by Meg Gardiner
He worked speedily. He had it down now.
Despite his pounding heart, his dry mouth, the excitement, the purity, the righteous vengeance of it, the incredible, liberating rage of it, he worked efficiently in the dark, kneeling on the bed, knife digging. His gloved fingers found the rounds. Clock on the nightstand said 12:37 a.m. He mined the bullet from the man’s body, and the woman’s, and he slipped them into his pocket. 12:41 a.m. He opened the bedroom door and walked down the hall, wondering why he hadn’t heard a single sound from the children. Maybe they’d barricaded themselves in their room.
In the living room, he stopped. The blinds were up and gave him a clear view of the neighborhood outside. All around, lights blazed. At the house next door. Across the street, every house—porchlights, front windows shining. Dogs barked.
He glanced over his shoulder at the parents’ room. Their window was open. That was on him. He’d found it unlocked, climbed in silently, and left it wide. He had wanted the cold breeze to provide a hint, a tickle, wanted it to wake the mommydaddy for a last sensory moment of confusion before he clarified things. Mistake. The open window meant the neighborhood had heard the gunfire.
He stalked back down the hall, gun hanging from his hand. In his pocket, the bullets that had canceled the parents clacked against each other. Such power, so hot, all his. Stopping at the door to what had to be the children’s room, he grabbed the knob.
Locked. He stepped back to kick it down.
Outside, flashlights. Running across the street in this direction. The glowing blue rectangles of phone screens. Voices.
He ducked into the living room again to peer out the front window. Far side of the hill, the flash of blue lights. Cops. And the mob. They were coming.
The kids’ door remained closed. Right there, like a taste, a lure, an unblemished meal just ripe for his teeth. More lights outside. He grabbed a Christmas stocking, ducked back down the hall, and climbed out the parents’ window. He ran across the backyard, scaled the fence, and sprinted for the car. More blue lights, red too, hitting the fence, the lights arriving as the same time as the storm, cops and rain both pouring down.
Evie Stevens heard the ocean. Thought she did. That sound was what woke her, maybe. She was still half in her dream, and could be it was the ocean, because her house was a quarter mile from the beach and in Torrance, in the middle of the night when the wind was blowing the right way, you could hear it sometimes, the surf purring onto the sand. She hated waking up in the middle of the night. Especially on a Saturday, her first night of winter break, no eighth-grade math or history for two weeks, no first-period gym class when it was freakin’ fifty degrees outside, practically Antarctica. Just her warm bed and sleeping in till whenever and vacation.
She rolled over. Fumbled for her phone on the floor by the bed and squinched one eye open. 1:26 a.m. Ugh.
She dropped the phone and nestled deeper into the covers. She couldn’t hear the ocean now that she was awake. But she heard the rain. Splashing on the roof and patio outside the french doors.
She heard the rain, and she smelled it. Wet fabric. Or fur.
Double ugh—had Churro been out, then nudged his way into her room, soppy and reeking of wet dog? She felt something move at the foot of the bed. Ughhhh …
Evie tossed off the duvet and propped herself up on her elbows. “Churro …”
She blinked twice. Her eyes popped wide. And she froze, like a clear stake of ice.
It wasn’t the dog. She was staring at something bigger.
At the foot of her bed, etched around the edges by dim light coming through the french doors, was a figure in a hoodie. Face nothing but an empty space in the darkness. The wet fabric smell was coming from him. Sweatshirt, jeans.
He was crouched on the balls of his feet, like a gargoyle, breathing on her.
Evie screamed.
She screamed, no dream, real, the sound filling her head, and she scrambled. Backward, crablike, but the headboard was there, and the screaming and the rain were all she could hear. The sheets tangled around her legs and she tried to spin and get out of the bed.
He launched.
She spun and her hands hit the floor, her feet still tangled in the sheets, kicking, pumping, her fingers clawing the carpet to move, get away …
The figure, the shape—Midnight Man, oh my God—landed on top of her, and then he was on his feet, hauling her off the bed by her waist, and she kept screaming, and Dad was upstairs, the house a split level, but he had to hear her—somebody had to hear her. She couldn’t get her feet on the ground, was clawing at the air, and the man, wet man, strong, light, holding her. But he couldn’t stop her screaming.
Then he could. He whipped the lamp off the nightstand and wrapped the cord around her neck. The plug ripped from the wall in a spray of sparks. All at once the rubber cord was a garrote, choking her, and no sounds came out. She grabbed at it, but he was dragging her out the french doors, the cold rain hitting her in the eyes as she thrashed, her feet slipping on the concrete of the patio, past the mini soccer net to the gate, she could see the side gate was open.
The cord was impossibly tight, strangling her. She couldn’t get her fingers under it, it was wet now, slippery, and he was dragging her by it, along the walk into the front yard. She couldn’t, omigod, couldn’t breathe. They passed beneath the spreading branches of the Monterey pine and the rain briefly eased and she saw a dark vehicle parked at the curb.
Evie couldn’t let him get her in the car.
But she had to breathe—had to, had to—and she clawed and pulled and couldn’t get the cord loose.
Stop trying to. Go for him instead.
She flung her arms over her head and grabbed at his neck, his face. Scratching and clawing.
He flinched. Growled, “Stupid pig.”
She dug her nails into flesh. Her vision was spiked with stars. Dig, hurt, don’t stop, damage him, make him let go. But she couldn’t breathe. It was agony. It was going away, all of it, if he got her in that car. And the only sound she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears, all she could see was flying yellow stars, all she could smell was the wet, the man’s breath, the grass beneath her feet.
Until she heard something else. Immeasurably distant, dim, like hearing a cannon boom from beneath the entire weight of the ocean.
Barking.
Dim, everything dim, even the stars turning red and being swallowed by the black. But the barking. Then the Midnight Man pulling harder, running, and then, abruptly, no more. He dropped her.
Evie hit the grass in the rain, almost gone. Fumbled at the lamp cord. Pulled, crazily, and unwrapped it. She gasped. A huge, gulping breath. Another.
She rolled. Got up, and grabbed the lamp, backing up, ready to swing it. She tried to scream but all she could do was keep gasping. Till the stars receded and the night, the yard, reality, reappeared.
The Midnight Man was on his knees on the sidewalk. He’d been knocked down.
Churro was on him. The family dog had burst through the french doors in Evie’s bedroom and chased him down. Sweet Churro, their Doberman. Evie staggered back, the rain plastering her face.
The Midnight Man kicked free, clambered to his feet, and ran. With Churro chasing him, he careened toward the dark SUV parked on the street. Behind Evie, the lights in the house came on. The Midnight Man fled.
29
Caitlin’s phone sang on the nightstand, beetling in a circle. The thrum woke her from twilight sleep. She rolled, stabbing for the phone, eyes sliding open to see her hotel room, skyscraper lights spangling the night outside. She was on top of the covers in her clothes.
cj emmerich, the screen read. The bedside clock, a stinging red, registered 1:34 a.m. Caitlin jammed the phone to her ear and tried not to sound anything less than completely alert.
“Boss.”
“He struck. Sh
eriff’s deputies are in pursuit. We’re joining.”
She was on her feet before he could end the call.
She ran down the stairs, forcing herself to complete wakefulness, needing to be fully engaged, and slammed through the fire door into the hotel parking garage to see Rainey emerge from the elevator. Brianne’s face was iron. Warrior focus. Mother wolf intensity. Hunt an UNSUB who destroyed families? Rainey would end him, without mercy.
Caitlin held up the keys. They ran to the Suburban. As they climbed in, tires squealed and Emmerich rounded the corner.
He braked in front of them. “Sheriff’s dispatcher will vector us. I’ll lead.”
He pulled away sharply. Caitlin fired up the engine and followed him out of the garage, buckling her seat belt as she steered one-handed. Emmerich lit the Suburban’s flashing light strip on the windshield. Caitlin followed suit. The rain hit them, loud and hard.
“You have the Sheriff’s Department radio frequency?” Caitlin said.
Rainey nodded and dialed it in. “Thought it never rained in LA. You like wet roads?”
“Born to them.”
Water sheeted across the windshield. Caitlin flipped on the wipers and accelerated, even as Emmerich pulled away.
“All I got is that the Midnight Man struck again,” she said.
“Two dead in El Segundo, man and woman. Children unharmed. Gunfire drew the neighbors’ attention, and the UNSUB ran before he could terrorize the kids.” Rainey dialed the radio. “He struck again forty-five minutes later in Torrance, seven miles south.”
“He hit twice tonight. In under an hour.”
“Attacked a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“Fourteen.” Caitlin turned to gape at Rainey. “The girl. Dead?”
“Alive. Family dog tore after the UNSUB. He ran.”
“Hell yeah, dog.” The windshield wipers slapped back and forth. “The UNSUB didn’t recon thoroughly.” She shook her head. “He ignored the parents and physically attacked the daughter. And absolutely smashed his previous age barrier.”
“There may have been no overt signs that the home had a dog. But this was a slipup. I think he was still in a pressurized mental state after his initial attack tonight.”
“Because he wasn’t able to complete his ritual at the first crime scene.”
“The neighbors interrupted him,” Rainey said. “Spoiled his script halfway through the fantasy.”
Ahead, partially obscured by the deluge and tire spray, Emmerich tapped the brakes and took a sharp corner. Caitlin followed. On the radio, chatter ramped up. The flat tone of the dispatcher’s voice belied the urgency of the information she was relaying. The interjections from deputies in pursuit were terse and strained.
Caitlin’s voice turned brusque. “Assaulting an eighth grader. Forty-five minutes between attacks. The escalation is insane.”
Rainey turned up the radio. Caitlin heard cross talk and the words black Jeep.
“Jeep. Hannah Guillory pegged it,” Caitlin said.
Rainey phoned Emmerich and put the call on speaker. “CJ—details on the pursuit and the UNSUB’s vehicle?”
Caitlin raced up a freeway onramp behind him, bottoming out. Emmerich’s voice came through tinny but cool.
“Torrance attack, the girl was dragged onto the family’s front lawn. She described him getting into a dark, late model SUV,” he said. “Her father jumped into his car and gave chase.”
“Oh, man,” Caitlin said.
On the southbound freeway, traffic was sparse, five lanes wide open in front of them. Sodium lights picketed past, furry in the rain.
“The father couldn’t get close enough to the suspect’s vehicle to read a plate number or specify the model but kept it in sight as the UNSUB made it to Pacific Coast Highway and headed east. The father was a couple blocks back but the road’s straight, and he was on the phone with 911. He got Torrance PD and LA Sheriff’s deputies to join the pursuit.”
Rainey held onto the dash as they took a bend. “Still no positive ID on the make, or the plate? Air support?”
“Negative on all three. Sheriff’s air division is grounded. Weather.”
The two Suburbans ate up the roadway, center lane, flying past traffic. Under the whap of the wipers and the spray ahead, Emmerich’s tail lights were blurry.
“How long as the pursuit been in progress?” Caitlin said.
“Eleven minutes.”
In some places that would be a long time. In Southern California, where pursuits could last an hour and span counties, eleven minutes was nothing.
Rainey had a tablet, and brought up a navigation app. It took her a minute to mark some waypoints and pull up a diagram of the pursuit so far.
“Eight, nine minutes in residential neighborhoods and on surface streets,” she said. “But he jumped on the 405 sixty seconds ago.”
The 405 freeway—that was good news and bad news. Good because pursuing officers could more easily keep a target vehicle in sight on a freeway, and because their vehicles frequently had more horsepower than the suspect’s. Their top speed was likely higher than his. Bad because freeway speeds meant that any crash could be catastrophic.
“How far to the junction?” Caitlin said.
“Four miles.”
Caitlin kept her grip firm, her foot heavy on the gas, sticking to Emmerich’s tail. She was trained in advanced pursuit and emergency driving. She had years on wet Bay Area streets as a patrol officer. And the last time she’d engaged in a high-speed pursuit was when she chased a convenience store robber in Alameda. She knew the risks.
Not just the risk that a fleeing suspect might turn on pursuers with deadly force. Across the nation, on average, somebody died because of a police pursuit every day. Sometimes it was the suspect. Sometimes it was a crime victim or bystander. Sometimes a cop.
Over the radio, fresh reports came in from deputies and the dispatcher: A crazed driver was running motorists off the road. Black SUV, white guy at the wheel.
The dispatcher. “Be advised, suspect vehicle has exited the 405. Heading east on Norcross Avenue.”
Rain obscured Caitlin’s view. Ahead of her, Emmerich barreled along.
“Suspect sighted heading northeast on Willowbrook Boulevard, one mile north of the 91 freeway.”
Rainey zoomed in on her navigation app. “Emmerich, do you see the interception route?”
Flashing blue lights surrounded Emmerich’s Suburban like a strobing aura. Caitlin was pushing eighty-five. Emmerich came back, curt.
“We can cut him off.”
“I’ll call it in.” Rainey radioed their location to the dispatcher and other cars in pursuit. “Repeat, two FBI vehicles are inbound, heading south on the 110. We will vector east to get ahead of the suspect and cut him off.”
They roared past a fuel tanker and swept off the freeway onto slick surface streets.
A suburban area, strip malls, golf courses, tall banks of trees and sound walls that butted up against the freeway. Stoplights. Streets that, while nearly empty, were pocked by dumpsters and parked vehicles and overhanging trees that blocked the view. Cross traffic.
The road curved. The dispatcher reported a traffic accident south of them—two cars had collided when they swerved to avoid a black SUV running a red light.
“That’s only a quarter mile away,” Rainey said. “We’re gaining. We’re ahead of the interception point.”
They passed a city park. When the trees gave way to telephone poles and auto dealerships, they saw, through the rain, several blocks southwest, a tsunami of flashing lights. It was moving, paralleling their track.
“Go, go,” Emmerich said.
Caitlin jammed the pedal to the floor.
The dispatcher. “Suspect reported one block east of Rio Verde Avenue, heading northeast. He has entered a residential neighborhood and cu
t around several corners at high speed.”
Rainey zoomed on the map. “He’s pulled away from the units in pursuit. Those flashing lights are way behind him. Quarter mile. But we’re not. We’re still on course to make the interception point.”
“He got off the freeway ASAP. He’s trying to break visual contact with the pursuing vehicles. He knows that’s how to lose the cops.” She cut a glance at Rainey. “Officer’s son. Hundred percent.”
Caitlin gripped the wheel. Emmerich was sixty yards ahead, swallowed by the spray from his tires. To the south the bubble of flashing lights grew brighter.
Emmerich’s voice came over Rainey’s phone. “Three more blocks, cut right.”
There was a traffic light ahead of him, green.
“Roger,” Caitlin said.
Rainey stared at the nav app. “We’ll cut through a park, come out in a residential neighborhood, if we’re lucky we’ll get to an intersection in time to block it. Hem him in with the Sheriff’s closing from behind.”
“Got it,” Caitlin said. “You have the conn. Tell me where to park it.”
Emmerich arrowed through the green light, Caitlin right behind.
“Hundred yards,” Rainey said.
They were going ninety. Caitlin eased off the gas. Emmerich pulled away, then his brake lights came on. The rain turned to sheets.
Barely visible under the curtain of water, headlights appeared from a side street. A car pulled out in front of Emmerich.
Caitlin didn’t have time to gasp. Emmerich had no time at all. He swerved.
Caitlin hit the brakes. The car from the side street was directly ahead, a goblin-black compact that might as well have been invisible, on a roadway slick with oil and pounding rain.
“God,” she said.
Emmerich’s tires lost grip. Going at least fifty, he hydroplaned across the roadway.
Caitlin gasped. “No—”
Emmerich’s Suburban spun one-eighty, scrubbing speed. Almost made it. Squealing backward, it vaulted the curb and hit a telephone pole.