Act of Betrayal by Shirley Kennett Page B

in the bar with PJ—that someone was after him and had used his son’s death as the opening shot in a vicious game—had turned into the stomach-churning truth. He had dismissed that thought as paranoia until he heard the message on his answering machine, and the thought had sprung out like a hunting cat lying in wait. He was being targeted, indirectly at first, through his son and a girl who was a stranger, but that was bound to change. Whoever was after him wouldn’t hesitate to use his loved ones against him. They already had, in fact. That meant Julia was in certain danger. He had dealt with that with a phone call to her, setting in motion a plan they had discussed years ago. She had poked fun at the time, only five years into their marriage, and he had grown increasingly annoyed at her reluctance to take the possibility seriously.
    In his many years of detective work, Schultz had encountered some of the vilest misfits of society, and put a lot of them away in prison. But prison terms didn’t last forever, and inevitably some of those criminals walked the streets again. In most cases, long prison sentences had turned them into ineffectual old men with no fire in their bellies for revenge. But all it took was one. One son of a bitch who blamed Schultz for having the audacity to throw a kink into his criminal doings, and who carefully tended thoughts of vengeance over the years.
    As far as PJ was concerned, he thought he could keep her out of harm’s way, if she would just listen to him for a change.
    He wondered if he could do the same for himself.
    Schultz went to the departure gate, getting there just in time for boarding. He was on the second leg of his trip to anonymity, flying from Dallas to Philadelphia.
    His small carry-on bag seemed to pull at his arm. The weight of a child-size coffin and a family’s grief were packed inside, ever since his phone call with PJ when he learned about the death of Caroline Bussman.
    The flight attendant glanced at his boarding pass as he entered the airplane, smiled, and said, “Have a nice flight, Mr. Anderson.”
    He had a window seat. Trying to keep his breathing even and steady, he watched Dallas grow small beneath him. His chest hurt, and he thought he knew why.
    A hand had reached out from his past and was trying to squeeze the life from his heart.

Nine
    T HE AFTERNOON CRAWLED BY for PJ. She sat at her desk, enhancing her simulation and waiting for news, her mind busily constructing scenarios that would explain the conversation with Schultz. She had gotten through the remainder of lunch with Wall by hurriedly finishing her sandwich and then telling him that she was upset over the death of the girl and would appreciate being left alone for a few hours—things were moving too fast, she said, and she needed some time to catch up. He gave her an odd look, but accepted what she told him at face value. It was, as far as her memory served, the only time in her life that she had trotted out her “fragile feminine nature”—a fiction that some women keep on tap for situations they’d rather avoid. It probably wouldn’t have worked with anyone at the department except Wall, and she wasn’t even sure it had actually worked on him. He was probably just humoring her.
    The copies of the notes from Ginger were tacked on the corkboard on the wall directly in front of her. PJ wondered what the forensic handwriting analyst would have to say. She knew that the report might include insights into the personality of the writer, and even her state of mind at the time the notes were written. Interesting, and certainly a contribution to the psychological profile PJ would attempt to develop for Ginger, but not the crucial items she wanted to know. Age couldn’t be accurately determined by graphology, or left-handedness, or even, with absolute certainty, the sex of the writer. Nor could it snap a picture, which is what PJ really wanted: something solid to hold in her hands.
    PJ made a note