The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [124]
“Call for backup.” Quincy remained urgent.
“Fair enough.”
“How long before they arrive?”
“Five to ten minutes. No more.”
“If he gets there first . . . Remember his strengths. Do not let him talk. Shoot first, question later. Promise me, Glenda.”
Glenda nodded into the phone as she reached for the radio to summon her fellow agents. Just as she was about to click it on, however, Quincy’s home line began to ring. Another admirer, she thought. Just what her nerves needed at a time like this. But then the machine picked up, and the voice was not a stranger’s. It was Albert Montgomery and he did not sound like himself at all.
“Jesus Christ, Glenda,” he wailed. “Pick up the goddamn phone. I’ve been trying to reach you on your cellular . . . I was wrong. Not a phantom stalker. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here. Oh God, he has a knife!”
She heard Quincy screaming something in her ear. She wasn’t paying attention anymore. She dropped her flip phone on the marble countertop. She reached over with her right hand. She grabbed Quincy’s white cordless phone and . . .
The pain was instantaneous and intense. Deep, searing heat as if someone had branded her hand with a red-hot iron. She cried out. She dropped the cordless phone on the floor. And in the next moment, she heard the beep beep of someone disarming the security system, followed by a click as the front door swung open.
She looked over at her 10mm, within easy reach. She looked down at her right hand, seared by some sort of acid, now bubbling up with blisters, her fingers impossible to move.
“I’m sorry, Quincy,” she murmured.
Then she watched Special Agent Albert Montgomery walk into the kitchen holding his cell phone in one hand and his 10mm in the other.
“Surprise, baby! It’s me!”
The last sound Quincy heard was gunfire. And then nothing but his own desperate voice, “Glenda, Glenda! Talk to me. Talk to me!”
Quincy hung his head. His breath came in ragged gasps. The disconnected phone had fallen from his fingertips and now lay on Rainie’s bed. He must stay in control, he thought. Now more than ever . . . Rainie’s arms were around his shoulder. She had not spoken, but there were tears on her cheeks.
“I should call Everett,” he murmured. “Get agents over there. Maybe . . .”
Rainie didn’t say anything. Like him, she didn’t really believe that Glenda was still alive.
Quincy took a deep breath, and reached for the phone just as it began to ring. He picked it up slowly, figuring he knew who this would be, and already steeling himself for the man’s mocking tone.
“I shot Special Agent Montgomery,” Glenda Rodman said without preamble.
“Glenda? Oh thank God!”
“He put . . . something on the phone. Last time he was here, I suppose. He thought it would disable me. Stupid bastard. He should have read my file more closely. My father was a cop—he believed strongly in being able to shoot ambidextrously. You never know which hand will wind up free under fire.”
“You’re okay?”
“Albert’s shooting skills are equal to the rest of him,” she said dryly. “My right hand needs immediate medical attention. Other than that, I’ll live.”
“And Special Agent Montgomery?”
“I aimed to kill.”
“Glenda—”
“I disabled him with shots to his kneecap and his right hand instead; I know you need answers. Quincy, he says he’ll only speak with you. He says he knows where your father is. You need to get back here ASAP. At least, before I change my mind and start shooting again.”
“Glenda,” he tried again.
“You’re welcome,” she said. And hung up the phone.
34
Portland, Oregon
Back at the hotel, Quincy swiftly threw his clothes into his travel bag. Rainie was in the living room, talking to Virginia state trooper Vince Amity on the phone. Kimberly, on the other hand, stood watching him from the doorway, her shoulders hunched as if preparing for a blow. She’d had a run-in with room service while he and Rainie