WADE: She’d already given a questionable excuse for being on a rural road where a man lay dying from a stab wound. Now we knew that road led to a house where a break-in and a deadly attack occurred, resulting in the deaths of two men.
MORSE: So it’s your testimony that you grew more suspicious of Mrs. Shire.
WADE: Yes.
MORSE: Rather than seeing the evidence as backing up her story.
WADE: The body count had just doubled, Mr. Chairman.
MORSE: Indeed. And with that video being in law enforcement hands, so had the problems for FreeNow. Unless the video was ignored.
WADE: If you are insinuating I purposely ignored that video in order to help FreeNow succeed in their terrorist plot, I categorically deny it. And I resent the accusation.
MORSE: Then explain this: How did it not occur to you that the sudden meeting between Leringer and Eddington—and their subsequent murders—may have been related to the video? That Leringer managed to escape with the flash drive from his attacker? And that as he lay dying he struggled with his last breaths to tell a woman who’d come upon the accident about the planned terrorist attack—and even managed to slip the flash drive into her pocket?
How would this not tell you, Sergeant Wade, the importance of that video?
Chapter 11
Monday, February 25, 2013
A creak woke me.
My eyes flew open. For a moment my brain failed to remember where I was.
The couch. Gun behind my head on the table. I reached for it.
I lay there, body stiff as lead, head raised. Listening. Maybe I’d just heard Mom.
A horrible vision of shooting her by mistake swept through my mind. Followed by Jeff’s voice: “Don’t hesitate. Or the other guy might get you first.”
Another sound. Coming from my bedroom. A moving of . . . something.
I sat up.
My heart pounded so hard I could not breathe. I dropped my mouth open, struggling to pull in air. The gun in my hand shook.
If someone was in that room, I had to stop him there. Before he moved to Mom’s room.
How did he get in? Not the front door. Had to be the back. Unseen by the sheriff’s deputy out front.
With sheer willpower I stood, legs trembling, knees watery. Both hands gripped the weapon. One step at a time, I eased forward. At the edge of the living room, I stopped. I peered down the hall, through the doorway to my room. It was dimly lit by my desk lamp. I could see the nightstand by my bed, the edge of a bookcase along the wall.
Another sound.
My limbs froze. What to do? Rush in, pull the trigger as fast as I could? What if both of those men had come back? I might hit one, but the other would kill me. Leaving Mom in the house alone—with them.
Fierce protection surged through my veins. I turned on one heel and edged toward Mom’s room. It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, but it felt like hours. At her door, I hesitated. Once I opened it, they’d hear. Would I have time to jump inside and lock it?
Maybe they’d take what they wanted and just leave. I’d rush for my phone and call Wade.
What did they want?
A footfall.
I tore open Mom’s door and leapt inside the room. Slammed it shut and locked it.
“Oh!” Mom cried, woken from sleep.
Hard steps sounded in the hall. My left hand scrabbled across the wall, seeking a switch. There. I flicked it on.
Light flooded the room. My eyes squinted, blinked. In a split second I took in Mom, rising up in bed, fright tearing her face.
The footsteps stopped outside the door. I spun toward the sound, both hands on my gun.
A kick—and the door burst open.
Mom screamed.
A man hulked in the threshold.
My finger yanked the trigger. One, two, three times. The shots clanged in my ears.
A strangled cry. The man listed sideways. Where had I hit him?
Something heavy hit the floor. My eyes jerked down to see a big gun with a very long barrel, dropped from the man’s fingers. Was that a silencer?
“Hannah!” Mom shrieked.
The man staggered. Cradled under his left arm were my laptop and small backup drive. He pressed them to his side. Bent down, fumbling for his weapon.
I saw the top of a bald head.
I fired again. Saw the bullet hit his right hand.
“Unngkk.” He straightened and looked at me, stunned and unsteady. For one terrifying moment our eyes locked. It was Samuelson.
I couldn’t move.
He dragged in air. For the first time I saw a patch of red spreading on his chest. A bullet hole.
His eyelids drooped. “We’re both dead.” The words ground from him like gravel.
Samuelson turned and stumbled away.
I stood rooted to the spot, gun wavering in my hands. As Mom wailed behind me, Samuelson’s heavy treads headed through the kitchen. The back door opened and slammed.
A dozen thoughts screamed in my brain. “We’re both dead.” Why? What had I done? And—the man had come for my laptop? Why?