BUZZED on the table beside her bed, and Christa automatically reached with her left hand to shut it off. "Ow!" Gingerly she pulled the arm back. "What a way to wake up," she grumbled as she moved the cast back to its usual resting place on her stomach. She used her right hand to silence the annoying buzz.
Six p.m., she noted as she stretched. Kirk would probably be here soon. She needed to be fully alert as she told him about the mystery words and numbers. The better to fend off Kirk Reynolds' certain anger.
Christa eased herself out of bed and padded to the kitchen. The short nap made her feel almost human and her arm no longer throbbed. She poured herself some cold orange juice, savoring the tangy flavor and enjoying the boost it gave her. The knock on the door startled her and she dropped the empty glass, which shattered on the floor. "Just a minute," she called as she surveyed the mess. She might be able to sweep it into a pile, but using a dust pan would be a two-hand job. "Nuts."
As she opened the door, Christa remembered she hadn't even combed her hair. "Come on in," she said, suddenly self-conscious.
"Did I hear glass breaking?" Kirk asked as she looked around the living room.
"In the kitchen," Christa said, exasperation creeping into her voice. She despised not being able to do things for herself. "Could you do me a favor and sweep it up?"
"Sure. Just point me toward the broom." She did, and excused herself for a moment. In the bathroom, Christa looked at her disheveled hair and pale face. Oh well, Kirk Reynolds was the last person she would try to impress. Hair combed and lipstick on, she did feel better.
Kirk stood in the living room surveying her book shelves. He turned as she entered. "I think I got all the pieces. Better make sure you wear shoes in the kitchen for awhile. Unless," he grinned, "you want another trip to the emergency room."
"No thanks," Christa said, with exaggerated politeness. She picked up the page from the table by the couch. "You might want to sit down while you look at this," she said, extending it to him.
Kirk regarded the letters and numbers for a moment and looked at her again. "Did you write this in some kind of delirium?"
"No." Christa sat near him on the sofa. "I printed it from the kidnapper's computer."
Kirk's said up straight, fury flooding his features. "You copied...Do they know you have this?"
"I don't see how. The file was protected in some way so I couldn't transfer it to a CD or flash drive." She spoke quickly, trying to reassure herself. "They would have no way to tell that I figured out a way to print it."
His features relaxed slightly, but the anger was still evident. "Christa, you have got to leave the police investigation to me. Look what happens," he gestured to her arm, "when you get yourself involved."
"And what if I had stayed 'uninvolved,' as you put it? We wouldn't have any leads except checking every store in town where they sell ski masks. Don't you want to catch these men?"
"You know full well I do." He stood and strode to the opposite end of the room and looked out the small dining room window.
Christa watched his brow grow more furrowed. He seemed to have taken his thoughts to another place altogether. What could worry him so? Amy was safe and the thieves, whoever they were and whatever they were interested in, didn't know Christa knew what was in the special file.
He turned back to her. "These are not amateurs we're dealing with. I compared the ballistics tests on the bullets someone shot at you Saturday night with those that killed Chas Johnson, the guy whose fingerprints were inside the case of one of the computers." He paused.
"What are you trying to tell me?" she asked.
"I'm 99 percent sure the same gun fired those bullets. The people who wanted your classroom computers are murderers."
Christa leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes. Why was it that every time she got a little scared or worried she felt so much blood rush to her
Six p.m., she noted as she stretched. Kirk would probably be here soon. She needed to be fully alert as she told him about the mystery words and numbers. The better to fend off Kirk Reynolds' certain anger.
Christa eased herself out of bed and padded to the kitchen. The short nap made her feel almost human and her arm no longer throbbed. She poured herself some cold orange juice, savoring the tangy flavor and enjoying the boost it gave her. The knock on the door startled her and she dropped the empty glass, which shattered on the floor. "Just a minute," she called as she surveyed the mess. She might be able to sweep it into a pile, but using a dust pan would be a two-hand job. "Nuts."
As she opened the door, Christa remembered she hadn't even combed her hair. "Come on in," she said, suddenly self-conscious.
"Did I hear glass breaking?" Kirk asked as she looked around the living room.
"In the kitchen," Christa said, exasperation creeping into her voice. She despised not being able to do things for herself. "Could you do me a favor and sweep it up?"
"Sure. Just point me toward the broom." She did, and excused herself for a moment. In the bathroom, Christa looked at her disheveled hair and pale face. Oh well, Kirk Reynolds was the last person she would try to impress. Hair combed and lipstick on, she did feel better.
Kirk stood in the living room surveying her book shelves. He turned as she entered. "I think I got all the pieces. Better make sure you wear shoes in the kitchen for awhile. Unless," he grinned, "you want another trip to the emergency room."
"No thanks," Christa said, with exaggerated politeness. She picked up the page from the table by the couch. "You might want to sit down while you look at this," she said, extending it to him.
Kirk regarded the letters and numbers for a moment and looked at her again. "Did you write this in some kind of delirium?"
"No." Christa sat near him on the sofa. "I printed it from the kidnapper's computer."
Kirk's said up straight, fury flooding his features. "You copied...Do they know you have this?"
"I don't see how. The file was protected in some way so I couldn't transfer it to a CD or flash drive." She spoke quickly, trying to reassure herself. "They would have no way to tell that I figured out a way to print it."
His features relaxed slightly, but the anger was still evident. "Christa, you have got to leave the police investigation to me. Look what happens," he gestured to her arm, "when you get yourself involved."
"And what if I had stayed 'uninvolved,' as you put it? We wouldn't have any leads except checking every store in town where they sell ski masks. Don't you want to catch these men?"
"You know full well I do." He stood and strode to the opposite end of the room and looked out the small dining room window.
Christa watched his brow grow more furrowed. He seemed to have taken his thoughts to another place altogether. What could worry him so? Amy was safe and the thieves, whoever they were and whatever they were interested in, didn't know Christa knew what was in the special file.
He turned back to her. "These are not amateurs we're dealing with. I compared the ballistics tests on the bullets someone shot at you Saturday night with those that killed Chas Johnson, the guy whose fingerprints were inside the case of one of the computers." He paused.
"What are you trying to tell me?" she asked.
"I'm 99 percent sure the same gun fired those bullets. The people who wanted your classroom computers are murderers."
Christa leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes. Why was it that every time she got a little scared or worried she felt so much blood rush to her
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