Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 21

You sure this is necessary?" I asked Germaine Dunn, while she sprayed purple and yellow stripes in my hair. "Ive been meaning to get a cut and maybe some highlights, but this is a little out there for me. I usually shoot for a more traditional look. You know, something that doesnt clash with my Wranglers and holster."

Dunn stepped back, sized me up, and chuckled, then tried to camouflage her enjoyment behind a studious frown. Her own riotously colored locks hung loosely in curls around her face, and she had enough eye makeup on to play Madame Dracula onstage. "If youre going to look like one of us, yes, its necessary," she said, diving right back in and pulling at my hair on both sides of my face to make sure shed cut it evenly. Shed chopped it up in layers, to show off the color, which shed repeatedly a.s.sured me would wash out. I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered what David would think, then reminded myself yet again that what he thought wasnt a concern.

At that moment, Ca.s.sie sauntered out of the trailer bedroom dressed in black leggings and a gold-sequined minidress. Since this wasnt her full stage show, thered be no coc.o.o.n or flying about on wings. But she had on her thick stage makeup, and the kid looked five years older than an hour earlier in the horse shed.

"Wow, Lieutenant, hot look," she said, with a chuckle. "Wait until Maggie and your mom see you decked out like a Hollywood chick."

"Yeah. I cant wait. Somehow I think Im in store for more ribbing than usual," I said. Looking at her, I considered all the teenager had and was still going through. Tough breaks. Some things didnt seem as important as they once did. "You know, weve spent a good bit of time together. I wont mind if you call me Sarah."

The girl looked surprised, but then smiled. "Okay," she said.

"Okay who?" I asked.

"Okay, Sarah," she said, looking pleased and perhaps even grateful.

The kids mood had been lifting ever since shed gotten the news on Peterson. All she talked about was finding him and explaining who she was. That and that alone, she insisted, would end the nightmare.

Still unsure, Id avoided any promises that I wouldnt hurt him. The truth was that the days revelations had made the entire situation even more complicated. All I was certain of was that Justin Peterson had to be stopped before he had time to carry out his threats. Maybe, if we were lucky, Ca.s.sidy was right, and once we had him under control, all wed have to do was talk him through it, explain, and it would all go away. That theory, for some reason, wasnt jiving with my intuition, my subconscious voice that murmured quiet warnings. Over the years, Id learned to pay attention when my instincts radioed all wasnt well.

"How long until the limos here?" she said, turning to Germaine. "Im jazzed. Ready to go."

Dunn glanced at the clock next to the mirror and said, "Forty minutes and counting."

We were in Ca.s.sies trailer parked within a secured area, near the freight doors on the north side of Reliant Stadium, Houstons state-of-the-art football arena, part of a complex covering acres of land just inside the South 610 Loop. In the vast parking lot, cars and pickups sprawled as far as the eye could see, while a rambling, brightly lit carnival sold Moon Pies, chicken-on-a-stick, funnel cakes, turkey legs, popcorn shrimp, and cotton candy. Ive always enjoyed carnivals. When Maggie was a little kid, we stood in line for twirls on the spinning teacups, but the Ferris wheel was my favorite. I loved soaring stories high, peering down at folks throwing rings onto bottles to win stuffed animals and catching glimpses of the banners that advertised Frog Boy and the Bearded Lady.

While we got ready in Ca.s.sidys bus, the rodeo unfolded inside the stadium. Tons of soft brown dirt had been bulldozed over the football field, turning it into a fitting stage for muscular cowboys who wrestled steers, yanking them down by the horns or tying their legs together in a quest for speed. Bull riders cinched their hands with leather reins to hold on tight, and the crowd cheered as barrel-racing cowgirls maneuvered powerfully built horses at breakneck speeds between brightly colored barrels. A win represented fame, money, and saucer-sized, silver-belt-buckle trophies.

Just after eight, as Germaine put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on my new look, the captain called from his position in the audience to say our forces were prepared, everyone in place. The rodeo events were over, the cowboys backstage nursing their injuries, and workers had taken over, towing a circular, white stage surrounded by a canopy of spotlights onto the floor, readying it for the evenings main event.

Opening day, the grounds pulsed with excitement, and the marquee bordering the freeway read: tonight: ca.s.sidy collins! with the notation: sold out! There was no doubt that the teenager was the years most-sought-after ticket. Reliant held more than seventy thousand, and tonight it overflowed with a record-setting, standing-room-only audience. Every available ticket had been snapped up within fifteen minutes of sale time, a record. Scalpers sold the close-in seats for more than a grand, and the nosebleed accommodations emptied pockets by an average of two hundred bucks.

On this particular night, the crowd was young. As in Dallas, young girls filled the audience, some only eight or nine, many wearing Ca.s.sidy Collins pink T-s.h.i.+rts with sequined b.u.t.terflies and hearts. Their faces mirrored their delight at being among the select. They were the envy of their friends, the kids the others would swarm the following morning at school, pumping for reports about all theyd seen, especially the teenage recording star, what shed worn, what she sang, how she looked.

As the audience grew impatient, the stage was anch.o.r.ed into place and the crew erected three black tents behind it. That done, vans drove across the dirt-covered floor to stock the tents with equipment, props, and Ca.s.sidys wardrobe changes. Meanwhile, digging through the dirt to find electrical outlets, the crew plugged in the stage, powering its canopy ringed with spotlights. Less than half an hour after the rodeo compet.i.tion ended, the chants in the stadium built as the crowds cheered for Ca.s.sidy.

Someone pounded on the trailer door, followed by a gruff voice. "Were ready for Miss Collins, Lieutenant."

I opened the door and found Buckshot dressed in blue jeans, a plaid s.h.i.+rt, and his silver belly cowboy hat. "Youre our driver?" I asked.

"Thats my a.s.signment," Buckshot growled. "The captain said I should drop you ladies off at the stage and pick you up at the end of the show, or sooner if that Peterson kid makes a move and we need to evacuate the girl quick."

"Great," I said, thinking the captain had made a good choice. Having Buckshot behind the wheel made me relax a bit, but just a bit. The drama Ca.s.sidys life had been barreling toward would take place, good or bad, in the next two hours. Wed done all we could to stack the deck: two hundred cops dressed in plainclothes and carrying copies of Justin Petersons Texas drivers license photo. Their orders: shadow anyone who looked the least bit like the kid. If they thought they had a positive ID, call for backup before confronting the suspect and moving in to make the collar.

"Ca.s.sidy, lets go," I said. The kid bustled forward, sequins chattering, with Germaine on her tail, and we headed for the black limo parked directly outside the trailer. As we scurried inside, Buckshot scanned the horizon along with a ring of cops disguised as cowboys packing their gear. Moments later, Buckshot was behind the wheel. He drove through the stadium entrance, past the pens where the bulls, horses, steers, and calves queued up for each round of compet.i.tion, while inside the limo, there was silence and a fidgety, uncertain, chest-tightening anxiety that signaled the time had come.

We stopped smack dab in the middle of the stadium, and David opened the door and helped us out. He took my hand, gave me a quizzical look, and said, "Nice hair."

"Be careful," I said. "I know where you live."

He laughed. "Hey, all kidding aside," he said, suddenly serious. "Keep safe."

"You, too," I said, meaning it.

He nodded, and Ca.s.sidy turned back to yell at us before she ran onto the stage. "Sarah, remember, hes my brother. Dont hurt him. Okay?"

"Well do our best," I shouted above the high-pitched screams of the audience, a shrill, near-ear-splitting dissonance. "And were right here, with you."

Ca.s.sidy nodded, then turned and ran up the ramp onto the stage. Her band was already in place, playing a pulsing, heavy beat, and she jumped in on cue. As frightened as she must have been, the kid was a trooper, fueled by the cries of her fans and the prospect of discovering a long-lost brother, even if he saw her only as his quarry.

On the stage, Ca.s.sidy joined the dancers and the backup singers, while I followed Germaine into the first black tent. Jake, the sound guy, manned the mixer. Earlier that afternoon, with his help, our computer guys had easily found the chip Peterson inserted in Atlanta. But wed left it in place. For our plan to work, we needed Argus to believe he was the one in control.

I watched from the sidelines, hidden from the audience inside the sound tent as Ca.s.sidy performed on the stage. David stood beside me, as he had in Dallas. This time, however, we had more eyes than Argus, more than four hundred supplied by the two hundred officers, and we knew our preys ident.i.ty, a decided advantage. After the first number, Ca.s.sidy ran down the ramp and into the tent, where Germaine and the dressers waited. They went into high gear, peeling off her clothes and wiggling her into her next costume, a pair of skintight jeans that settled around her hips and a flirty sweater with holes over a white tank top.

"No sign?" she asked, as Germaine ran a brush through her hair, and picked up a tube of lipstick to repair the damage.

"No sign," I said. "Were watching. You just do your act, and well do the rest."

"Okay," she said, turning and quickly running back toward the stage where the dancers covered for her.

"Any reports?" David asked the captain on his walkie-talkie.

"Nothing," the captain said. "Were on full watch."

On the stage, Ca.s.sidy was on top of her game, roiling her fans into a near frenzy. Even without her golden coc.o.o.n, the kid was a sight to behold, dancing and singing, a smile as wide as her face, her long blond hair flying about her.

The concert proceeded without a glitch, as if it were any other night. There was no stopping the young superstar, as she went from song to song, carrying her fans with her. They sang along, many reciting every word. In between each set, Ca.s.sie ran back to the dressers and searched my eyes for hope that wed made a sighting and that we had the stalker we now believed was her disturbed brother in custody. David and I shook our heads, with no a.s.surances to give her. For more than an hour, she performed as she had many times before, putting every ounce of energy into each song. In the stands, the tens of thousands of girls sang along, waving their arms in the air as they held tiny pink flashlights and glowing pinwheels, making the stadium swim with waves of light.

"The kids actually pretty good," David said, during the final set. "Im kind of getting into this."

I gave him a sideways look and a smile. "Yeah, she is," I agreed. "Just dont start dancing. This isnt the time."

His eyes were focused on the audience, the stage, surveying the crowds, as we both had throughout the concert, but he laughed. "Seems to me we danced once, and I rather enjoyed it," he said.

"Seems to me we did more than that once, and I enjoyed it, too."

"Well, I do remember . . . ," he said, with a devilishly broad grin. Whatever else he planned to say was lost as his smile locked in place. His eyes focused on something in the distance, and I tracked them to the figure of a man in the front row, a heavyset guy with unruly dark hair, running toward an aisle, where a low gate led to the arena floor. The object of our attention fussed with the gate, then jumped over it, and David lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes to get a closer look.

"Is that Peterson?" I asked.

Without answering, David b.u.mped the captain on his walkie-talkie. "Section one-two-seven, first row, center, on the stadium floor and running," he said.

"About time," the captain said. "East center patrols move in. One-two-seven, center, on the ground and running."

Dozens of officers swarmed out of the audience toward section 127, but then, suddenly, the stadium lights flickered, blinking on, off, on again, then off. Over the loudspeaker Arguss voice came through loud and clear: "Ca.s.sidy, Im here for you. Im coming."

Fans screamed, and Reliant Stadium went dark. The generator kicked in and emergency aisle lights shone a bright gold, but stadium center, where Ca.s.sidy stood in disbelief staring out into the crowd, remained shrouded in shadow.

"Ill grab her," I said. "Call Buckshot and get the limo."

"Hes on his way," David called out, pointing at headlights hurrying toward us.

As David rushed forward toward the suspect, I sprinted onstage, where Ca.s.sidy stood transfixed. In Dallas, the prospect of Argus claiming her had terrified her, but now she looked expectant, hopeful. I grabbed the kid by the arm, and urged her to follow, pulling her off the stage, but she resisted.

"Hes here," she said. "My brothers here. He said hes coming. He wont hurt me. I just need to tell him who I am."

"No, Ca.s.sidy. You dont know how h.e.l.l react," I screamed. "Well talk to him later, after theyve got him. Now, follow me. Come on."

The limo pulled up, and I yanked the door open, stuffed the kid in, and jumped in beside her. The engine wound and the limo took off, throwing a U-turn and heading back to the north entrance.

"I need to talk to Justin. I need to find him," Ca.s.sidy cried out, reaching toward the door handle. Her hand got there before I could stop her, but the door didnt open. "Let me out. I need to find him."

I dont know what, but something didnt feel right. The gla.s.s privacy window, the one separating the rear of the limo from the driver, was up. I looked at the back of the drivers cowboy hat and thought of the last time Id seen Buckshot, when hed driven us into the stadium. A sense of dread flooded through me.

"This isnt right," I whispered.

"What?" Ca.s.sidy said. "Whats not right? Tell him to stop and unlock the d.a.m.n door. I want to go back."

"The black cowboy hats not right. Buckshots was regulation ranger, silver belly."

The limo tore out of the stadium through the north entrance, just as I spotted a second black limo, one with Buckshot standing beside it, tires flattened. My fellow ranger had his shotgun out, aiming at us. He looked like he wanted to shoot, maybe at the tires, like nothing would have made him happier, but there were so many folks around, workers and cowboys and their families, rus.h.i.+ng about, trying to get a glimpse at the chaos unfolding inside the stadium, that they blocked the shot. Unlike his renowned exploit with the rustler, this time Buckshot didnt pull the trigger. Instead, he ran toward a cowboy holding the reins of a horse, pushed the man aside, threw himself up onto the stallion, and took off in pursuit.

"Isnt that our driver?" Ca.s.sidy asked, as we sped away from him, toward the gates at the edge of the parking lot. In the distance waited the freeway.

"Yeah," I said.

At the wheel, the driver tramped on the gas pedal. Behind us, Buckshot urged the horse on, into a full gallop, like the limo careening around cars and folks on foot. But the limo was too fast and the horse had too much to overcome. Before long, Buckshot and his commandeered mount faded in the distance as the limo neared the parking-lot gate.

"Were jumping. Get ready," I said. I reached down, pulled up the locking pin on the door, and, as the limo slowed to take a sharp corner, grabbed the handle. It didnt budge. I tried again, kicking a the door with the thick heels on my cowboy boots, while the limo made a wide right turn out the gate and onto the freeway access road. Again, it stayed rigid, locked. No sense in a third try. No one could hear us scream. The film over the windows was so dark, no one could see us. We were trapped.

"Sarah, is it Justin? Wheres he taking us?" Ca.s.sidy asked in a small voice, a mixture of fear and excitement.

"I dont know," I whispered.

"Can he hear us?" Ca.s.sidy whispered.

"I dont know," I said. "Probably."

Immediately, Ca.s.sidy pounded with both fists on the privacy window. "Justin," she shouted. "Youre my brother. We figured this out. Youre my brother. Thats why youre stalking me, because you dont know, but youre my brother."

The limo sped through the darkness onto the 610 Loop, with no response from the driver. Ca.s.sidy pounded again, but this time her efforts were met by a sc.r.a.ping noise. As we watched, black metal s.h.i.+elds rose up from inside the window wells. Ca.s.sidy clawed at one, pus.h.i.+ng it down, but the metal was sharp, and she pulled away her fingers, bleeding. I grabbed my Colt .45 out of my holster and fired two rounds into a side window, as a sheet of black metal slowly slid up to cover it. The tempered gla.s.s shattered into thousands of irregular pieces with bullet holes at the center, but remained intact. I lay on my back and kicked with all the force I had, but before I could break through, the metal skin closed the gap.

I turned to shoot at the driver though the privacy window, but a metal s.h.i.+eld covered that as well.

A voice came over a speaker, one I recognized as Justin Petersons. "Thank you for joining us, Lieutenant Armstrong," he said. "I hardly recognized you at first, but its certainly an added bonus to have you here."

"Justin," Ca.s.sidy screamed. "Justin, youre my brother. My brother."

"Theres no use in attempting to escape," he said, as if he couldnt hear her. "Ive had plenty of time to outfit this limo and, as Im sure you realize by now, Im rather good mechanically and with technology."

"Mr. Peterson," I shouted. "Pull over and talk to us. We can explain all this. Its all a mistake."

"So I suggest you sit back and relax," he said, either not listening or choosing to ignore us. "The ride wont take long, and I think youll both be impressed by what I have planned."

Thirty-two.

Ca.s.sidy and I were entombed in the back of the limo, the doors locked and all the windows hidden behind metal s.h.i.+elds. We drove for fifteen minutes or so, the teenager resting against me, leaning on me for support. She was terrified, and so was I. I had my gun in my right hand and my left arm over her narrow shoulders, when I felt the car make an abrupt right turn then drive down what felt like a series of steep ramps. We wove around for a few minutes, and then the car stopped, and Peterson turned the engine off. It was quiet, and we waited. Judging by the little I saw as we left the stadium and the relatively short distance hed driven, I figured we were somewhere in downtown Houston, probably in an underground parking structure.

Most of the way, Id told myself help was following, trailing us from the stadium. Now, looking at it logically, I figured, probably not. The kid in the front row, the one David spotted, had to be a decoy planted to draw attention. By then, Peterson had let the air out of Buckshots tires, which gave him plenty of time, once he killed the lights, to drive into the stadium before David and the captain discovered they were chasing the wrong guy. By now, of course, they knew theyd been set up, but it was too late. We were gone. All Buckshot could tell them was that wed pealed onto the freeway.

We were on our own.

"Lieutenant, I need your gun," Peterson said. "Theres a small door on the right side, below the privacy window, that opens into a metal drawer. Put the gun in and close the door."

"Like h.e.l.l," I whispered.

Again, silence, and we waited. Ca.s.sidys body shuddered, and I held her tighter.

"I havent heard the door open. I a.s.sume that means youve decided not to cooperate," he said.

The girl had been silent, I figured too scared to speak, but this time, hearing her brothers voice, she sat up and pounded at the metal-skinned privacy window. Tears ran down her cheeks, but her voice remained strong, determined. "Justin, its me, Ca.s.sidy, but my real name is Angie. Im your sister," she screamed. "Please, roll the window down. We need to talk. Youre my brother."

Peterson continued on, in his calm, unconcerned tone.

"I need the gun, Lieutenant. While Im prepared to wait for it, I dont have unlimited time until your colleagues find us. So this is the situation," he said. "Do as I instructed, please. Open the door, put the gun inside, and close the door. Or, dont. And Ill kill you both right here, right now, in the backseat of this limo, then simply walk away."

"Sarah," Ca.s.sidy pleaded. "Give him the gun, so we can talk to him. h.e.l.l understand. Once he knows who I am, he wouldnt hurt us."

I put my index finger up to my lips and shushed her.

"Give me a minute," I said. She looked uncertain, but nodded. I looked about the backseat, wondering how he planned to kill us. Then, the more I thought about it, I figured that wasnt in the cards. Considering the situation, he wanted us alive. Hed planned for too long to finish us off so unceremoniously. Why pursue Cas-sidy for months and then dispatch her before he had all his fun? At least, that was my best guess, one I was staking both our lives on. If Peterson wanted my gun, hed have to come after it.

Ca.s.sidy sat so close to me, I felt her heart beating. I surveyed the headliner covering the inner roof and saw nothing. I inspected the privacy window area, acting like I was searching for the door. If Peterson wondered what I was doing, I hoped hed think I was trying to comply. What I actually had in mind was finding the camera. There had to be a camera. He had to be watching us. Hed want to see us, to increase his enjoyment of our suffering. No fun without the visuals. I spotted a small grate in an indentation near the roof, took my jack-knife out of my pocket, and used a blade to pry it open. As I suspected, I looked directly into a camera lens. I raised my right leg and kicked with my gray lizard-skin boot, smas.h.i.+ng the lens.

"Why did you do that?" Ca.s.sidy cried out. "h.e.l.l think he has to hurt us."

I shushed her again. I could tell it was a struggle for the kid. During our time together, shed begun trusting me. But I knew she figured I was dead wrong, that if I just did as Peterson instructed, we could talk to him and clear the whole thing up. Sounded comforting, but I still had my doubts.

"And I thought that perhaps youd oblige me," he said. "This is disappointing."