В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
All three detectives would be furious if I went on my own.
He could wait outside.
Again, I started to punch Ryan’s number. Again, I stopped.
What if Ryan insisted on escorting me inside?
McGee and Pomerleau obviously had a hidey-hole in that house. Ryan’s presence might drive them back underground. Might shatter their trust in me. Maybe they weren’t even there, but would provide further instructions only if I arrived alone. A police net around the whole neighborhood would be too obvious.
In my mind, I heard McGee’s terrified pleas, felt her grip on my arm, saw the desperate hope in her eyes.
Guilt and self-blame hopped into my thinking.
I’d been unable to calm McGee at the hospital. If anything, I’d increased her alarm.
What if Ryan’s presence panicked her again?
I lurched to my feet. Yanked my jacket from its peg.
This time I’d do as she asked. I owed it to her. To them.
A new thought stopped me cold.
What if McGee and Pomerleau weren’t alone? What if Menard was still working their heads? What if the call was a trap? Would he really dare to harm me? Why not? He was already looking at life in prison, and he was a malignant sociopath.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!”
Who to phone?
Ryan would go paternal. I couldn’t deal with that.
Claudel was out of the question.
Pulse racing, I tried Charbonneau, just so someone would know where I’d gone. A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I’d dialed was unavailable, and disconnected without inviting input.
I checked my watch.
Six forty-two. I dialed CUM headquarters and left a message for Charbonneau. He and Claudel were probably still in Vermont, but at least they would know where I’d gone.
Silence surrounded me.
More what-ifs.
What if McGee hurt herself?
What if Menard was maneuvering to add me to his fun house?
What if Menard planned to put a bullet through my brain?
I was scanning the face of each ugly scenario, when my cell erupted in my hand.
I jerked as though burned. The handset flew from my grasp, nicked the wall, and ricocheted under my desk.
Another shock.
Without preamble, Anne launched into a rambling apology.
Relief and resentment joined the Armageddon in my head.
I cut her off.
“Where are you?”
Anne misread the frantic timbre of my voice.
“I don’t blame you for feeling hostile, Tempe. My behavior was beyond selfish, but try to understan—”
Seconds were dissolving.
