Scorched (41 page)

Maddie wasn’t sure who “everyone” was, but she managed to keep a cheerful expression on her face as they exchanged good-byes. Then she hitched her tripod onto her shoulder and trekked across the park.

Her stomach growled as she headed for the garage where she’d parked. She cast a longing look at the sandwich shop on the corner. Food would have to wait. She needed to get back to the lab and send out a half dozen files before she could possibly call it a day.

She ducked into the shade of the parking garage, avoiding the stairwell in favor of the ramp. The blustery February wind had died down, and the air was thick with car exhaust. Maddie hugged the concrete wall so she wouldn’t get clipped by a driver rounding the corner. She reached the third level and spotted her little white Prius tucked beside a pickup. She dug the phone from her purse and checked for messages. Her boss, her sister, her boss, her boss.

Shoes scuffed behind her. The skin at the back of her neck prickled. Maddie paused and pretended to be reading something on her phone as she listened.

Silence.

Her pulse picked up. She resumed her pace.

More footsteps.

She whirled around. No one. She clutched the phone in her hand and darted her gaze up and down the rows of cars. She searched for anyone lurking, any ominous shadows—but she was alone.

Almost.

Anxiety gnawed at her as she surveyed her surroundings. It was light out. The streets below hummed with traffic. Still, she tightened her grip on the tripod. She tucked the phone in her purse and felt for her pepper spray.

In the corner of her eye, movement. She pivoted toward it and registered two things at once:
man
and
ski mask
. Fear shot through her. Maddie swung the tripod around like a baseball bat as the man barreled into her, slamming her against the pickup. The tripod jerked from her grip and clattered to the ground. Hands clamped around her neck. Maddie punched and bucked as fingers dug into her skin. She tried to scream. No air. Gray eyes glared at her through the holes in the mask.

She smashed the heel of her hand into his face and felt bone crunch. He staggered back. Maddie jerked sideways. He lunged for her, grabbing the collar of her jacket. She twisted out of it and bolted for the stairwell.

“Help!”
she shrieked, yanking open the door. She leaped down the stairs, rounded the landing, then leaped down more stairs. Her butt hit concrete, but she groped for the railing and hauled herself up. Hinges squeaked above her. Her pulse skittered. Footsteps thundered over her head.

“Someone
help
!”

But they were alone in the soundproof shaft. Another landing, a door. She shoved it open and dashed through. She searched desperately for people, but saw only rows and rows of cars. Another door. Light-headed with terror, she pushed it open and stumbled into an alley. On her right, a passageway lined with Dumpsters. On her left, a gray car parked at the mouth of the alley. Someone was inside.

Maddie rushed for the car. It lurched forward. She halted, stunned, as it charged toward her like a rhino. Behind her a door banged open. Maddie sprinted away from the door and the car. The engine roared behind her as she raced down the alley. The noise was at her
heels, almost on top of her. Panic zinged through her like electric current as her arms and legs pumped. The car bore down on her. At the last possible second, she dove sideways behind a Dumpster and felt a great whoosh of air as the car shot past. The squeal of brakes echoed through the alley.

Maddie darted through the space between the back bumper and the Dumpster. She raced for the street. Despair clogged her throat as she realized the distance she’d covered. Where was the ski-mask guy? The people and traffic noise seemed impossibly far away. She raced toward the mouth of the alley as fast as her burning legs could carry her.

The man jumped from a doorway. They crashed to the ground in a heap of arms and legs and flying elbows. Her skin scraped against the pavement as she kicked free of him and scrambled to her feet. He grabbed the strap of her camera and her body jerked violently. She landed on her side as a fist pummeled her and pain exploded behind her eyes. She managed to roll to her knees as another blow hit her shoulder. She fell forward, but caught herself on her palms and kicked backward, desperate
not
to end up on the ground under him.

She struggled to her feet, but her vision blurred, and the strap was like a noose around her neck. The vinegary taste of fear filled her mouth. He heaved his weight into her, smashing her against the wall. The strap tightened again. Maddie gripped it with her hands. She tried to buck him off, but he was strong and wiry and determined to get her into a headlock. His arm clamped around her throat. She turned her head to the side and bit
hard
through the fabric of his T-shirt.
The grip loosened for a moment, and she twisted free of the strap, the arms, the fingers clawing at her. Adrenaline burst through her veins as she realized this might be her only chance.

She rolled to her feet and rocketed down the alley, toward the noise and cars and people that meant safety.
Faster, faster, faster!
Every cell in her body throbbed with the knowledge that he was behind her. Her heart hammered. Her muscles strained.
Faster!
For the first time, she thought of a gun and imagined a bullet tearing through skin and bone. She surged forward, shrieking hoarsely and racing for the mouth of the alley.

Behind her a car door slammed. Tires squealed over the asphalt. She glanced back as the gray car shot down the alley, moving away from her. Taillights glowed. Another screech of tires as the car whipped around the corner.

Maddie stopped and slumped against the side of the building. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her lungs burned, and it felt as if her heart were being squeezed like a lemon. Something warm trickled down her face. She touched a hand to her cheek and her fingers came away red.

Tears stung her eyes as she looked down at herself. Her purse was gone. Her camera was gone. Her phone was gone.
She
wasn’t gone, at least. She was here—in one shaking, terrified, Jell-O-like piece. But her knees felt so weak she didn’t know if they would hold her up. She closed her eyes and tried to think.

She couldn’t stay in the alley. But she couldn’t go back in that garage—maybe never again. She looked out at the street, at the steady flow of cars and people.
Her gaze landed on the neon sign in the window of the sandwich shop. It glowed red in the gray of dusk, beckoning her to safety with its simple message:
Open
.

Maddie pushed away from the wall. On quivering legs, she stumbled toward the sign.

•   •   •

The two men were cops, she could tell at a glance. Maddie watched them from her place beside the patrol car, where she’d been sequestered for the past half hour answering questions from a rookie detective who’d probably been in diapers when she got her first speeding ticket. Maddie knew almost everyone in the San Marcos police department, but didn’t it figure the first responder to her 911 call would be someone she’d never laid eyes on before—someone who didn’t have the slightest interest in doing her a favor by moving things along. Added to the scraped chin, the swelling jaw, the lost purse, and the stolen Nikon, it was just another addition to the crapfest that had become her day.

And if her instincts proved right, the party wasn’t over yet.

Maggie watched as the two mystery men walked up to the patrol cars parked in front of the sandwich shop. Definitely cops. But they were more than that, clearly. She pegged them for feds based on their dark suits, and that guess was confirmed when one of them flashed a badge and exchanged words with the patrol officers milling on the sidewalk. Stan Grimlich—a cop she
did
know—had just emerged from the shop with a steaming cup of coffee. He said something brief and gave a nod in Maddie’s direction, sending them her way.

Damn
. Maddie checked her watch. Whatever these
two wanted, it wouldn’t likely be quick. She looked them over. The one leading the charge appeared to be in his midthirties, like she was. His shaved head, coupled with his solid, stocky build, would have made him look like a bouncer—had it not been for his suit and the determined scowl on his face that said
cop
.

Maddie shifted her gaze to his friend. Taller, probably six-one. Broad-shouldered, muscular, lean at the waist. He had sandy-brown hair that was cropped short on the sides and longer on top. The word
military
popped into her head. It wasn’t just the haircut and the build, but the supremely confident way he carried himself. He was watching her, too, but in contrast to his partner’s expression, this guy looked utterly relaxed.

“Are you
sure
you don’t want to get this looked at?”

She turned her attention to the EMT handing her an ice pack. Maddie pressed the pack to the side of her face, where a bruise was forming.

“I’m good.”

“Because it’s entirely possible you could have a concussion.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” And a trip to the emergency room was the last thing she needed tonight. She had an aversion to hospitals.

“Well.” The woman shrugged and flipped shut the lid to her first aid kit. “Suit yourself. I can’t
make
you take commonsense precautions.”

“Madeline Callahan?”

She turned, startled. She’d known he was coming, but she hadn’t expected such a deep voice from someone so young. He stared down at her, hands resting at his hips, suit jacket pushed back to reveal a semiautomatic
pistol and—as she’d suspected—an FBI shield. She returned her gaze to his smooth, clean-shaven face. If she was right about the military thing, he must have graduated from the Academy about a week ago.

“I’m Special Agent Brian Beckman with the FBI. This is Special Agent Sam Dulles.” He nodded at the bald guy. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”

Dulles leaned back against the patrol car parked perpendicular to the one where Maddie stood. Clearly, he intended to hang back and observe. Maybe this was a training exercise.

“Ma’am?”

She looked back at the young one. Beckman. He was watching her intently with those hazel eyes.

“Could you take us through what transpired here, please?”

Transpired
. Typical copspeak. Maddie folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the side of the car. “It was a mugging.”

His eyebrows tipped up. “Could you be more specific?”

“Someone attacked me in the parking garage. Stole my purse, along with my brand-new camera.”

“Your camera?”

“I’m a photographer. I was doing a photo shoot down at the park—a couple getting married.”

Both men were regarding her with frank interest now, and she had the feeling she was missing something.

Beckman eased closer, as if to hear better. “We’d like you to walk us through the entire incident, ma’am. Step by step.”

Irritated by the ma’am-ing, she shot a look at Dulles.
“Since when does the FBI have jurisdiction over a mugging?”

No answer.

“Maddie?”

She turned to see Stan walking toward her, hand outstretched. Her brown leather purse dangled from his fingers.

“Oh my God! Where was it?” She beamed a smile at him and snatched up the bag.

“Nicholson found it under a truck near your car. Phone’s in there, too. You just had a call come in.”

“Thank you! You have no idea how much trouble this saves me.” Maddie already had the phone out, and her heart lurched when she saw the text from her boss. It was just as she’d feared. She was needed at a crime scene, ASAP. He’d sent her a message coded 911, followed by a street address.

Maddie stashed the ice pack into her purse and shoved the phone into the pocket of her jeans. Now she
really
needed to leave.

“Ms. Callahan?”

She glanced up. The young agent was watching her expectantly. So was his partner.

“Listen, you see Officer Scanlon over there? The one with the notepad? I guarantee he’ll be turning in a full report before he clocks out tonight. You can get the details from him.”

“We need them from you,” Dulles said, speaking up for the first time. He was still leaning against the side of the car, with a disapproving look.

“Is there a specific
reason
the FBI is involved here? I told you, it was a mugging.”

“Looks to me like an assault, too,” Beckman said evenly.

“Okay, fine. But I really need to be somewhere, like, an hour ago, so unless you can explain how this is relevant—”

“We’re investigating a federal case.”

“A federal case involving . . . ?” She waited as they exchanged looks.

“There was a theft across the street from here at about five thirty.” Dulles nodded toward the park. “Given the timing, we think it could be connected to your incident.”

Maddie glanced across the street, where a bank faced out onto the park. A bank robbery certainly would explain the feds, but why weren’t there any police cars?

“Take us through what happened,” Beckman said, all trace of politeness gone.

And so Maddie did.