The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [137]
“And where is that?”
The police operator sighed. In the last few weeks she thought she’d heard it all. By the time this gig was up, she would have no more faith in man’s intelligence. “The woman claims her next-door neighbor his Jim Beckett. Her next-door neighbor, the sixty-year-old retired woman from Florida.”
“A sixty-year-old retired woman is Jim Beckett?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, what was I thinking? Why are you wasting my time with this?”
“Because the woman also claims she has Samantha Williams with her right now. She says she’s calling from a gas station, Martha is going to hunt them down at any time, and she’s scared for herself and for Samantha. I can hear sounds of traffic in the background and what sounds like a child crying. She says she’s not hanging up until we send over the cavalry, and I believe her.”
The sergeant motioned for the headset. He put it on and took the caller off hold. “Hello? This is Sergeant McMurphy. Who am I speaking to? Edith? Edith Magher? How can I help you, Edith?”
He was frowning. Edith Magher. Why did that name sound familiar? He glanced at the log sheet while she babbled in his ear about dead girls haunting her porch and her sixty-year-old neighbor who liked to smoke cigars and was too big and too strong and had too blue eyes. . . .
He didn’t see her name listed on the log sheet. He flipped the next page, going back a few days. He could hear a child sobbing quietly in the background. The woman kept telling her everything would be all right. And then she started talking about the dead girls climbing into a brown Nissan and Martha/Jim Beckett driving away. But Martha/Jim knew that Edith knew. Sooner or later Martha/Jim would come get them.
The sergeant’s gaze fell on the list of phone numbers Team A was tracking down. Suddenly the name blazed out at him. Edith Magher. Shelly Zane had forwarded calls to her seven times in the last two years.
The sergeant grabbed the operator’s shoulder so tightly, she winced. He pointed furiously at the screen. “Where’s the location of the caller listed on this damn thing? I need the location and I need it now!”
BECKETT TRAPPED HER arm first. Marion didn’t panic and she didn’t struggle too hard. She let him drag her behind the trees, where they were further isolated, while her mind formulated her best plan of attack. He thought she was helpless. She wasn’t. But she didn’t want to give away the game too soon. With a man like Beckett, surprise was everything.
She raised her foot and slammed it down hard on his toes. He jerked away, but the motion unbalanced him. With a quick twist she slipped out of his grip, leaving him holding just her coat.
She spun to face him, bringing her gun out of her holster, but he caught her squarely on the chin with a single fist formed by knitting together his two hands. Her head cracked back.
Move through the pain, she ordered herself. She drew out her gun and he nailed her forearm with the billy club. Her fingers went numb. The gun dangled, and for a moment she thought she was going to lose it. The gun would fall and she would be helpless.
Don’t drop your weapon.
She grabbed it with her left hand and got off three awkward shots.
He dropped low, then rushed her. He plowed her back against a hulking tree, knocking the air from her gut. She responded instinctively, hammering down on the back of his neck with the butt of her gun. He grunted and squeezed harder, two years of weight lifting in a prison rec room giving him incredible strength. His shoulder pressed into her diaphragm, squeezing her lungs, killing her.
She couldn’t shoot him. She couldn’t get her hands to function. White dots were appearing before her eyes. She tried to bring up her knee. He blocked it effortlessly. She pulled at his hair and the wig came off in her hand.
The world began to spin. Her chest burned. Her body cried out for oxygen. Tree bark dug into her back. There were so many ways to suffocate