Second Honeymoon

Chapter 58

SARAH JAMMED THE phone in her pocket and nearly slammed into the tequila-and-Old-Spice fat man, who was coming out of the men’s room. He mumbled something at her—“Watch it!” maybe—or maybe it was just a belch.

Either way, it was distant noise. Sarah was sprinting, a blur, and already halfway down the hallway to the bar, the same bar that was now without Jared Sullivan, or whoever he was.

For a few frantic seconds, she stopped in front of the empty seats where they’d been sitting. The only remnants of their being there were the two bottles of Bud. His was finished, hers was half full. Or more like half empty.

Sarah spun around, her eyes searching every corner of Canteena’s. But he was nowhere. At least not inside.

Damn! Damn! Dammit!

Lickety-split, she headed for the front entrance, the sawdust on the floor kicking up everywhere in her wake. Pushing through the heavy wooden slab of a door, she practically sprang outside, the hot night air immediately slamming against her face.

To her left were two women smoking. They looked like mother and daughter.

“Did you see a guy walk out a minute ago?” Sarah asked, half out of breath. “Good-looking? Sort of like Matthew McConaughey?”

“We just stepped out here, honey,” said the older woman, holding up her cigarette to show it had just been lit.

“But if he really looks like Matthew McConaughey, I’ll help you look for him,” said the younger one with a chuckle.

Sarah forced a smile, if only not to be a bitch, but her eyes had already moved on to the parking lot that wrapped around the building. It was three-quarters pickup trucks and 100 percent jam-packed, not a space to be had.

Off she ran, clockwise. Just as she and the officers had gone around the lake.

There was a chance he was parked in the back, maybe even still heading toward his car.

She ran through the lot, circling the building. She circled it again. She was in the back, standing near a couple of overstuffed Dumpsters, the only light coming from the mostly full moon overhead.

It was the sound she heard first.

The roar of an engine behind her, so loud it was as if she were standing in the middle of a runway at Dulles International Airport. The second she spun around, she was blinded by a pair of headlights. The lights were getting bigger. Very quickly, too. The car was heading straight at her.

No time for overthinking this. She dove. Part leap. Part cartwheel. Straight between the two Dumpsters to her right, the asphalt practically knocking the wind out of her as she landed.

Make and model! License plate! Get something!

But by the time she could look up and focus, his car was turning the corner, gone. It was so dark out that she couldn’t even tell what color the car was. She got nothing.

No, wait—not quite. She still had her own car.

Sarah pushed herself up, sprinting in the direction of her rental car. She could still catch him, she thought. Hell, yeah, let’s see what this Camaro can do!

“Shit!” she screamed the second she laid eyes on it.

Jared Sullivan knew who she was, all right. He knew what car she was driving, too.

Sarah stopped at the right rear tire, flat to the rim. Ditto for the left rear one. “Shit!” she yelled again. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

The bastard had slashed all four tires, and as if to rub it in he left his folding knife resting on the hood of the car.

Only it wasn’t his knife.

Sarah picked it up with the bottom of her shirt, then took out her phone for some light. There were initials inscribed on the ivory handle. J.O.

John O’Hara.

It was his fishing knife. And it was no longer missing. Sarah had found another piece of the puzzle.