Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (29 page)

He answered as fast as he could, hoping it was Venta.

The voice of Jena Vernon, the TV 8 reporter, came through. “Teff! I just saw the fax of that guy you’re looking for. I know that guy!”

“You do?”

“Yes,” she said. “I met him up on Highway 74 when our helicopter came down. He said he lived a mile down the road from there.”

Teffinger stopped walking.

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive.”

“How positive—50 percent or 80 percent or what?”

“Ninety-five percent.”

“Hold it,” he said. “I’m trying to think. What’s the best way up there?”

“There isn’t one,” she said. “The road’s still blocked with the boulder. You’d have to swing all the way up I-70 and through Evergreen to get around the back way.”

Not good.

That would take an hour.

“He drives an Audi,” she added. “A brown Audi.”

Teffinger remembered that the ex-cheerleader across the street from the for-sale house saw a medium-colored foreign car.

TEFFINGER STRAPPED HIMSELF IN tighter than tight, put his armrests into a death grip, and held his breath as Air One left earth and rumbled upward into a wet and ominous sky.

Sydney said, “You should see your face.”

He ignored her and concentrated on the jarring and shaking of the chopper.

He smacked the pilot on the side of the head to get his attention and said, “What’s wrong with this thing?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“Relax.”

“It feels like this thing is falling apart.”

“For the last time, relax.”

Streets appeared and disappeared below them.

Santa Fe.

Alameda.

C-470.

Then the twinkling city lights dropped behind as they entered Bear Creek Canyon, flying low, with the spotlight on.

“There’s the boulder!” Sydney said.

Teffinger looked.

The back end of a squashed vehicle protruded from under a rock the size of a bus.

“Keep going,” he said.

“What are we looking for exactly?” the pilot asked.

“A brown Audi.”

“Nice of you to mention that.”

“Sorry.”

Five minutes later Teffinger said, “Turn around. We went too far.”

They doubled back.

Then Sydney said, “There! A road—”

They followed it.

At the end they found three structures that looked like boxcars. A man and a woman were outside in the rain, looking up. Suddenly the woman ran. The man chased her and punched her in the back of the head. She went down. The man punched her again, picked her up, ran to a brown car and threw her in the back seat.

“We need to get down there!” Teffinger said.

“Too many trees,” the pilot said.

“Squeeze in somewhere!”

Suddenly bright flashes appeared from the ground.

And bullets hit them.

Bamm!

Bamm!

Bamm!

Bamm!

Then the chopper made a terrible noise.

The headlights of the car turned on and the vehicle sped down the road towards Highway 74.

“We’re going down,” the pilot said.

“Get in front of him!” Teffinger said.

“I don’t know if—”

“Block him in I said!”

The car reached Highway 74 and sped up the canyon.

The chopper followed.

Sputtering.

Losing altitude.

Smoke entered the cabin.

Then the engine seized and the aircraft dropped straight down.

Teffinger’s stomach shot into his mouth.

He braced himself.

Then they crashed.

93

Day Eleven—June 21

Thursday Night

JEKKER RACED UP HIGHWAY 74, barely in control, trying desperately to stay in front of the helicopter. If it blocked him in he was screwed, totally forever screwed. It was right on his ass, so close that he could hear the rumble of the blades.

Then suddenly the spotlight dropped out of the sky and hit the ground behind him. It exploded in a bright flash and went out.

It crashed!

So perfect!

So absolutely perfect!

He brought his foot off the accelerator and got the vehicle back to a safe speed.

He was free.

Free!

Yeah, baby.

The road curved to the right.

Then something bad happened.

Suddenly a hand appeared from the back seat, Tessa Blake’s hand.

It grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the left.

The Audi almost rolled but didn’t. Instead it left the road, shot over an embankment and splashed into the river.

The headlights went out.

Icy water entered the interior.

94

Day Eleven—June 21

Thursday Night

THE CHOPPER HIT THE GROUND with a spine-compressing thud. Teffinger was hurt, but didn’t know how bad and didn’t have time to find out. He got his seatbelt off and frantically felt for the door handle.

He couldn’t find it.

Then cold rain entered the cabin and someone grabbed his shirt.

“Come on!” Sydney said.

Then they were out, all three of them, running.

Twenty seconds later the aircraft exploded in a fireball that lit the canyon like daylight for a full half mile.

Then something weird happened.

Up the road it looked like the car missed a turn and crashed into the river.

Sydney ran that way.

“Come on!” she said.

Teffinger pulled his gun and followed.

His legs didn’t work right.

When they got there, the car was no more than a black silhouette jammed in the middle of the river.

A voice came from it, a female’s voice screaming for help, stuck in the car fifty feet from the bank.

Teffinger stepped into the water.

It was stronger than he thought and ice cold.

“Just stay where you are!” he shouted.

Suddenly something cold and wet and strong had his head in a vice grip. Then incredible muscles twisted his neck and forced him under the surface. Water immediately filled his ears and nose and mouth. He shifted to break loose.

It did no good.

Instead he went ever farther under.

He kicked his legs but got no traction. His lungs would fill with water in seconds. He twisted, got his head above the surface and sucked precious air. Then he reached behind and got his hands to the back of the man’s head. The other man lost his traction but got Teffinger in the same position. They were back to back, locked together, each pulling as hard as they could, trying to snap the other’s neck. Teffinger tightened his neck to keep it from breaking.

His muscles screamed.

Then he pulled the man’s head with every ounce of strength he had.

95

Day Eleven—June 21

Thursday Night

LONDON DRANK MARGARITAS at Jose O’Shea’s on Union until her money ran out; then staggered home in the rain. The alcohol was supposed to erase the image of Sarah Woodward saying, “And found you,” but it didn’t work.

She got home to find Hannah sleeping naked on top of the covers.

Venta’s little buddy.

What nerve, to still be here.

Hadn’t Venta told her that the charade was over?

Drunker.

That’s what London needed to be.

Drunker.

She changed into dry clothes, poured a glass of wine and then sat on the couch in the dark as the storm battered the building. When the wine was gone she walked into the bedroom and slapped Hannah on the ass as hard as she could.

“Get out of my apartment and out of my life!”

“What the—?”

“Now!”

She swung again, this time getting the woman’s leg instead of her ass.

“Stop that!” Hannah said.

But London couldn’t stop.

She swung again.

And again.

Then the woman grabbed her hands and said, “Stop it!”

But as soon as she let go, London hit her again.

That was a mistake. The woman wrestled her to the carpet. She fought back but was no match. The woman twisted London onto her back, then straddled her and pinned her arms above her head. London tried to muscle loose but the woman just gripped her wrists tighter and shifted her weight even higher on London’s chest, until her crotch was almost on London’s face.

“Get off me!”

“I will,” Hannah said. “But first you have to listen to what I have to say.”

“I said get off!”

“No.”

Hannah kept London pinned on her back until she calmed down. Then she said, “Stay,” and loosened her grip on London’s wrists. London immediately brought her arms down. Hannah grabbed them and pulled them back up. “Stay, I said.”

This time when Hannah released her grip, London left her arms above her head.

“That’s better,” Hannah said. “I’m now going to make you my lawyer. That means that whatever I tell you is privileged and confidential, right?”

“I’m not your lawyer,” London said.

“You better be, otherwise I can’t tell you what’s going on,” Hannah said.

A pause.

“Okay, I’m your lawyer.”

“That means that whatever I tell you, you can’t tell the police or anyone else, right?”

“Right.”

“Good.”

“FIRST OF ALL, I KNOW YOU’RE MAD AT VENTA,” Hannah said. “Don’t be and I’ll tell you why.”

“There’s nothing you could possibly say.”

“Hear me out,” Hannah said. “Venta was hired by a mystery law firm to follow someone named Bob Copeland to Bangkok and get dirt on him, exactly like she said. What she didn’t tell you is that she took me with her. We both went to Bangkok.”

“You went too?”

“Yes, I went too,” Hannah said. “I was her assistant and she felt too intimidated to go there alone. At that time my hair was a lot longer and it was blond. That night we followed Bob Copeland to a blowjob bar in the Soi Cowboy district. I was the one who went inside while Venta waited outside. Someone spiked my drink. I woke up in sexual slavery. It was me, not Venta, who got abducted.”

“You? Then why did Venta say it was her?”

Lightning flashed outside.

Followed by the loud crack of thunder.

“I’m getting there,” Hannah said. “Venta was frantic to find me. She stayed in Bangkok for two weeks looking for me. Eventually, she heard about the place and learned that women could be purchased for snuffs. But she had no idea where the place was and couldn’t go there even if she knew, because she’d be taken herself. So she went back to the United States.”

“Okay.”

“Are you following me?”

“Yes.”

“She took a loan out against her house for $300,000,” Hannah said. “Then she came back to Bangkok with a friend of hers—a man named Ernest Poindexter. He started to spread money around and asked about a dungeon where he could have some serious fun. It took a while but he eventually ended up at the place. He purchased me for a snuff at a cost of $250,000. Then we all came back to the United States.”

“So Venta bought your freedom,” London said.

“Exactly.”

“And there was no traffic accident.”

“No. We had to make that part up.”

Silence.

“All of the things that she told you that happened to her were all true, except that they happened to me,” Hannah said. “One man was particularly brutal. He told me he was a pilot and lived in Denver but never told me his name. Venta and I came to Denver to find him. Venta did most of the work because I was an emotional mess. She dressed up like a man and stalked him. Then we confirmed he was the right person.”

“Alan English,” London said.

“Right, Alan English,” Hannah said. “After we found him, I knew that I had to kill him. Venta tried to talk me out of it a hundred times, but I was hell-bent on revenge. And then I took it. I stabbed him to death in his bedroom.” She paused and then said, “I don’t regret it. He got what he deserved. We made sure that Venta was in a public place at the time so she had an alibi if she ever needed it.”

“So you killed Alan English,” London said.

“Yes—but remember that’s privileged and confidential,” Hannah said. “You’re my attorney. You can’t ever tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

London was still lying on her back with her arms above her head.

“Can I get up now?” she asked.

Hannah let her up.

They poured wine and sat on the couch in the dark.

“Anyway, Venta was worried about me getting caught,” Hannah said. “She knew that there would be a murder investigation and had sniffed around enough to determine that the main guy in charge of the homicide department—a man named Nick Teffinger—would get involved at least to some extent. Venta decided to buddy up to him to keep track of where they were. That way she could tell me if they were getting too close, at which point I would disappear to Mexico or whatever.”

“So she wasn’t serious about him,” London said.

“Not at first,” Hannah said. “She followed him around and looked for a way to meet him and make it look like an accident. He spotted her one night—actually, it was the same day I killed Alan English—and lured her into a bar. They met. Then she fell in love with him.”

“So she really does like him?”

“She’s crazy for the man,” Hannah said. “I’ve never seen her like this before. Anyway, with Alan English dead, Venta and I next set our focus on trying to find out who hired Venta in the first place. That’s when Venta bumped into you.”

London remembered.

“The problem was, though, that we were both scared to death that if my name came into the picture and got associated with Bangkok, the police might trace me to the murder of Alan English. So we decided to keep me totally out of the picture and just pretend that everything had happened to Venta instead of me. That was wrong, I know, but we had no choice. We both knew that there was a law firm that needed to be brought down. But because of Alan English, Venta needed to be the plaintiff instead of me. She had an alibi, so even if she got associated with English it wouldn’t make a difference.”

“I see.”

“So everything Venta told you was true,” Hannah said. “The only difference is that it happened to me instead of her.”