Wherever She Goes(49)

He elbows me. It’s so fast and sharp that I never see it coming. His elbow strikes my bad shoulder and I stagger with a gasp. Then he grabs that same shoulder and shoves me hard into a narrow passage between two buildings.

“What the hell?” I say as I recover. “This is not the way to get a story.”

His hand goes to my throat. Again, I don’t see it coming. I don’t expect it. He may have knocked me into this alley, but that was just a fit of temper, and he’ll see he’s made a mistake and cover it up.

Did I bump your shoulder? I’m so sorry.

That’s what I expect. Just stand firm, and he’ll back down and regroup. Instead, there’s a hand at my throat, and then he’s slamming me into the wall, my feet barely touching the ground.

“Let’s try this again,” he says. “I want to know everything about that kid. Understand?”

I glower at him, and he lifts me by the neck until I’m on tiptoes . . . and his T-shirt rises up over his waistband.

I wheeze for breath and nod frantically.

“Good,” he says.

As he lowers me down again, I grab the gun. Grab it and jab the barrel into his stomach. He grunts in shock and jerks back, like I’ve sucker punched him. Then he sees the gun.

“What the—?” he begins.

“Did I mention that I’m not worried about running at night? I can take care of myself. Now step away.”

He grabs for the gun. I do hit him in the stomach then. A hard jab to the solar plexus that has him bent over, gasping.

“You said you thought that boy was grabbed by a pedophile,” I say. “Well, maybe that’s because you know all about them.”

“Wh-what?” he manages between gasps.

“You’re taking way too much interest in a missing kid.” I start backing out of the alley, gun still aimed at him. “I think maybe I should call the police. Have them find out why you’re so interested in little boys.”

He makes a run at me, but the gun—or the look in my eyes—stops him.

“There is no little boy,” I say. “I made a mistake. I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to stay away from me, or I will make that call.”

I keep backing from the alley. When I reach the sidewalk, he makes another run for me. A car comes around the corner just then. My back’s to it—the driver can’t see the gun—but he does see Zima’s thug. He hits the brakes. The thug stops short. I continue backing toward the car. When I hear it coming my way, I lower the gun and hide it.

The whir of a window rolling down.

“You okay, ma’am?”

It’s a teenager wearing a fast-food-restaurant uniform.

“Someone’s following me,” I say. “Would you mind giving me a lift for a block or two?”

“Uh, sure. Hop in.”

He shoves a backpack off the passenger seat. I climb in, never turning my back on Zima’s man, who stands there, watching and seething.

I shut the door. “Drive past him, please.”

The kid nods and does that. Zima’s man stays on the sidewalk and watches us go.

“You okay?” the kid asks.

“I was out jogging, and that guy decided he wanted to run alongside me. I wasn’t looking for company. He really wasn’t taking the hint.”

“Jerk.”

“If you could just turn right at the next intersection, I’ll get out there.”

He does and then insists on driving another block before pulling over. I thank him and try to give him twenty bucks. When he refuses, I start getting out and tuck the money under the seat. Then I thank him again and take off.





Chapter Twenty-Five





I head to my apartment building. I keep an eye out, but there’s no sign of Zima’s thug. I hover inside the door to be sure no one has followed. Then I zip up the stairs and to my apartment and . . .

Someone has tried forcing open my door, but I installed a double-cylinder jimmy-proof dead bolt. I used to rob homes; I know how to secure one. The intruder couldn’t break that. Still, I open it with care, and when I move inside, I have the thug’s gun in my hand.

My apartment is empty.

I secure it behind me. As soon as I step in, though, I don’t feel like I usually do, the dead bolt turned, the world shut out, me safe behind the door. I feel vulnerable, as if I’ve trapped myself by locking that door, and any minute now, whoever tried to break in will return with someone more capable.

There’s a moment where I wonder how they found my apartment. I’m still in shock from what happened in the alley. Having one of Zima’s thugs pump me for information while pretending to be a fellow jogger is reasonable. Having that same guy toss me into an alley and slam me against a wall is not. So I’m still reeling from that, which explains why I don’t see the obvious right away.

How did they find my apartment? Well, I’m pretty sure that thug didn’t just happen to be wandering around my neighborhood when he spotted me. I gave my name on TV, and they’ve tracked me to my apartment. That thug wasn’t just pumping me for information—he was distracting me while others broke in.

I pack an overnight bag. Then I clear my apartment of every sign that I have a daughter. I told the thug that I don’t have kids, and he didn’t argue, which suggests they haven’t dug that deep. So I hide evidence of Charlotte, and I take everything that suggests I was investigating Brandon’s disappearance. Then I climb into the car, and I drive.