“I THOUGHT YOU said you weren’t a killer!” Abby struggled against the restraints. Napier had cuffed her to the seat belt to be certain she didn’t attempt to get out of the car. She tried in vain to look around and see if Orson was okay. She was sure that was who Napier had shot at. Orson must have been on his way to find her and Woody.
“I told you that I’m desperate. That man made a U-turn to come after me. He was a threat.”
“Convince me you’re not a monster. You just shot a man in cold blood. Turn yourself in.”
“No. No. No. She won’t win this. She won’t. I’m smarter than you and smarter than her.” He slowed the car and Abby watched as he appeared to be steadying his breathing, calming himself down.
She and Woody had turned off of Highway 46 to reach the Dancing Purple Grape, and that was where Napier went, back to the highway. He made a right onto Route 46, heading away from Paso Robles.
“Where are we going?”
He shook his head. “I planned for this. She won’t catch me; she won’t.”
Abby started to say something, then stopped. There was no talking to the man. She instead concentrated on where they were going so she would know what to say if she found help or got to a phone.
I have to think my way out of this. She worked to remember what she’d read about Napier. He was a genius, he was obsessive-compulsive, and now he was desperate. She glanced across the car and saw him drumming on the steering wheel —not randomly, she realized. He was tapping out a rhythm. Trying to watch without him knowing she was watching was tricky. He was tapping twice with his index finger, six times with the middle finger, then four with his ring finger, and then back to the index finger.
Was that a birth date? A combination? She thought of the thing around Woody’s neck and began to choke up.
Oh, Lord, she prayed to herself, please help me find a way out of this.
Wide-awake as fear exploded in his gut, Luke struggled for words. “Who . . . ? Orson got shot?”
“Don’t have a name yet. There’s also an investigator at the winery with an IED attached to his neck. We’re still trying to sort things out. Can you clarify anything?”
“IED?” Luke nearly passed out. They were in central California, for heaven’s sake, not Iraq. “I told you, I’m on the train, and we’ll pull into the station shortly. Investigator Robert Woods was going to pick me up. Where is he? And where is Abby?”
“I’ll make sure someone is there to pick you up. Your questions will be answered then.” He disconnected, leaving Luke hanging and ready to explode.
He had to conclude that it was Woody who had a bomb around his neck because of the pronoun used. And it had to be Orson at the hospital with a gunshot wound. So where was Abby?
They must have found Napier. The train slowed, but they were not yet to the station. Luke grabbed his backpack and got up to stand by the door. He was ready to bust out a window and run to the station. The porter told him that it would be twenty minutes before the train pulled into the station and stopped.
Unable to do nothing, Luke pulled out his phone and called Victoria Napier. He needed to know what they were dealing with.
“Victoria, it’s Luke Murphy.”
“Ah, Mr. Murphy.” The husky voice came across scratchy. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to run a hypothetical situation by you.” Luke swallowed and tried to keep the worry and fear out of his voice. “Say we do run into Stuart —how’s he likely to behave?”
“Behave? What do you mean?”
“Well, is he likely to give up? Or is he a fighter? I mean, he’s described as armed and dangerous on the FBI flyer, and I believe that. But if we actually find him, will he realize it’s a lost cause to try to flee?”
“Have you found him?” Scratchiness gone, Victoria barked the question.
“I didn’t say that. I’m just asking a —”
“He’s dangerous, extremely dangerous —I thought that was clear. You should shoot first and ask questions later.”
After the conversation ended, Luke fidgeted. He knew Faye needed to know what had happened, and maybe if she was at the Long Beach office, she could get some help up here for Orson.
He punched in her number only to reach her voice mail. He then called the office and was told that they had already been notified and that Faye was on her way to the airport and would be there soon.
He put his phone away, feeling a little better that the wheels were already turning. He prayed to fight the dread and the fear that seemed to be filling him. Clenching and unclenching his fist, he tried to imagine what could have happened. All three of them were experienced officers. He wondered why they were all together and how Napier —if it was Napier —had gotten the drop on them.
Luke stopped that train of thought. Blame wasn’t necessary; rescue was. Mostly his heart ached because of the promise he’d given to Abby: to keep her safe, to take care of her. Even angry with her, he would have stopped a bullet for her in a heartbeat.
We’re a team.
As soon as the train hit San Luis Obispo and the door opened, he was off and searching for whoever the deputy had sent for him. But it was another twenty minutes before he saw a San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s car. He ran into the parking lot and waved the car down.
“Are you looking for me?”
“You Murphy?” the deputy asked.
“That’s me. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“I can’t. My instructions were to take you to the hospital. You’ll have to get your information there.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the passenger seat.
Once Luke got into the car, the deputy said, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I would tell you what was going on if I knew. I know that an FBI agent was shot. He’s at the hospital, but talking, so that should ease your mind. Feds are on the way up here from Santa Maria. I don’t know much else. I’m supposed to stay with you until someone who is in the know gets here.”
“Thanks. If you hear anything more, please let me know.” Luke felt relieved at the news about Orson.
“Will do.”
When they arrived at the hospital, there was a large police presence all over the place. No media yet. Probably too early, he thought. He followed the deputy into the ER, where everyone was busy.
“We have a report-writing room over here.” He pointed. “Let’s wait in there and stay out of the way.”
Luke nodded, not wanting to sit and wait, but not knowing what else to do at the moment. He paced the small room while the deputy listened to the radio.
After about half an hour the deputy stood. “Agents just arrived. So hopefully you’ll get answers soon.”
He radioed to someone and a few minutes later a harried-looking man wearing a Windbreaker emblazoned with FBI opened the door to the small room. He walked in and the deputy left, nodding to Luke as he did so. The agent was Nordic-looking, tall, blond, and trim, wiry, and worried, Luke thought.
“Luke Murphy?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Skip Purcell. I used to be Orson’s partner before he took your gig.”
They shook hands. “He’s mentioned you. Were you the friend he came up to visit?”
“Yeah, we had a great visit a couple of days ago.”
“How is he?”
Purcell shook his head. “I just got here. I have someone else looking into that. I want you to tell me what you know.”
Luke shrugged. “Not much. I was on the train, coming from Long Beach, when all this happened. I just got back. No one can tell me what’s up with Woody or where Abby is.”
Purcell ran a hand down his face. “Woody —that would be Robert Woods?”
“Yes.”
“He’s at a vineyard with an IED around his neck. The device appears stable, but there is a threatening note attached. The locals have called any and all bomb squads who can come to help. As for Abby Hart, she’s been snatched.”
“Snatched?” Luke felt an icy chill radiate through his whole body.
Purcell nodded. “I expect she’s a hostage of this fugitive, Napier.”
“Hostage?” Now things were surreal. “Has he made demands?”
“Not yet.” He put his hands on his hips and gave a deep sigh. “Orson and I talked a little bit about Napier, his wife, and the search. He really didn’t think you’d find anything.”
“To be honest, neither did I,” Luke said.
There was a knock at the door. “Skip.” A female agent stuck her head in. “Press is all over the place now. The hospital gave us a room upstairs to use, close to where Orson will be brought to recovery but away from the press.”
He motioned to Luke. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Luke nodded, anxious to find out more about Abby and Woody.
They took the elevator to the third floor. Once they got off, the woman led them to a small room off the waiting area. Two more agents were in the room. One was on the phone, while the other was clicking through TV news stations with the sound muted. They all looked like Purcell, tense and worried. The door closed behind them, and when Purcell’s phone rang, he gestured for Luke to have a seat.
“Okay, what can you tell us about this Stuart Napier?” the woman asked and three pairs of eyes bored into him.
“You must know more than I do. He’s one of your fugitives. How is Orson?”
The agent playing with the TV spoke up. “A bullet shattered his right arm. According to the docs, he was stable when he got here. The damage to the arm was so bad that they needed an orthopedic surgeon to work on it immediately.”
“And Woody?”
“Your turn. Stuart Napier.”
“All I know about him was what was in your file and what his wife told me.”
“Victoria Napier?” Purcell asked as he ended his conversation.
“Yeah, she met with us, with Orson. That’s the reason we said we’d help her out.”
“By chasing down an armed and dangerous fugitive? Is that in your job description as cold case detective?” The agent with the TV remote was condescending and snarky.
“We were just going to ask questions, hopefully shake up a lead —”
“Instead you stuck your hand in a hornets’ nest and we have to clean up the mess.”
“And what was your approach? Let him go and get away with murder?”
“All right, all right.” Purcell held up his hand and stepped between Luke and the other agent. “This isn’t solving anything. Where is Victoria now?”
“In Long Beach, I think. The last time I talked to her that’s where she was. What about Abby? What about Woody?”
Purcell shook his head. “Not my biggest concern right now. Several bomb teams are set up. There’s a command post at the Dancing Purple Grape winery.”
“Then there isn’t anything for me to do here.”
“I’d like you to be available for questions.”
Luke thought about that for a second. He wanted to see Orson, but he was in the doctor’s hands. He wanted to know about Abby, but again, if she was a hostage, the FBI would handle it. He had no control over anything right now and it drove him crazy. He needed to talk to Woody, find out what happened.
“I’ll give you my cell number, but I can’t sit around here and wait without knowing what’s going on with Woody.” He pulled out one of his business cards and shoved it toward Purcell.
“I wish you’d hang out here in case we need to ask you something.” Purcell wouldn’t take the card.
Luke left it on the table, then turned and exited the room. He phoned for a rental car once he reached the lobby. Deftly moving to avoid any press, he waited outside for his ride.
The sun was fading by the time Luke got off the highway and drove in the direction of the winery. Bright lights lit up the road and he passed what he decided was Orson’s shot-up car. The front windshield was gone and the car was catawampus in a ditch. There was a CHP cruiser standing by as a tow truck was just starting to drag the car on board. After that, he only made it as far as the Dancing Purple Grape gate. A San Luis Obispo County deputy manned the gate, which had crime scene Do Not Enter tape strung across it.
Luke explained who he was to the deputy and again had to wait for a radio conversation. After several minutes he was given the okay to drive back. The deputy opened the gate for Luke to proceed through.
Steeling himself, Luke drove down the road to a cluster of police vehicles from several different organizations; he saw an SLO County bomb task force vehicle and a couple of plain vehicles that were obviously police cars. He found a place to park and continued in on foot. At the center of another patch of bright lights was a small house. Woody had said they were going to talk to the vineyard manager; was this where he lived?
“You Murphy?” A man with FBI Bomb Tech on his jacket approached well before he reached the house. Behind the agent Luke saw a huge vehicle stenciled with Bomb Squad Mobile Team. He felt sick to his stomach.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Agent Van Horne. Mr. Woods has been asking for you. But we can’t let you go into the house.” He gestured to the mobile operations vehicle. “You can see him and talk to him from in there.”
Luke stepped into the vehicle, a fully operational tactical office. There were TV screens on one wall with all the major news outlets on. There was radio equipment and phone banks —almost everything manned. In the back of the vehicle, he saw four men with Bomb Squad on their jackets in a huddle. The agent pointed to a video screen. Luke stepped close and peered at the screen.
There sat Woody, his friend and partner, on the floor, some kind of device around his neck. Next to the screen was a copy of a note. Luke read it and would have vomited if he had anything in his stomach. That a guy sick enough to latch a bomb around Woody’s neck had Abby was an impossible truth to swallow.