19

Elizabeth had eaten nothing in twenty hours. Her last meal had been a couple of granola bars consumed while she staked out Cray’s residence late on Monday afternoon.

She had not realized how utterly famished she was until she opened the menu at the coffee shop and read the list of selections. She wanted one of everything. She wanted breakfast, lunch, and dinner all at once.

The bored waitress drifted back to Elizabeth’s corner table after serving a tray of steaming dishes to a boisterous group of utility workers across the room. “Decided yet?” she said without interest.

Elizabeth, who had waited tables in a coffee shop not very different from this one, appraised the woman’s technique as poor. You got better tips with a cheery welcome and a smile.

She ordered two eggs, scrambled, with hash browns and sausage links and toast with jam and a large orange juice and coffee with cream and sugar and a cinnamon roll on the side.

“Did I remember to say hash browns?” she asked.

The waitress jotted down a few scribbles. “Sweetie, you remembered to say every darn thing on the menu. How do you keep your figure?”

“I run marathons.”

It was true, in a sense. She’d been running for twelve years, and that had to be some kind of record.

She shifted anxiously in the leatherette bench seat, awaiting the food’s arrival. Her hunger, now that she had permitted herself to notice it, was like a living thing inside her, a restless animal clawing and twisting in her belly. She felt weak and faint.

But it didn’t matter. The discomfort was only physical, and it couldn’t compete with the sheer elation lifting her like a concentrated adrenaline hit.

She’d done it.

Called the police.

Left the satchel.

The 911 operator hadn’t believed her, but so what? The package would prove her story.

She just hoped the patrol cops didn’t paw through the contents and smear any fingerprints Cray might have left.

Even now the satchel would be on the desk of some homicide detective at Tucson PD’s downtown headquarters. Or maybe it was in the criminalistics lab, its contents being photographed and measured by careful people with gloved hands. How long would it take before they realized this was the real thing? The knife would surely confirm it. Probably they could match the blade to nicks on Sharon Andrews’ skull.

Even if they weren’t absolutely convinced, they would have to delve deeper. Their next step would be to talk with Cray.

There were two possibilities. Either he had already fled, hoping to lose himself across the border or in another state, or he was waiting for them, intending to brazen out their interrogation.

If he’d fled, his guilt would be established by that fact alone. If he tried to match wits with the investigators, he would be hard-pressed to explain the key to his Lexus in the satchel, or the damage to the vehicle itself.

He was finished, either way. The turnaround was so complete, so perfect, as to leave her almost disoriented. She felt as if she had been spun in circles.

By all rights she should have been Cray’s victim. She should be dead now, a body in the desert, perhaps buried, perhaps merely kicked into the mesquite brush, a meal for scavengers that would come in the night to tease apart her bones.

And her face ...

Reflexively she touched the skin of her cheek, her forehead. She knew what Cray would have done with her face.

Instead, she’d beaten him. She’d put him on the defensive, boxed him in, and he would never escape.

The waitress returned with a high hill of food. “Dig in,” she said grumpily.

Eggs had never tasted so fine. Elizabeth ate them all in a sustained ravenous burst, then turned her attention to the side dishes and beverages.

She was halfway through the meal when chairs scraped the floor at the table next to her. Glancing up, she saw two men in blue uniforms seating themselves.

Cops.

Fear froze her. For a moment she lost the ability to breathe. All she could think of was that they had seen her leave the pay phone, they had followed her, they had tracked her to the coffee shop, and now they were playing a game with her, a sadistic game.

No, that wasn’t what had happened, of course not.

They were just two patrol cops on a break. The coffee shop, not far from downtown, seemed to cater to city employees. The utility workers across the room, for instance.

The waitress said hello to the cops, her attitude improving noticeably around them. These guys were regulars. They called her by her first name, Lois. They made jokes about the menu.

So everything was okay, and Elizabeth could stop shaking.

Except she couldn’t.

Fear of cops was not a rational thing with her anymore. It was a habit of mind, a way of being. She had spent too many years avoiding blue uniforms and two-tone sedans with light bars. Even a businessman in a blue suit could spook her, or a car with a ski rack that looked, in silhouette, like a patrol unit’s dome light.

The cops were wearing their portable radios, the volume dialed low. She heard the soft crackle of police codes. She hated that sound. She would rather hear the whine of a dentist’s drill, the yowl of an alley cat, anything but the cross talk of prowl cars on the hunt.

Stop this.

She had lost her appetite. Half her meal remained before her, uneaten. She had to finish it. To leave now, so soon after the police had appeared, would look suspicious.

She drank her orange juice. The pulp felt slimy in her mouth, and when she swallowed, she experienced a momentary thrust of nausea.

The room was hot. She had trouble holding her silverware. The problem was the damn Formica tabletop; it was too shiny; it reflected the glow of the overhead fluorescents.

And there were ceiling fans, the blades lazily rotating; they flickered.

It was the flicker and shine that were getting to her, and the noise—a cascade of laughter from the utility workers, a clatter of cutlery somewhere from the rear of the coffee shop—noise and brightness and the sultry heat, the bubbling indigestion in her gut, all of it.

The cops were talking about last night’s football game. Panthers and Saints: “What the hell were they thinking of when they went for it on fourth down ... shit, I woulda kicked it away, pinned ’em deep ..

Come on, Elizabeth. They aren’t paying any attention to you. Just ignore them. They’re no threat. You’re okay.

She wasn’t sure who was saying these reassuring words. The voice was familiar, a deep, slow, male voice. Anson’s voice? Could be.

But Anson just didn’t know. He didn’t understand how it was to be a hunted rabbit every day and every night for twelve years, hiding behind false names and false documents, waiting for the fatal slip or the trick of fate that would leave you helpless before the hounds.

They were six feet from her. Closer, maybe.

She reached for the coffee, wanting something hot in her belly, and her trembling hand knocked over the ceramic cup.

The cup didn’t break, but it rang like a bell as it struck the tabletop, spewing a flood of coffee over the Formica.

And people were looking.

Everyone was looking.

The two cops—looking.

One of them turning in his chair, offering a paper napkin, saying something, his face polite, nice smile, kind eyes, but still he was the enemy and he was seeing her.

“That’s okay,” she managed, using her own napkin to swab up the mess. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”

Then the waitress was there with a sponge, and the rest of the spill disappeared under the quick circling motion of her hand.

“Want a refill on that?” the waitress, Lois, asked.

“No, just ... just the check, please.”

God, listen to her, she sounded so damn scared.

She risked a glance at the cops again. One of them, the one who’d volunteered his napkin, was still watching her. “Happens all the time,” he said kindly. “Don’t fret about it.”

She had to say something, anything. “I’m just clumsy today,” she tried.

“No big deal,” the other cop said. “Clumsiness is only a misdemeanor in this town.”

It was a joke, and she laughed, but even the word misdemeanor, with its connotations of arrest and punishment, prodded her into a new spasm of panic.

The waitress came back with the bill, and  Elizabeth paid in cash, overpaying somewhat, not caring.

“Keep the change. I’m sorry about the—you know.”

“Not a problem. Don’t you want that cinnamon roll?”

“Guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach.” The cliché came from nowhere, rescuing her from a self-conscious silence. She got up, grabbing her purse, trying not to look at the cops, feeling like such a fool.

After twelve years she was still this afraid. After last night. After the phone call an hour ago. After all she had done, all she’d been through—still the fear was with her, clinging like a shadow.

She left the coffee shop. Outside, she glanced through the window, and for a moment she was sure she saw one of the cops, the one who’d made the misdemeanor joke, watching her.

But maybe not.

It could have been her imagination.

She hated this life. Running, hiding. Hated it, and she was tired of it, too, just tired, worn out.

Her Chevette was parked on a side street, away from the main thoroughfare. She slipped behind the wheel and sat for a long moment, breathing harshly through her mouth, letting the fear subside.

After a while she slotted the key into the ignition cylinder and ran the battery, then turned on the radio. She dialed through the AM bands, wanting to hear a soothing voice, something to distract her. She found a news update. The time was exactly nine o’clock, and the ABC announcer was talking about a battle in Congress over Medicaid funding.

This was good. This was a safe topic, far removed from her life and her concerns. She listened, grateful for the illusion of escape.

There were more news headlines, then a spate of ads, then the stock market numbers at this hour, and after the ABC sign-off, the local news came on.

“The top local story, a possible break in the White Mountains Killer case ...”

Elizabeth sat upright, her fear forgotten.

This soon? Word had gotten out already?

It seemed impossible, too much even to hope for.

But ...

“Police sources say they may have apprehended the man who killed single mom Sharon Andrews in the White Mountains wilderness last April. There is, as yet, no official word ...”

They had him.

Somehow, only an hour after she’d left the satchel, they had arrested Cray.

“... a man believed to be in custody and linked to the crime that shocked southern Arizona. Reports are still sketchy, but it appears that a telephone tip to nine-one-one earlier this morning may have been instrumental in identifying the suspect....”

Her call.

There was no doubt, then.

It was incredible that they had moved so fast, but somehow they had.

The report ended with a request to stay tuned for further details as they developed, and then a political talk show came on, and  Elizabeth switched off the radio.

She felt immensely better. She felt fine. She wished she could march right back into the coffee shop and finish that cinnamon roll she’d left uneaten.

Cray was in custody.

In custody.

Words that had haunted her, frightened her, for the past twelve years—but not this time.

“I won,” she told John Bainbridge Cray. “I beat you, you evil son of a bitch. I beat you.”