The Nightmare Thief

Wylie recorded conversation during drive. 2nd person in car. FORCED HIM.

“Oh my God.”

More to come.

She opened the second message. It included Wylie’s cell phone number and forwarded his call list. Data corrupted, Jo warned, and, indeed, Recent Calls turned up as incomplete phone numbers. But most had the first seven digits, including area codes.

Jo’s third message included the log-in information for her voice-mail service.

Sent Wylie’s recording to my voice mail. Log in and listen. Must take cell to Tuolumne sheriff s in Sonora. Will call when get better signal.

She smiled at her phone. “Oh, Jo. I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Pulse racing, she tried to phone Jo back. She got a recording. The number you are calling is out of range. Please try again later.

A misty wind gusted. She found a seat on a nearby bench and, with trepidation, called Jo’s voice mail and logged in.

She heard Wylie’s voice. “Where are we going?”

A chill inched up her back. She closed her eyes, and listened to Wylie’s desperate attempt to save himself and to leave a trail of evidence behind.

A new voice entered the conversation. “Shut up.”

It was a creepy reply from across Wylie’s car, swaddled in engine noise. The hairs on her arms stood up.

“—punishment.”

She couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. But its tone, flat and imperative, frightened her.

The recording ended. She opened her eyes, stunned. Jo had sent her a message in a bottle—from a dead man. Wylie had tried to tell people what was happening to him, even as he was being driven into the mountains to his death. He must have feared what lay up the road. But he kept talking.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and headed to a Starbucks across from the Civic Center Plaza. On a legal pad she cross-referenced the corrupted data from Wylie’s Recent Calls list. Different portions of each number had been lost, almost like a glass of milk had spilled across the screen. But she quickly saw that Wylie had called only a few numbers from the second cell phone. And he had received calls from only a handful of numbers. By cross-referencing, in most cases, she could assemble the entire number.

None of them belonged to Wylie’s clients, friends, or family.

She went online, pulled up a crisscross directory, and tried to put names to the numbers she had pieced together. No luck.

Time to cold-call.

She got out her phone and dialed the first number on the list. The number rang three times, paused, and rang again with a new tone, as though the call were being forwarded. A woman picked up.

“Ragnarok Investments.”

The voice was brusque, sharp. Impatient.

Evan paused. Was Wylie using the second cell phone for sex or for bad business? “I’m calling about the charity drive—for Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow church.”

The Ragnarok woman hung up.

Evan stared at the phone. Now, wasn’t that interesting. She turned to her computer and typed Ragnarok.

Chapter 13 (#ulink_6d899a4c-f33c-5824-8f9f-91350d11c3ea)

The hissing sounded like a geyser, hot and wet. The light trickled through windows that had shattered white. Dust hung thick in the air, motes spinning.

Jo coughed. She was breathing.

The hissing continued. The radiator. Behind it she heard the sound of rushing water. She blinked. Her fingers and toes and skin were tingling, sending adrenaline distress signals: Hell was this?

The roof of the Hummer was beneath her back. She was lying on pellets of shattered safety glass. She turned her head and heard the glass crunch, like broken bottles in a Dumpster. Other sounds infiltrated her pounding head. A low drone, like a moaning animal.

Hot fear jumped through her. “Gabe?”

Oh God, the roof of the Hummer was hard beneath her back but the floor was close above her head. Too close. The Hummer had been smashed on its plunge down the side of the gorge, like a gargantuan jaw squeezing down. Her chest caught.

She put her hands up and pressed against the floor of the limo. It was crushing her. She stifled a cry. She had to get out. Where was Gabe?

“Quintana.”

Across the vehicle, behind the dust, someone moved. “Jo.”

“Gabe . . .” The rest of her words disappeared in relief and overwhelming fear.

They had to get out. The car would crush them. “Move.”

The wire of panic heated her voice. She coughed back tears. Where were the others? Were they okay?

She was bruised and cut in a dozen places, her head was thundering, her muscles tighter than if she had tried to deadlift half a ton, cold. She had gripped the shoulder harness so hard that she had nearly sent her whole body into spasm. She fumbled for the buckle, punched it, got it to release.

She tried to turn over and banged her head on the roof—the floor—of the Hummer. Dust stung her eyes.

Behind her, the moan turned to hacking. Autumn was hanging from her seat belt, like a skydiver tangled in her harness. With the Hummer smashed, her knees scraped the roof below her. She was conscious, eyes wide. She hit the buckle release.

“Get out. Come on.” Jo could barely keep from screaming.