To Catch a Killer(81)

She grabs my hand, pulling me toward a chair. “Explain. Start from the beginning.”

I pull her up. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

She stumbles out the door behind me. The house is dark as we slip through the kitchen. We pause at the back door while she pulls on her red Wellington boots, tucking in the bottom of her red flannel pajama pants with the giant moose heads. She also puts on a heavy coat. Her hand hovers over a garish, hot pink Hello Kitty knitted cap with earflaps and pom-pom kitty ears. I shake my head and she leaves it behind.

I twitch, watching her dig through her purse for her wallet, which she drops into the pocket of her jacket. Then, she drops one cell phone into her pocket and the other one into her boot.

“Let’s go.”

Once we’re in the car, I squeal away from the curb and let the words tumble out. “Principal Roberts killed Miss Peters. I don’t know why, but I have proof.”

“That’s crazy.” She frowns. “So, we’re going to the police?”

“First, we have to rescue Journey. Then we can bring in the police.” I turn the car toward the school.

“What do you mean, rescue Journey?” Spam asks.

“We have to get him away from Principal Roberts before he kills him.”

“Wait, what?” Spam’s voice quivers. “How are we going to do that?”

“How do you think? I’ll distract him and you help Journey escape.”

“Wait. Whoa, whoa. I’m a better distracter,” she says. “You said you had proof. Why can’t we just go to the police?”

“You don’t get it. There isn’t time to explain this whole mess to someone else. Plus, we don’t have a motive. Without that they’ll never believe us.”

“But how do you know—” she asks.

“Principal Roberts came to my house. He was all bloody, like he’d been in a fight. He’s driving Journey’s van and using Journey’s cell phone. Does that not tell you Journey’s in danger?” I swerve around a corner, deciding at the last minute it’s the way to go. Then I realize I’m driving in circles. “Do me a favor, look up Roberts’s home address on your phone.”

Spam glances at my speedometer. “Dude, you’re doing sixty in a residential zone. Slow down.”

“Address. Now.” I stop at a light and look up just as a tow truck zooms through the intersection, towing Victor’s rental car.

“Wait, never mind. There goes Victor’s car.”

“What are you doing?”

I hang a hard left and run the light. “Following it.”





39

Sometimes evidence comes in the form of strange suspect behavior. It’s important to follow your instincts.





—VICTOR FLEMMING


“Why are we following a tow truck?” Spam asks.

“To see where they’re taking Victor’s car and ask them where Victor is.”

“But Journey’s van just went the other way,” Spam says.

My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”

She points.

I pull an immediate U-turn in the middle of the street and shoot back in the direction we came from.

“You should call Rachel,” Spam suggests, gripping the car door.

“Can’t. She’s at the opera in Portland and her phone is turned off.”

“What about Chief Culson? You could ask to talk to him.”

“He’s with Rachel at the opera.”

Spam laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

I take a dip a little too fast and the car bounds up in the air. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“No.” Spam cinches her seat belt a little tighter.

I’m just about to catch the van when it speeds through a light on a late yellow. I know if I go through, too, he’ll see me. I stop and slam my hand on the dash. But after a couple of seconds, there are no other cars, so I gun it and go straight through on the red.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spam give me a look of respect. “High-five.” She offers up her palm. “We’re Thelma and Louise now.”

I follow my gut and muscle Rachel’s car through a couple of sharp turns, hoping I’m taking a shortcut. “I never saw that movie.”

Spam reaches over and swipes a chunk of hair off my face in a comforting gesture. “I’m actually really glad to know that,” she says softly.

I skid into a last-minute turn down an alley, scattering gravel. It’s reckless, but my hunch pays off. I’m just in time to catch a glimpse of the van shooting past the alley and turning off the main street onto the deserted road that leads to Journey’s house.

“He’s going to the cannery. This isn’t good.”

Spam whistles. “Can we call the police now? That place is creepy … not to mention haunted.”

I shake my head. “Not yet.” If we set one foot in the police station, the first thing they’ll do is set Spam and I aside while they get into a whole debate over what action they should take. Right now, Journey’s life depends on me being bold and taking chances. I kill my headlights and decide to hang out in the alley until we figure out our next move.

Spam’s phone be-boops, shattering the silence. We both scream. Spam drops it between the seat and the console.