The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

was spooky.

What was odd, though, was that he couldn't remember any accidents along here. In fact this was one of the safest stretches of Highway 1 in California. The roadway becomes an obstacle course south of Carmel, like that spot of a really sad accident several weeks ago: two girls killed coming back from a graduation party. But here, the highway was three lanes and mostly straight, with occasional lazy bends through the old Fort Ord grounds, now a college, and the shopping districts.

The trooper thought about removing the cross, but the mourners might return to leave another one and endanger themselves again. Best just to leave it. Out of curiosity he'd check with his sergeant in the morning and find out what had happened. He walked back to his car, tossed his hat on the seat and rubbed his crew cut. He pulled back into traffic, his mind no longer on roadside accidents. He was thinking about what his wife would be making for supper, about taking the kids to the pool afterward.

And when was his brother coming to town? He looked at the date window on his watch. He frowned. Was that right? A glance at his cell phone confirmed that, yes, today was June 25.

That was curious. Whoever had left the roadside cross had made a mistake. He remembered that the date crudely written on the cardboard disk was June 26, Tuesday, tomorrow.

Maybe the poor mourner who'd left the memorial had been so upset they'd jotted the date down wrong.

Then the images of the eerie cross faded, though they didn't vanish completely and, as the officer headed home down the highway, he drove a bit more carefully.

TUESDAY

Chapter 2

The faint light--the light of a ghost, pale green--danced just out of her reach.

If she could only get to it.

If she could only reach the ghost she'd be safe.

The glow, floating in the dark of the car's trunk, dangled tauntingly above her feet, which were duct-taped together, as were her hands.

A ghost . . .

Another piece of tape was pasted over her mouth and she was inhaling stale air through her nose, rationing it, as if the trunk of her Camry held only so much.

A painful bang as the car hit a pothole. She gave a brief, muted scream.

Other hints of light intruded occasionally: the dull red glow of the brake light, the turn signal. No other illumination from outside; the hour was close to 1:00 a.m.

The luminescent ghost rocked back and forth. It was the emergency trunk release: a glow-in-the-dark hand pull emblazoned with a comical image of a man escaping from the car.

But it remained just out of reach of her feet.

Tammy Foster had forced the crying to stop. The sobs had begun just after her attacker came up behind her in the shadowy parking lot of the club, slapped tape on her mouth, taped her hands behind her back, and shoved her into the trunk. He'd bound her feet as well.

Frozen in panic, the seventeen-year-old had thought: He doesn't want me to see him. . . . That's good. He doesn't want to kill me.

He just wants to scare me.

She'd surveyed the trunk, spotting the dangling ghost. She'd tried to grip it with her feet but it slipped out from between her shoes. Tammy was in good shape, soccer and cheerleading. But because of the awkward angle, she could keep her feet raised for only a few seconds.

The ghost eluded her.

The car pressed on. With every passing yard, she felt more and more despair. Tammy Foster began to cry again.

Don't, don't! Your nose'll clog up, you'll choke.

She forced herself to stop.

She was supposed to be home at midnight. She'd be missed by her mother--if she wasn't drunk on the couch, pissed about some problem with her latest boyfriend.

Missed by her sister, if she wasn't online or on the phone. Which of course she was.

Clank.