Free One Week To Live by Joan Beth Erickson Page A

packed the bus. Tourists generally took The Deuce, the double-decker purple bus that ran along the Strip and to area hotels. Locals rode the regular transit buses.
    With no seats available, she grabbed the overhead rail. An older, gray-haired woman wearing a large sunhat and baggy clothes got on right after her. The woman squeezed past and walked to the back of the bus. Someone stood and offered the woman a seat.
    She scooted away from the person now mashed against her back. She disliked being penned-in, unable to move. But that wasn’t the reason for the uneasiness washing over her. Hatred and evil now permeated the bus’s interior overwhelming her with its presence. She hadn’t experienced emotions like this since the San Diego case. The kidnapper was on the bus.
    She studied every passenger, but saw no one suspicious. Most wore baseball hats pulled low on their heads or sunglasses. She couldn’t see their faces or their eyes. The disturbing feeling grew. Desperate, she searched for an escape.
    At the next bus stop, she quickly exited the bus and dashed through the pouring rain into the closest casino. Once inside, she glanced behind her. No one who left the bus followed her, but the sense of overwhelming hatred lingered.
    People filled the casino’s shopping arcade. She merged with those strolling a lane lined with high-end shops. Stopping to study a display of lingerie in one store window, she again looked around her. No one paid attention to her.
    She weaved her way through the crowd until she entered a plaza filled with more people. Packed cafes rimmed the square featuring a ceiling painted sky blue with white, puffy clouds. An audience gathered to watch a woman dressed in a velvet gown sing opera. She hurried on, eager to find an exit.
    ****
    Brian paced the covered area in front of her apartment’s mailboxes, worry eating at him. Where the hell was she? When he’d gone to pick her up at five, he’d learned she’d left work early. While he paced, he spotted Angie’s car pulling up to the curb in front of the building. A black SUV pulled in behind it. Dunning exited her car and dashed through the pouring rain to the mailbox shelter.
    “She’s not here,” Brian announced. “If you’re returning her car, you can hand me the keys. I’ll give them to her.”
    “I’d rather give them to her myself,” Rich said, mopping his face with a pristine white handkerchief.
    “Do you think I’ll steal her car?”
    The special agent frowned, but said nothing.
    Like you stole my wife, Brian thought. The image of Jane in this asshole’s arms wasn’t one he’d ever forget. No, she’d never sought comfort in his arms after their son’s death. She didn’t need to. Dunning provided all the comfort she wanted. She’d claimed there’d been nothing between them, but he still questioned that.
    “Saw your article, Murphy.”
    “Yeah, what about it?”
    “I don’t appreciate you mentioning a psychic being involved in this case. She’s not. When we catch the bastard and he’s brought to trial, the case can’t be compromised because it looks like we worked with a nutcase psychic. Is that clear?”
    “It’s a free country and a free press. I can write whatever I want,” he spat back. He’d had enough from this arrogant asshole.
    “Thanks to your damn article, we’ve already been bombarded with phone calls from so-called psychics who say they can help. Shit, they’re coming out of the woodwork. My team can’t be wasting their time fielding stuff from people who babble about imaginary visions.”
    “Her visions aren’t babbling.” He glared at the man. “And one of those nutcases you refer to might offer a lead you should follow.”
    Dunning ignored his comment. “There’s a killer to catch and time is critical.”
    “More importantly there’s a child to save,” Angie announced, breathless from her dash through the rain from the bus stop.
    She was sopping wet, her long, dark hair hanging in strands