Nowhere to Run. Nancy Bush

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      Chapter 5

      Liv threaded the key into her apartment door lock with quaking fingers and a field of vision that had narrowed to a two-inch square. Blackness was creeping in on all sides. She’d made it home. To her apartment. In her Accord, which was parked a bit cockeyed in the lot. And now . . . and now . . . the familiar panic from her youth was taking her over.

      “I can’t . . .” she whispered, shaking her head furiously. No, no, no!

      No.

      The police. She should call the police.

      But the officer from her youth invaded her thoughts, followed quickly by the memory of the supercilious policeman who’d come to Hathaway House over a disturbance during her teen years and had treated them all like criminals.

      No. No police. She couldn’t trust them. She couldn’t trust anyone!

      Why? Why Zuma Software?

      You know why. It’s not Zuma. It’s you.

      She clapped her hands over her ears, hyperventilating. This was her own paranoia talking. Talking, talking, talking. Always talking. Always convincing. But she knew better. She—knew—better. Didn’t she?

      Didn’t she?

      She’d slammed the apartment door behind her, and now she leaned against it, eyes ravenously searching the room. Maybe Kurt Upjohn was into something she knew nothing about. Maybe there were financial concerns. Bad debts to the wrong people. Maybe Aaron was involved in more drugs than she knew.

      It’s about you, Liv.

      Maybe there was some military connection after all. War games. Sensitive information running beneath the guise of computer games.

      But no one went upstairs to the control room, where it all happens.

      Or, did they?

      Her heart seized. Maybe the killer had still been there. When she returned. Maybe he thought she’d seen something and was coming after her!

      “Don’t . . . don’t . . .” she whispered aloud, willing her vision to expand outside the shrinking box closing in on her.

      You have to leave. You have to go. Now. Get your things. Go. Drive. No, walk away.

      Blindly Liv searched through her closet for her backpack, something she could carry. Her hands closed upon it and she squeezed her eyes shut and offered up a silent prayer, asking for what? Help? For a wild moment she thought about calling Dr. Yancy. They hadn’t spoken since Liv was at Hathaway House but the doctor had been kind; she’d talked straight.

      But Liv had no number for the doctor. She would have to call Hathaway House to reach her.

      With that thought in mind she crossed swiftly to the phone. She reached out and it suddenly rang shrilly beneath her hand. She screamed, a short, aborted sound that may have been in her own head. Heart galloping, she counted the rings but didn’t answer, was afraid to.

      Someone was leaving a voice mail.

      A voice mail.

      She waited three minutes that felt like an eternity, her ears filled with a dull buzzing that wouldn’t go away. Then, with unsteady hands, she picked up the receiver and retrieved the message.

      “It’s Lorinda. I know you’re at work, but I just wanted to call you about . . . your father. He’s with your brother. It’s not good for him. He and Hague aren’t good for each other.” Her voice rose. “If you could just try to help me,” she said harshly, as if growing angry with Liv. “I don’t ask for much, and you’re making this so hard!”

      Liv’s brain ran in a circle. How did she get my number?, she thought first. Does she know where I live? Does the killer know?

      “It’s because of you that he’s not listening to me,” Lorinda went on in a complaining voice. “And Hague. I’ve been his wife for nearly twenty years, but you and Hague . . .” She broke off, sounding like she was about to cry, and the line went dead.

      She doesn’t know about Zuma . . . she hasn’t heard. Maybe no one knows yet.

      With that thought in mind, Liv quickly catalogued what she would need for a long trip away. Money. She had cash in an empty ice cream carton in the freezer. Quickly she retrieved that roll of bills, then found the jacket of her running gear and zipped the money inside a pocket. She needed her gun. Running shoes. An extra shirt and pair of jeans. Undergarments. A raincoat even though the sun was shining like it would never stop. The manila envelope.

      She stuffed everything into the backpack, the gun on top.

      Rummaging through the bathroom drawers, she grabbed her toothbrush and several hair bands, then looked in the mirror at solemn hazel eyes flecked with gold as she snapped her hair into a ponytail and then smashed a baseball cap with a Mariners logo on her head, drawing the ponytail through the back hole above the adjustable strap.

      Erasing the message from Lorinda, she unplugged the phone. She did a fast but thorough search to assure herself she hadn’t left some scrap of paper with information about her family. Let it take whoever was out there as long as possible to learn whom she might contact.

      Unless they already know . . .

      She was running on instinct, and a sense of being the prey. She wasn’t going to sit down and try to think it through. There was time for that later, when she was somewhere safe, wherever the hell that might be.

      Five minutes later, she was out the door. She had the keys to her car in her hand, but she left the Accord in the parking lot, heading for the street. Just another pedestrian. Walking slowly—strolling, really, to avoid drawing attention—she wound along a newly revitalized street in this suburban, hoping to be urban, part of Laurelton, with its new cobblestone crosswalks and lampposts and shops with green awnings and outdoor seating. A place to mingle and maybe sit down and catch her breath.

      Somewhere, if not safe, at least safer.

      With an effort she kept her mind off the images of her friends and coworkers at Zuma sprawled across the floor, blood oozing beneath them, the life force draining away. If she thought about it, she was lost. If she remembered Aaron . . .

      Swallowing hard, she moved into a late afternoon crowd just beginning to gather at their favorite bars and bistros for happy hour, merriment spilling onto the street from open doorways.

      Aaron, she thought, a smothered cry wrenched from her throat.

      Shhh . . . don’t think . . . don’t think . . . don’t draw attention. . .

      Blinking back cold tears, she turned into a sandwich shop with a long line of customers at their counter service and a smattering of tables.

      It had grown hot outside and she was overdressed, but she was shivering СКАЧАТЬ