Blood Drive

I keep running, away from Darryl and his carefully prepared, poisoned lair. Once I get across the freeway bridge, I stop. I don't have my purse; it's in Bradley's car. Which means I don't have my cell phone to call for a ride or to alert Williams to what's transpired. The only thing I can do is continue to police headquarters on foot.

The run is actually restorative. I pump my arms to the rhythm of my stride, and by the time I've reached my destination, I feel as if I've worked all the toxin out of my system. I feel strong and alert and very, very angry.

And as luck would have it, what should I see parked in front of police headquarters but the Fairlane. I peer inside, but as I suspect, Bradley has either ditched my purse somewhere or put it in the trunk. Since I have an overwhelming urge to do violence, I decide to check the trunk. I grip the ridge with both hands and peel back the metal until the trunk is doubled back on itself. I want to rip the thing right off, but somebody might be watching.

My purse is inside, tossed into a corner, to be planted somewhere incriminating, no doubt, when the time is right. I snatch it up, wondering whether to alert Williams that I'm on my way up, or to just appear and watch Bradley squirm.

You can't go up, Anna.

I whirl around. Casper?

You have to get to Ryan. Bradley suspects he's at the cottage. He's on his way there now.

Casper's voice is different somehow. There's an urgency I've never heard before. I have no way to get there.

From the corner across the street, a car engine sparks to life. I turn again, toward the sound.

Anna, remember what I told you before. You are at a crossroads. The path you choose now determines what you are to become.

For a fleeting moment, excitement overshadows my concerns. I'm going to meet Casper. I must be.

I wait for the car to pull away from the curb.

It doesn't.

Impatience flares. Damnit, Casper. Come on.

There's no answer, and no movement from the car. Furious now, I cross the street and jerk the car door open.

The engine is running, the keys dangling from the ignition. The driver's seat is vacant.

Shit. You can't keep doing this.

But I know I'll get no answer. And no satisfaction. I slam into the front seat and peel away from the curb with a screech of tires. I hope this is his car. And that I burn every bit of rubber off the damned tires.

The car is a little Miata, responsive, fast. I dodge morning commuter traffic and head for Mission Beach. When I get to the cottage, I use the alley in back to scope things out. There is a car parked in front of my garage. I pull behind it, blocking the escape route. I don't recognize the car, a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. I wonder who this car belongs to, but I don't waste much time pondering the question.

I test the back door. It's locked. I can't see much through the windows, just into the kitchen and a hallway beyond. I also can't hear any voices. I'm just about to make my way around the house to the front when the brush of a hand on my arm makes me jump.

I've got his throat in my hands before the brain registers that he is no threat and reason takes over. "Jesus, Ryan." I squeeze him against my chest in a hug of relief and apology. "What are you doing?"

He puts a finger to his lips and gestures toward the house. "That FBI man is here," he whispers. "He's got someone with him. He said I should go with them, but I don't trust him. I told him I had to get my stuff and snuck out the back. I've been hiding in the garage, waiting for you."

An almost parental impulse to remind him that I told him not to let anyone in flares, but it dissipates just as quickly. This is not the time for scolding. Instead, I turn his shoulders and push him toward the gate. "Your instincts are good. Let's get out of here."

We duck away from the door and are almost at the car when a shout from above snaps our attention to the balcony outside my bedroom. Bradley is there, his expression one of mingled confusion and rage.

"Stop." His voice bellows across the yard. He's fumbling for something under his jacket.

I push Ryan toward the car and we dive inside. A bullet hits just below the windshield and is deflected onto the glass. The safety glass morphs into a starburst, the pattern radiating outward like an intricate spider web.

I shove Ryan down and crank over the engine.

The second shot passes through the glass and slams into the console. It's almost impossible to see through the windshield now. I put the car in reverse and use the side mirrors to back out of the alley. Once on the street, I punch at the glass until the windshield falls away. People passing on the sidewalk stop and stare. From the corner of my eye, I see Bradley and a second man running down the alley toward us.

My foot slams the accelerator and we're gone before they reach the road.

For a kid, Ryan keeps his cool. He's holding onto the panic handle on the car door with a grip that's turning his knuckles white, but he's not cowering in the seat or yelling distracting questions or demanding to go home.

I like him more and more.

But what am I going to do with him?

It will be only a matter of minutes before Bradley comes after us. I have to ditch the car. Straight ahead is Belmont Park, home of the Giant Dipper Coaster and the Plunge, a huge saltwater pool. It's either an eighty-year-old treasure or a past-its-prime eye sore, depending on your point of view. But it's a busy, crowded amusement park and just what I need.

I pull into the parking lot and look for the right spot. I find it between two big SUV's. Perfect concealment for the tiny Miata. Ryan and I jump out and I herd him toward the entrance. We don't go inside, but rather watch from a protected vantage point beside the box office and wait for the black SUV to appear.

It does, almost immediately. But to my relief, instead of pulling into the parking lot, it veers toward Mission Bay Drive and downtown.

To Darryl's, probably. If I'm lucky, the little shit will have bled to death.

Now that the immediate danger has passed, Ryan's eyes are big with delayed panic. "Where's the computer?" he asks. "You don't have it anymore, do you?"

"It's okay, Ryan." I put my arm around his shoulder reassuringly. "We don't need it anymore. I know who's responsible for the videos."

"Who is it?"

"I don't think you ever met him. He was a friend of Trish's mom."

His shoulders tense. "It wasn't Trish's stepfather, was it?"

There's a tone in his voice that hasn't been there before. It's bitter and full of recrimination. "Stepfather?"

He narrows his eyes. "Trish called him her dad. But I knew he wasn't. I overheard her mother talking to him once when she didn't know I was around."

"What did you hear?"

"Trish's mom was warning him to stay away from her and he laughed and said why? Since they weren't blood, what was the problem? It made me sick."

It makes me sick, too. And angry all over again. What Trish has gone through is loathsome. Carolyn is dead, and I have no idea who the stepfather is. But Bradley and Darryl are very much alive and I make a silent oath that they will pay.