Middle Of Nowhere

CHAPTER 61

" Hang on!" Boldt hollered into his cellular. "Let me write this down. I'm not thinking too clearly right now." It was no exaggeration. When his phone had rung he had not expected Flek, believing the man's cellular phone was jammed. He scribbled into his notebook. "Miller Bay North… directly across from Quail. The street's name is Sid Price?"

LaMoia, overhearing his lieutenant, said, "Sounds like a game-show host."

"Okay… Okay…" Boldt said into the phone.

LaMoia tapped his watch frantically.

Boldt acknowledged the signal with a nod and spoke into his phone. LaMoia wanted time. Boldt had to remember that Flek considered him still on the mainland, not a few precious miles away.

"I can catch the nine-fifty ferry if I hurry," he said into the phone. "No… we don't have a helicopter… No, we don't! And that means an hour or so at the earliest. I understand that, but there's nothing I can do… It's the best I can do… Exactly.

… Yes, alone. But I want to talk to her. If I don't hear her voice, the meet's off." He waited. "Okay."

Boldt felt his heart pounding in his chest.

"Lieutenant?" her weakened voice inquired. She avoided use of his first name; she didn't want to give Flek any hint of their friendship, not so much as an ounce of added leverage. "I'm wounded-" Boldt heard a struggle as the phone was ripped from Daphne's hand-he could visualize this as clearly as if he were standing by whatever pay phone they occupied. Wounded! His stomach knotted.

"One hour," the man said. The line went dead.

"She's wounded," Boldt reported in a whisper.

"Wounded, how?"

"He hung up."

LaMoia one-handed the wheel. "Yeah? Well, the only reason he wants a meeting is to take you out." With the call to Bobbie Gaynes pressed to his ear, LaMoia warned his passenger, "My batteries are going to go, Sarge." Boldt's had already failed, though a cigarette lighter cable now powered his phone. They'd be down to that one phone in a matter of minutes. "Get back to Dispatch," LaMoia instructed his lieutenant, slamming on the brakes and skidding the car thirty yards to within a few feet of a stop sign and a T intersection that offered either a right turn to the south, or a left to the north. The quick braking pasted Boldt to the dash. Concentrating on the phone, LaMoia reported, "They're rolling again-east, northeast. South end of Suquamish." He pointed out the windshield to the right. "A mile or two that way." Osbourne's tower-tracking technology was working.

Boldt called Dispatch and reported the proposed location for the meet. The car idled smoothly at the intersection. Both men held tightly to their phones, their faces screwed down in impatience. LaMoia said something about them being "men of the millennium."

Boldt shushed him with a raised finger and explained to the dispatcher, "I need a look at three hundred yards in any direction. Elevations. Obstructions. Get a detective in there and pick a spot that has the best long-range rifle shot at the location I just gave you. A long-range rifle shot," he repeated. "Right… Right…." Boldt began to sketch a slightly crooked finger onto a blank page of his notebook. It angled thinly to the right. He marked an X to the left of the middle knuckle. "Fastest route from here?" he asked. A fraction of a second later he pointed north, and LaMoia left two plumes of steam and black-rubber smoke behind the vehicle as it jumped through the turn. "I'll hold," Boldt said. He didn't mean the dash, but he held to that too.

He cautioned LaMoia, "You've got to keep them reporting their movement. If you step on it," he said, indicating his crudely drawn map, "we beat them to the drop an hour before he expects to see us."

"And we get the jump on him," LaMoia said gleefully.

"Maybe," Boldt said, grabbing for the dash as they skidded through the next turn, the burning rubber crying out its complaint.