announced proudly, “but there must be several thousand names.”
“We may not need that,” Seth said, his expression cautious. “The surgeon who operated on Rachel called in. Apparently she got all worked up again. Scribbled something that they think is a mine shaft and the letter G over and over.”
“The letter has to be for Gavin. There are mines all over the state. We need something more specific. We should go back to the hospital and—”
“We can’t, Chandler. Rachel didn’t make it.”
MOLLY WALKED DELIBERATELY slowly toward the base of the mountain, knowing that her very life probably depended on it. He knew it, too. And seemed to be enjoying her anguish.
“Why, Gavin?”
As he puffed out his chest, she pretended to stumble, refusing to think her efforts might be futile.
“I made you, Molly. You were a pathetic little nothing and I took you under my wing. Your parents didn’t love you. I did. I made sure you finished your education. I’m the one who helped you write your first book. And how do you repay me?”
“I didn’t know those things needed repaying.” She purposefully walked toward another bit of loose stone, needing to repeat the process several times for even a hope of making it out of this remote setting. Step one was to mark the trail. She’d worry about step two—escape—as soon as a plan came to her. No panic—not yet!—plan!
“You left our publisher, Molly. How do you think that made me feel? And now this.”
She fell again, wincing as a bit of jagged rock stabbed into her calf. He roughly pulled her to her feet. “I don’t know what ‘this’ you’re referring to.”
“I submitted your name for the opening as assistant department chair. I was willing to make you the first woman and the youngest ever assistant at the university. It would have been historic. Yet all I got in return was a memo from the dean saying you had declined. Declined?”
“I didn’t know it mattered this much.”
“I’ve been preparing you for this sort of opportunity for years. I’ve invested time, money and my expertise in you and it all seems to have been for naught.”
Afraid another fall might give her away, she now had to find an alternate method. “Sorry, Gavin. You chose to be a killer and a bomber. I’m not responsible for your criminal behavior.”
“I do not build bombs.”
“My house blew up because it wanted to?”
“That was intended as a warning. The person who crafted the explosive made an error.”
“Next you’re going to tell me that you had nothing to do with the woman’s torso in Spawn Creek?”
“I certainly did. I needed to set up your crisis, Molly. However, you were supposed to turn to me, not Landry. I gave you many, many opportunities to atone for your behavior, and you failed to take advantage of a single one.”
“You got some poor dumb kid to murder his mother, make bombs, then kill my patient and attack Rachel all because you wanted me to take a job I’ve never wanted in the first place?”
His hand came up and caught her just below the eye. It happened so fast that she wasn’t prepared, so when she fell, the item in her hand stabbed straight into her hand.
“That poor kid, as you call him, was a Neanderthal. Came from a long line of felons. He needed someone to bankroll him. I needed someone with bomb-making skills that I could control. We both got something out of the bargain.”
“He was a patsy,” she countered, pressing her fingers into her palm in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. “And what about Rachel? Is she part of this, or are you using her, too?”
“I was quite fond of Rachel and she never objected when I would inquire as to your schedule. She was a simple girl, really. So appreciative of my attentions. The way you used to be.”
“She didn’t die, Gavin. Guess your little patsy friend blew that one.”
He smiled patiently. She’d seen that look a million times and only now saw the evil behind it.
“He didn’t stab Rachel. I did. Unfortunately she recognized my map of this area and overheard me on the telephone giving directions to the warehouse the night you went on the air.”
“Nice trick, by the way. How did you manage that one?”
“No trickery. A patient of mine was interviewed there. Simple deduction told me that it would again be selected as the alternate site, so it was simply a matter of threatening the safety of the entire building with too little time for them to do anything but relocate.”
“The rape victim Chandler told me about? You knew about that?”
“I was there, Molly.”
“Rachel was sweet and kind. She didn’t deserve to be hurt. Neither did Mrs. Zarnowski.”
“Sad woman,” Gavin agreed. “If you recall, I referred her to you. I selected her because I knew she craved death. She thanked me when the time came.”
“I’ll just bet she did,” Molly snorted. “Why did you need a map?”
“Peter Geller, the bomber, needed someplace to hide the weapons he was buying with the money I was paying him.”
“So you drew him a map?”
“Yes. And made a copy that the police will eventually find assuming they conduct a thorough search of Rachel’s apartment.”
“So, you planned to frame Rachel and Peter all along?”
“Save your pity where Peter is concerned. He was a killer long before I ever entered his life. And Rachel was more a matter of serendipity. I remembered the problems you had with her brother, so when she applied for a job, I simply filed that tidbit in the back of my mind.”
“So after you kill me, you expect to go back to life as usual?”
“No reason to believe otherwise.”
“I think you’ll be in for a rude awakening, Gavin. If anything happens to me, the Landrys will make sure you’re punished.”
“No delusions, Molly. It hardly seems likely that a week-long dalliance with one of them would warrant much more than a nice spray of flowers at your memorial service.”
Her mind flashed a vision of her own funeral and with it came a healthy dose of terror. She reached for his arm and gave a little tug as she looked into the face of a stranger. “This isn’t you, Gavin. All this over a job?”
He shoved her away, his eyes fixed and unyielding as he glared at her.
They were closing in on the hillside. She couldn’t outrun a bullet, but she did have one last card to play. Now, all she had to do was remember her surgical training.
“THE KID CRACKED,” Seth said when he got off the radio. “It is the Greeley mine.”
“So why did Rachel have a map to the Greeley mine taped behind her bedroom mirror?” Chandler asked. “It doesn’t matter. Just go faster.”
He used binoculars to scan the hills ahead, looking for any sign of Molly or Gavin. For now, he wanted Molly. Once she was safe, he’d deal with the professor.
“Two o’clock!” Shane’s voice crackled over the walkie talkie. “See them?”
Chandler’s heart raced. “That’s them!” He pointed Seth in the proper direction as four other Landry vehicles and an army of deputies raced alongside. Turning the dial, he brought Molly into focus at the same time Gavin decided to slap her to the ground.
“No!” Chandler yelled automatically. As much as it pained him to watch, he didn’t dare lose sight of her.
“What?”
“Bastard hit her,” he managed through tightly clenched teeth.
Seth grabbed the radio and said, “Clayton and Chance, go east. Shane, you and Sam cut west. Chandler and I are going straight ahead.”
“Got it.”
“On it. Chandler, you seeing this?” The question came from Sam.
Of course he was seeing it. It was hard to miss the red stain of blood on her leg and—was it—more blood on her left hand. His stomach lurched. “Yeah. I see it.”
It felt like a lifetime before they were close enough so that he could forgo using the binoculars. That time did come and with it, a rush of emotion the likes of which he’d never known. Chandler braced himself as Seth brought the vehicle to a sudden stop at the edge of the tree line. They had eighty, maybe a hundred, yards to go, and he wasn’t wasting another second.
Molly knew time was running out. Though it hurt like mad, she pretended to be rubbing her hand when in actuality, she was preparing her homemade weapon for attack. Assuming she could get it out of her palm.
“Hey, Gavin?” she began, stepping up her pace so that she was slightly ahead of him. “Can I ask one more question?”
“I find myself growing tired of this, Molly. I have already explained your transgressions and their resulting effect, so what more do you need to know?”
“I’m curious.” She took in a deep breath and held it.
“About what.”
“This,” she half grunted, half screamed as she slashed at his throat with the full weight of her body.
She knew she made contact, but not if she’d been successful. All she knew was that she was on top of him, reaching and clawing for the gun still in his hand.
He kicked, she bit, legs, elbows, everything was a tangled blur. Everything but the gun hovering inches to the left of her skull.
With her injured hand, Molly was no match for him. At least she had tried. At least—
Her thought was lost in the deafening echo of the single shot.