Her watch pinged with a new reminder that, with the current traffic, she should leave now to pick up Ellie.
She scanned behind her again. Nobody in the coffee shop was paying the slightest attention to her. She turned to look through the glass door, flecked with droplets of wind-driven rain. She didn’t see anyone out there, standing in the wet. She didn’t see the gray car, either. Somehow, though, the prickle between her shoulder blades had gotten worse.
It didn’t matter. It was time to go. Ellie needed her. And frankly, KT needed Ellie in the passenger seat beside her, chattering blithely about whatever teenage drama had happened at school that day.
She told herself that the letter writer would surely give her more than six hours before he did something. Wouldn’t he?
She pushed open the door and headed for her car.
—
The rain came down around her, rattling on the skin of her orange jacket. She wished she’d bought a black coat like everyone else. And a black car, or gray or white or beige. Anything but orange, her favorite color. It stood out like an emergency beacon, visible for blocks.
Confidence had always been her strength. That and her willingness to stand out. When she’d started on the police beat, she was the only woman in a man’s game. She’d moved to finance, again the only woman journalist of any prominence. Then tech—more of the same. She had to be tougher, louder, more visible than the men. Some called her a bitch, a ball-breaker. She didn’t care. She wore orange jewelry,had orange frames for her glasses. Orange was more than her favorite color, it was a trademark. A reminder to be bold.
Well, she wasn’t feeling so bold now.
Her orange Honda was on Western Avenue, toward the end of the next block. She kept turning her head, not wanting anyone to walk up behind her. It wasn’t easy in the stiff hood. She had to turn her shoulders, too, so walking was a little awkward. She’d never been a physical person. Still, she had her keys spiked out from her fist, her laptop bag on the opposite shoulder so she could shrug it off and run if somebody grabbed the strap. She wished she’d taken some real self-defense classes. Too late now. Tomorrow, she’d sign up. And start jogging, swear to God.
Western Ave was busy, traffic headed north to Belltown and south toward Pike Place Market, a tourist trap even in November. The cars were all moving, though. She crossed Lenora Street and kept walking. Less than a block to go. She hated the hood, it made her feel blind on three sides. And the drumbeat of raindrops blocked out all sound. She shucked it back. Her glasses spattered with droplets, her face and neck damp. Her hair would be a ruin. Eleanor would be merciless.
Now the rain was rolling down her forehead and into her eyes. She swiped it away, head turning. Behind her she could hear the low rumble of a big engine. Over her shoulder she saw a weird-looking pickup truck rolling slow. That wasn’t good. She came to her Honda and stepped into the street at the back bumper with her keys out.
Then she saw the gray hatchback. It was parked two cars past hers, at a hydrant. There was a man inside. He opened the door, swung his legs out into the street, and began to rise to his feet. He wore a Red Sox cap and a face mask with a fanged clown printed on it. He was staring at her, eyes awash with some emotion she couldn’t decode. He carried a gun in one hand.
Dear God, she was going to die. Ellie, what would happen to Ellie?
Behind her, the truck’s engine revved and it surged up alongside her, angling forward toward her Honda. Then it came to a quick stop, trapping her and her car behind the pickup’s hood. They weren’t going to kill her, she thought, they were going tokidnapher. Take her somewhere anddosomething to her. She turned to run.
A man got out of the truck. He was tall and broad-shouldered in a plain black backpacker’s raincoat. He didn’t look at her, but at the gunman in the clown mask.
“Hey.” The tall man strode forward. His hands were empty. His voice cut clearly through the sound of the rain. “Hey, you in the mask. I’m talking to you.”
The gunman’s attention shifted. His eyes widened when he saw the man walking toward him.
“You don’t want to pull the trigger,” the tall man said, a car-length away and closing. “Trust me, if you shoot somebody, it’ll screw up your whole life. I should know, I’ve killed a whole bunch of people.”
The gunman flinched and backed up into the vee of the hatchback’s open door, lurching slightly as his calves hit the bottom of the doorframe. KT saw he was wearing ratty old sneakers with duct tape wrapping one toe box.
The pistol was pointed squarely at the tall man now. Still, he kept moving closer, kept talking to the man in the mask. “Give me the gun, buddy. This doesn’t have to go bad. What would your mom say if you killed someone? Or your sister? Or your grandmother?”
The gunman blinked rapidly below the brim of the Red Sox cap. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The gun began to drift off target. The tall man slowed, closing in. His face was kind, sympathetic. “It’s okay, buddy. Whatever’s going on, I can help.”
The gunman’s legs collapsed and he fell into the driver’s seat, pulling his legs in after him. The tall man reached for the slamming door but had to snatch his hand back to keep his fingers from gettingsmashed. The hatchback was still running. The gunman jammed it into gear and hit the gas.
The tall man jumped back to avoid getting knocked over. The gray hatchback leapt into traffic, lurched into the oncoming lane followed by a chorus of horns, and vanished into the rain. The tall man watched him go.
Startled into motion, KT pulled open her own door, thinking that she needed to get away from this whole thing, but the angled truck effectively blocked her into the parking spot.
The tall man turned back toward her and walked around the hood of his truck. “Are you all right? Sorry that didn’t go exactly as planned.”
She still had her keys spiked in her fist. “What were you going to do?”
“Take away his gun.” He gave her a wolfish grin, his eyes lit up like he was having fun. “Put him on the ground and call the cops.”
She didn’t understand. “You’re not with the police? Who the hell are you?”
“Sorry,” he said again, extending his hand. “My name’s Peter Ash. June Cassidy’s friend? She asked me to stop by. I was in the neighborhood.”
