Chapter 92

Sundays in Oak Knoll were days for music. A concert by the McAster Chorale, chamber music on the Plaza downtown, a student playing the Spanish guitar in the bookstore.

Mark Foster had gathered his honors brass quintet at the old Episcopalian church for a special preview of the upcoming winter festival.

The pews were nearly full. Cultural activities were always well attended in Oak Knoll. Between the academic community of McAster and the large population of white-collar retirees, no performance of any kind went lacking for an audience.

The quintet was in the middle of “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” when Hicks and Mendez walked into the back of the church with a pair of uniformed deputies. The deputies made their way up the outside aisles. Mendez and Hicks walked up the center aisle and stood politely, waiting for the song to end.

Foster turned to bow to the crowd’s applause. His face dropped at the sight of them. The deputies came in from the sides.

“What’s going on here?” Foster asked.

Mendez stepped forward. “Mark Foster, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Gina Kemmer. You have the right to remain silent—”

Foster went chalk white and looked at the deputy approaching him with handcuffs.

“Don’t run,” Mendez warned him. “Don’t do it.”

But like any cornered animal, Foster’s strongest instinct was flight.

People in the audience gasped and shrieked as he bolted to the left of Hicks and dashed for a side door. Mendez sprinted after him, catching him by the back of the collar as he got the door open, and running him through the door and face-first into a stone pillar.

Slapping his own cuffs on Foster—now sporting broken glasses, a broken nose, and a split lip—he said, “I told you not to run.”

Vince was waiting for them in the interview room. He had made himself at home with a cup of coffee, a couple of file folders, a notepad he was scribbling on when they came in the door.

He glanced up at Foster over the top of his reading glasses.

“Mr. Foster,” he said, standing up and offering his hand—reminding Foster he was still in cuffs. “Vince Leone.”

“Mr. Foster had it in his head he might outrun me,” Mendez said, depositing Foster on a chair.

Vince frowned. “Oooh ... never run, Mr. Foster. It makes you look guilty.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Then why did you run?” Vince asked, taking his seat. “See how that works?”

“I’m being harassed.”

“No, I believe you’re being arrested. Which will follow with being booked and fingerprinted and deposited in the county jail.”

He made a couple of notes, referred back a few pages, took his glasses off and set them aside.

“Gina Kemmer regained consciousness this afternoon.”

“That’s good news,” Foster said.