Read Time of Departure for Free Online Page B

it’s money you want—!”
    â€œMoney?… Fucking bitch! Don’t even recognize me, do ya?” Thick fingers grabbed my chin and twisted my face toward him. He pushed close, breathing his fumes straight up my nostrils. “Look at me!” he yelled. “Look at me!”
    â€œI think I recognize you.” I forced calm into my voice. “I don’t remember your name. I’m sorry. I get a lot of cases.”
    He released my face. “Bitch!” The point of the knife pressed harder against the skin of my throat. “Five years in Starke, fighting off the cornholers, and all I am is some fucking number to you?” He switched the knife to his left hand. He twisted my ignition key. The engine started. “Now … drive !”
    I put my left hand on the wheel. He relaxed slightly but kept the knife in position. I shifted my right hand toward the gearshift, moving slowly so he wouldn’t cut my throat, but also trying to delay while my mind raced, attempting to work out what to do. I was pretty strong for my size, and I’d taken some self-defense training, but I knew I was no match for this brute in such a small space. He outweighed me by a good seventy-five pounds.
    My right hand collided with his thigh. “You’ll have to move if you want me to put the car in gear,” I said, using as reasonable a tone as I could muster.
    He shifted his leg.
    At that instant, there was a flash of movement in my side-view mirror, and the passenger door flew open. Strong hands seized my attacker and yanked him violently out of the car.
    I kicked my own door open and dived for the pavement. As I gathered myself to get up and run, I heard the impact of a blow hitting flesh. Peering under my car, I saw two pairs of feet facing each other. There was a cracking sound, a grunt of pain, and my attacker’s knife dropped to the ground.
    I lurched to my feet, ready to sprint for the lobby of the apartment building, just in time to see the same older man who’d been watching me in the courtroom drive my assailant’s head into the tailgate of a nearby pickup. There was a sickening crunch, and the man disappeared from view.
    I inched around my car. My assailant was lying on the pavement. The older man was kneeling next to him. He seemed to be checking his vitals.
    Evidently satisfied with his investigations, my rescuer stood up. “You’re okay?”
    I felt my throat and examined my fingers. No blood. “Yeah,” I said shakily.
    He yanked a cell phone out of his pocket. He thumbed a number, listened, and then started talking. “My name is Marc Hastings. I’m standing in the parking lot at Collingwood Towers. Some creep just attacked Claire Talbot … that’s right, your prosecutor.” He listened, his eyes locked on mine. “No, she’s fine. Just a bit shaken up. But her attacker’s going to need an ambulance.… Yes, of course. Thank you.” He disconnected.
    I looked at him. Harrison Ford, Annie had called him. Maybe. This old guy sure had the moves. Then I was struck by another thought:
    This time, when my body had told me something was going to happen … it did .
    *   *   *
    I sat in the front passenger seat of the squad car as Detective Sergeant Jeff Geiger made his notes. My savior, Marc Hastings, whose name I had first learned when he made the 911 call, was sitting behind me.
    I’d met Geiger several times over the years. He was in his late thirties, fresh faced, and dress-down cool … or so he thought. I still hadn’t made up my mind about the man. My senses always told me to be wary of him, but I’d never worked out why.
    A uniformed officer sauntered toward us. Behind him, paramedics were loading my assailant into the ambulance. The officer passed a card to Geiger through the open driver’s-side window. “Guy’s a parolee.”
    Geiger studied the card. He