Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

was empty. It was almost three in the morning.
    I unfastened my chest strap and loosened the leg straps enough to step out of the gear. Taking off the rig was a physical relief. Under the quarry’s bright field lights, I was finally able to get a good look at my leg.
    My calf was stained from the back of my knee all the way to my foot. Even the heel of my sneaker was dark red. I removed the belt I’d knotted there and adjusted my pant leg. How did such a small cut produce that much blood? The knife must have gone in deep. I squeezed the sides of the wound together and applied pressure, wondering for a moment whether I could find medical attention. How would explain myself if I did?
    The sensible thing would be to call the police. I eased myself to the ground, reapplied my makeshift tourniquet, and considered how to tell them my story.
    Kurt’s duffel bag started ringing.
    I turned and stared at it. It rang again and I pulled it to me.
    When I opened the zipper, I found myself staring down into blocks of cash. Thick stacks of hundred dollar bills—more money than I’d ever seen.
    Another ring chirped, and I plunged a hand into the sack and shoved them aside, feeling for a phone. My hand closed over it. I pulled it out and flipped it open. Engine noise droned in my ear.
    She came straight to the point.
    “Where are you, Emily?”
    I listened, waited.
    “You have something that belongs to me. I’ll send someone.”
    “Did you kill my husband, Trish? My daughter?”
    She breathed into the phone, the kind of disgusted sigh that proved my heartache was only a fleeting nuisance to her.
    “Make this easy on yourself,” she said.
    I snapped the phone closed.
    Almost instantly, it rang again. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.
    She asked again where I was.
    “You’re starting to sound like a broken record, Trish. Get over yourself. You’re not getting this money back.”
    “Why don’t you call your little friend? Ask her what she thinks you should do.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me.”
    This time, she hung up on me.

Chapter Twenty-six
    I immediately dialed the motel. When the desk clerk forwarded my call, I closed my eyes and muttered “please-please-please-please” under my breath while I waited for Jeannie to pick up.
    Instead, a man answered. My eyes opened.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I was trying to reach room one-fourteen?”
    “You have the right room,” the speaker said. “Blondie’s room. When we get our money, you’ll get your friend.”
    I was speechless.
    “Thing is,” he continued. “You don’t have a lot of time.”
    “Look—”
    “Bring the money to this room by eight this morning. The key’ll be under the parking block in front. Put the bag on the bed and leave. If the money’s all there, your friend’ll be back here by nine.”
    “But how will I—”
    “One more thing,” he said. “Not a word to the police or Richard Cole.”
    Christ. Who were these people?
    “Cole’s son, Tim?” the man said, “Has his swim team practice in a few hours, before school. Be a shame if something nasty happened on his way there.”
    “At least let me talk to her,” I said. “How do I know you haven’t already done something?”
    His voice faded as he muttered to someone else, “Bring her here.”
    There was rustling, and Jeannie said, “Em?”
    Her voice was strong.
    “Jeannie, are you—”
    “Edward Kosh,” she said plainly, “I saw it on a receipt.”
    I heard a whack and a moan, followed by more rustling. Something bumped the receiver on other end.
    From some distance away, I heard Jeannie shout, “K-O-S—”
    Bumping and scuffling came next, then the original voice.
    “Eight a.m.” he said, and the line went dead.
    I dropped Kurt’s phone into his bag. My hands were shaking when I zipped it. Just when I’d thought things couldn’t get worse.
    I’d nearly been killed. Clement was shot and left for dead. The people responsible were the ones who’d murdered Jack and Annette. I didn’t feel smart or strong enough to tackle Trish and her gang of lowlifes alone, despite their instructions. Outnumbered and overpowered, I felt as small and insignificant as the little stones piled all around me.
    Police would have more questions than answers. So using my own phone, I dialed Richard. My call ended in his voice mailbox again. I summarized everything I knew. Then I sorted the few facts I had.
    When Trish had called, she’d addressed me by name, even though she’d never seen me