Time of Departure by Douglas Schofield Read Free Book Online Page A

didn’t want to hear any more. I had to get away from this man. I said, “Make an appointment,” and pulled my door shut. I started my car and drove away. I checked my mirror as I drove out of the lot. He was still standing where I’d left him … watching.
    I drove two blocks and then, on an impulse, I took a right and circled back. I decided that if I could spot him getting into a car, I was going to follow him. When I reached a corner where I could observe the parking lot I’d just left, I saw him. He was standing on the far side of the lot, at least two hundred yards away, but I could see he was looking in my direction.
    He waved.
    I felt like a fool. For some reason, he had expected me to double back, and he’d been standing there, waiting.
    He walked to a vehicle and got in. As it drove off, I saw that it was a white SUV.
    Something about the man’s movements nagged at me, but at first I was too distracted by what had just happened. After a few seconds, it dawned on me.
    He had entered the vehicle on the passenger side.

 
    6
    Two days later, I set my alarm for five, got up, and drove to the UF campus for a morning run in the open air. The Lake Alice loop was only three and a half miles—shorter than my usual five-mile treadmill run—but at least the time and place had the advantage of being randomly chosen. I’d spent the last thirty-six hours brooding over the events outside Sam Grayson’s building. I didn’t like the feeling that I was being watched, even if it was by a man who had helpfully broken cover to save me from being maimed or killed.
    More than that, I didn’t like the idea that the man seemed to know what I was going to do before I knew it myself.
    The parking lot at the Baughman Center on Museum Road was deserted. I drove through the lot and parked in an unpaved area under some trees. I went through my usual stretching routine, set my watch, and headed off. The run was flat and easy, but it still felt good. Somewhere in the final mile, I passed another runner—a big guy, built like a linebacker, wearing heavy boots, moving slowly and wheezing like a steam train. Despite my precautions, I half expected to see Marc Hastings leaning against my car when I loped off the Ficke Gardens path and back into the parking area.
    But the lot was still empty and I was still alone.
    I was walking in circles, cooling down, when I heard the faint sound of my phone ringing. I quickly unlocked my car and retrieved the phone from under the seat. I checked the call display.
    Sam Grayson
    I answered. “Sam?”
    I was still breathing hard and Sam must have picked up on it. “Is this a bad time?”
    â€œNo. I just finished the Alice Lake loop. Just catching my breath.”
    â€œYou just finished a run?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œGirl, it’s six thirty in the morning! I don’t know where you get the juice!”
    â€œYeah … well, along the same lines, I could ask what’s so important that you’re calling me at this hour.”
    â€œI called to tell you not to come to the office.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI want you to go to the morgue. Speak to Terry Snead.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI’m not sure we’ve ever talked about this … it’s a cold case … happened back in the ’70s. There was this string of missing women. They were all from around here, all young, in their twenties—”
    My breath stopped in my throat.
    â€œâ€”but there were never any bodies.”
    The sweat from my run went cold on my body. I heard myself ask a question. My voice seemed unconnected and far away. “What’s at the morgue?”
    â€œDamnedest thing, Claire! You know the road-widening project they’re doing down near Bronson? It’s part of that bypass the DOT’s planning.”
    I was vaguely aware of it. “Yeah.”
    â€œSome workmen on the site uncovered a