Eleventh Hour

She paused. He said nothing.

“But I don’t want to see you again.”

Without warning, he ran at her, his hands in front of him, his fingers curved. Oh God. She whipped the Smith & Wesson out of her pocket, but he was on her, grabbing for the letter. He ripped it out of her hand, leaped back, panting hard. He stared down at the pages before he shredded each one. When he was done, he bunched the paper into a ball and threw it into the flames. He said, both his face and voice triumphant, “That’s what your letter deserves.”

His hands were still fists, the fingers curved inward. She would have been very afraid if she hadn’t had her gun. She was shaking as she said, “I’m leaving now, John. Stay away from me.”

She came awake that night at the sound of a noise. It was more than just a condo creak, more than just the night sounds she always heard when she was lying in bed alone, with nothing to do but listen.

She thought of Cleo Rothman’s letter, now destroyed, about that car with the accelerator jammed down coming straight at her, about the food poisoning that could have put her in her grave. She thought of John coming toward her, destroying that letter.

There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that he’d wanted to kill her. But there was no proof, not a single whisper of anything to show the police.

She heard it again, another sound, this one like footsteps. No, she was becoming hysterical.

She listened intently, for a long time, and it was silent now, but she was still afraid. She thought she’d rather be in the dentist’s chair than lying there in the dark, listening. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was beating so loud she thought anyone could hear it, track the sound right to her.

Enough was enough. Nicola got out of bed, grabbed the poker by the small fireplace, turned on the light, and looked in every corner of her bedroom.

Nothing, no one was there.

But then she heard something again, something or someone running, fast. She ran to her living room, to the large glass doors that gave onto the balcony. The doors weren’t locked, they were cracked open.

She ran to the railing and looked down at a shadow, and it was moving.

Then she smelled the smoke. She ran back into her condo and saw smoke billowing out of the kitchen. Oh God, he had set a fire. She grabbed up her phone and dialed 911. She ran into the kitchen, saw that there was no way to put out the fire. She had time only to pull on jeans, shoes, and a shirt, grab her purse and coat, and she was out of there, banging on her neighbors’ doors as she ran. She knew he was waiting downstairs, probably hiding in the shadows between the buildings across the street, knowing that she’d get out alive since she’d been on the balcony looking down at him.

She stayed close to the building, huddling with the neighbors, watched the fire trucks arrive, watched the chaos, the evacuation of everyone in the building. No one died, thank God. Actually, only her condominium was destroyed, and the one next to it slightly burned and smoke-damaged.

But he hadn’t cared if the whole building had burned. He just wanted to make sure she was dead. She heard a firefighter say to the chief, “The fire was set. The accelerant is in the kitchen of 7B.”

She realized in that moment that Senator John Rothman had burned her condo, or had it burned, with the hope that she’d be burned with it. He wanted her dead.

Since she had nothing left, since she had only her purse, it wasn’t hard to decide what to do.

She spent the night in a temporary Red Cross shelter, watching to see if John would come looking for her. She even gave them a false name. The next morning, the volunteers gave her some clothes. She had decided during the night what she was going to do. Before she left Chicago, she used her ATM card, then cut it up.

An hour later, she was headed for San Francisco.

TWENTY-FIVE

LOS ANGELES

Savich and Sherlock were back the next morning with coffee and bagels.

“Nonfat cream cheese,” Sherlock said, pulling out a plastic knife. “Dillon refuses to allow any high cholesterol in his unit.”

Savich, who’d been studying Dane’s face, said, “We’ve decided that you two are going to stay in today. Sorry about that, Nick, but Dane will doubtless try to go find the bad guys unless someone with staunch resolve keeps him here. You willing to take on the job?”

“Yes, he will do as he’s told,” Nick said as she gave Dane a bagel smeared with cream cheese.

He took one bite and turned green.

“You’re still nauseous?” Sherlock said. “Not to worry, it’ll ease off soon.”

“How do you know?” Dane asked, staring at Sherlock. “Don’t tell me you’ve been around another gunshot wound?”