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What the hell?
I recognized the face of the man in the photo. It was Fake Elliott Thompson.
I picked up the newspaper and stared at the photo in astonishment. The headline readfournette labs picks new ceo, and the clipping was dated September 27, 1998. The caption identified the man at the end as Denver Mortensen, head of security at Fournette Laboratories.
Fake Elliott Thompson is Denver Mortensen?
I put the puzzle pieces together, filling in the picture. I had thought Fake Elliott Thompson/Denver Mortensen was connected to Runstan, but he must have been connected to Fournette Laboratories. The thugs hadn’t been hired by Stan, but by thedrug company. They hadn’t been after me because of John, they’d been after me because ofGabby.
My God.My mind raced. My chest went tight. I realized that somebody at Fournette Labs must have wanted to stop Gabby and me because of the Holmesburg lawsuit.
My thoughts flew ahead in horror. Mortensen had tried to killJohn when he met Lemaire at Dutton Run Park. Mortensen must have mistaken John for Gabby. Both drove black Range Rovers. It had been hard to see in the dark and the downpour.
Mortensen was still out there. He would want to finish the job. Gabby was in mortal peril. Mortensen’s last chance was the press conference.
I jumped in the car and hit the gas.
Chapter Fifty-Four
I zoomed out of the driveway. I had to call Gabby and warn her. I reached for my phone. I remembered it was out of battery.
I plugged it in the charger at speed, almost swerving out of the lane. But traffic was light and I knew I wouldn’t hurt anybody. If a cop tried to pull me over, he’d have to chase me to the press conference. I wasn’t stopping for anybody.
I kept a hand on the steering wheel. My speed went to sixty, then seventy on streets with a forty-miles-per-hour limit. I steered around cars, vans, and SUVs.
I pressed the button to call Gabby and held the phone to my ear.
The phone rang and rang. She didn’t pick up.
I scrolled to the text function, hitdictate, and sent her a text.Call me emergency
A blue text bubble popped onto the screen:I’m driving with my notifications silenced…
No!I hit Route 202 and accelerated to eighty, then eighty-five. The road rumbled. The asphalt was smooth. My hand gripped the wheel, steady.
I tried to think who else to contact. Martin. I scrolled to his number and called. I let it ring and ring, then hung up. He must have been in surgery. He wasn’t easy to reach but he always called back. But I knew it would be too late.
I zoomed ahead on Route 202, weaving in and out of lanes. I tried to accelerate but the car shuddered, underpowered. If I were in the Maserati, I’d have been there yesterday.
I called my mother. She could reach Gabby. I held the phone to my ear. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail.
I called my father. It rang, then I remembered the FBI had seized his phone.
I thought fast. My parents would be at the office. I started to call the main number, then remembered I unplugged the phone yesterday.
I called 911, a Hail Mary pass. As soon as the call connected, I said, “Hello, emergency, I’m calling because my sister’s life is in danger and—”
“Sir,” the dispatcher said calmly. “Please let me have your name and address.”
I told her. “But it’s not about me, it’s about my sister, she’s at Hessian Post Plaza off of Route 202, giving a press conference. I’m on my way there—”
“Excuse me, sir. Are you with your sister at this time?”
“No, but someone’s going to kill her. It’s part of a conspiracy and this guy is a killer—”
“Sir, if this is a joke and—”
“It’s not, I swear. You have to believe me. Send the cops to Hessian Post Plaza.”
