by Steven James
“Just to the bathroom, OK!”
As she walked away she heard Officer Muncey mumble, “I thought I was done babysitting when I got out of high school.” She whispered the words, but Tessa heard her. She heard every syllable.
Tessa locked the bathroom door and pulled the razor blade out of her purse.
I turned on my flashlight. Leapt to my feet. Scanned the room.
He was gone.
Lien-hua was down.
“Lien-hua!” I ran to her.
She stirred. Rubbed her head. “Blindsided me,” she muttered. Her eyes slowly came into focus. He’d just knocked her down. That was all. “But I got two kicks in first.”
She’d had less than a second. Two kicks? Amazing.
“I heard a shot,” I said.
“It wasn’t me.”
I turned around. The window was shattered. I had no visual on the suspect. “He’s mobile. I repeat, the subject is mobile,” I yelled into my mic.
Did he get past me?
Alice!
I ran back to the bathroom. “Alice?”
“Did you get him?” her voice quavered.
“We’re going to.”
She stared at me from the shower, fully clothed, a bulletproof vest on. All part of the plan. Lien-hua had staged the shower, slipped into the bedroom to lure him out. At least Alice’s kids weren’t here; that was good. Federal protection. She’d be joining them in a few minutes. I heard shots fired outside and made it to the window just in time to see a dark form leap over a fence three houses away and disappear. Someone lay facedown in the backyard. A police officer.
“Officer down!” I yelled. We were ready to contain the killer, had roadblocks in place around the whole neighborhood, but I hadn’t expected him to move so quickly.
“Suspect heading south along Virginia Street,” somebody said. “Any word?” I yelled into my mic patch. “Anybody?” I heard shouts and confused voices. Then Wallace’s voice: “Cherokee Avenue heading west.”
He’s left-handed . . . Left-handed subjects tend to turn right when fleeing, but when they meet an obstacle, they move to their left . . .
Wait, he would know that.
“Get to the fence,” I hollered. “Suspect will head west through the field, then north at the fence. Cut him off. I repeat, west then north.”
A voice came back. “Unit three in pursuit.”
I ran to the bedroom window and stared out across the neighborhood, trying to orient myself to the landscape again, to map out the streets and overlay them against the topography. “All units on the perimeter,” I said, “suspect is male, white, six foot one, two-hundred pounds, wearing black pants, black sweatshirt. Armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme care.”
If only there were square city blocks here. It would be so much easier to contain him.
“Get to Richmond Avenue,” I yelled. “He’ll be heading for the strip of woods running south by southeast. Hurry. If he gets to the subdivision beyond the river, there’ll be too many places for him to hide. Hold your positions. Control all exits.”
I stared out across the street, saw the outlet roads being shut down by our roadblock, saw the string of slowing taillights as the streets leading into and out of the subdivision were sealed off. A few police cars raced to the scene, an ambulance flashed by and then nudged through the roadblock, bringing help to the injured officer lying on the lawn. Just then, the helicopters came roaring in. Too late. Everything was too late.
Still no electricity. “Can we get these lights on?” I yelled. I heard the shuffle of feet as some officers headed to the circuit breaker. Then Dante’s voice in my ear. “He’s not here. It’s like he disappeared into thin air.”
I smashed my fist into the wall.
Ralph burst through the door.
“He made it to the subdivision,” I muttered. “We can search house to house, but there are too many places for him to hide in there. My guess is we lost him.”
Ralph began filling the room with curses. “What happened to these lights?”
I shook my head. “He must have used a small electromagnetic pulse device. Maybe planted it in the dining room or connected it to the security alarm on his way in. He had the trigger hidden beside his ear.”
I heard an officer from the living room. “I’ve got it, right here!” “A trigger by his ear?” said Lien-hua.
Someone must have found the breaker; the lights came back on again.
“It’s not that uncommon,” I said. “Suicide bombers sometimes thread a detonator cord up their shirt and tape it to the back of their neck or hide it behind their ear so if they’re told to put their hands on their head they can still detonate their device. I shouldn’t have let him move his hands in close like that.”
He got away. Again.
He was ready for us.
Ralph turned to Lien-hua. “You OK?”
“I’m fine.” She kicked the closet door with a yell, splitting it in half. Her voice was on fire. “We had him. I can’t believe he got away!”
Ralph was admiring her work on the door. “Nice kick.”
I glanced out the window. “Thank God that officer was wearing a bulletproof vest.” One of the paramedics was helping her to her feet, leading her to the ambulance.
“All right, people, listen,” Ralph shouted to the pack of officers now entering the house. “We go door to door. Let’s move!”
72
Monday
October 27, 2008
Asheville, North Carolina
7:51 a.m.
I shoved my suitcase into the backseat of the car next to my climbing gear and stared up at the methodical gray slabs sliding across the sky. Dark continents hanging from heaven. The temperature hovered right around freezing; the air was wet and heavy. Freezing rain—or maybe even snow—was on its way.
Here’s what I knew:
(1) I was off the case. Last night was it, the last straw for Margaret. She was holding me responsible for Joseph Grolin and Vanessa Mueller’s deaths; and of course last night when the killer got away—well, that was my fault too. So Tessa and I were flying back to Denver today. And when all the internal investigations were over, I’d be lucky to get a job as a truancy officer in a middle school—at least according to Margaret.
(2) Alice and her children were safe, at least for the moment. Everything had turned so explosive that Ralph had kept her location top secret. He didn’t even tell me where he sent them.
(3) The Illusionist was still on the prowl. We hadn’t found any sign of him last night, even after searching the entire neighborhood.
(4) Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid and his group never arrived in Seattle. It was like they’d dropped off the planet. That worried me a little, but it looked like the team still had a few more days to find him.
(5) The safe house had run out of Mountain Java Roasters coffee beans. All we had left was tea.
I could tell already, it was going to be another rough day.
I still had some things to pick up from the federal building, but maybe I could get those on the way to the airport. My emotions? Honestly, they were mixed. Maybe I was better off at a desk job in Denver. I’d helped narrow the suspect pool here and focus the search area, but still, I felt empty, useless, like a failure. Yes, it would give me more time with Tessa, but I wanted to catch this guy. Wanted it bad.
I wasn’t sure if I would see Brent Tucker again before I had to leave town, so I gave him a call to encourage him. After all, I was beginning to understand how he felt. “You’re a good man, Brent Tucker,” I said as I walked into the kitchen and found Tessa foraging for some breakfast. “I appreciate all your hard work on this case.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bowers,” he said. “It was an honor to work with you. I look forward to the day our paths cross again.” After a couple minutes we both said our good-byes and hung up.
“Is there any coffee?” Tessa asked groggily.
“You drink coffee?” I said. “Oh, right. A twenty-first-cen
tury teenager. Of course.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I think we’re out.”
“Aha.” She held up a coffee can she’d found in the cupboard. “Want some?”
I read the label. “Hmm. I think tea this morning. But I’ll brew it for you if you want.”
“I can do it,” she said.
“I know. Just let me. Please. Have a seat.” I pulled out the chair for her. She hesitated for a moment and then eased into it. “Want some cereal too?”
“Whatever.”
While the coffee percolated I searched for some cereal. “So,” I said to her. “Almost packed?”
“Almost. So, the guy got away, huh?”
Great. Make me feel even worse.
“Yeah, but they’ll get him. There are good people on the case . . . and I guess this will free me up to spend more time with you.”
Silence. I waited.
Nothing.
“How does that sound?”
“Whatever.”
“Well, are you glad you got to miss a day of school?” I opened the fridge and pulled out some milk and OJ.
Tessa shrugged.
C’mon, Pat, think. You can do better than that.
“Tessa, do you know what the most dangerous shark in the world is?”
She grunted in a teenage girl sort of way. “That was random.”
“Well, do you know?”
She rolled her eyes. “The bull shark. Everyone knows that.”
Kincaid led his family through the staff entrance to the Stratford Hotel. He recognized the faces of some of the guests who were milling around. Even though most attendees had come last night for the opening session, the most prestigious guests were arriving this morning by helicopter, trying to beat the snowstorm that was predicted to hit the area.
Security was tight. As tight as a glove. Metal detectors had been set up at every public entrance. But no one was the least bit suspicious of Kincaid and his family.
After all, they’d been hired as the caterers for this morning’s event.
It was time to prepare the food.
I opened the cupboard and pulled out a box of peanut-butter-flavored cereal. “How’s this?”
She shook her head very, very slowly. “I’m allergic to peanuts.
I’ve always been allergic to peanuts.”
Oh boy.
“I must have forgot.”
“I thought you were supposed to notice everything.”
“So they say.”
Silence again.
So notice something already.
“Um, right now, I notice that your left eye is slightly darker brown than your right one.”
She grunted. “Brilliant.”
I heated some water for tea and poured myself a glass of juice. “Do you want some OJ?”
“I guess.”
The coffee was ready. I poured her a cup, and then I studied her for a moment. “I notice you’re wearing long sleeves again, and I remember seeing scars on Cherise’s left arm back when we were living in New York City, and I’m wondering if . . .”
She stared past me quietly, wouldn’t look at me.
Careful, Pat, don’t blow this.
“Sugar and cream?”
“Black.”
You can get into all that later . . . Reach out to her with your hand open . . . Do it slower . . . that way she knows you’re not going to hurt her . . .
I set it on the table. “That’s all. Just long sleeves.”
After a brief silence she said, “Well, so far your powers of perception are unparalleled. ‘The girl is wearing long sleeves.’ That oughtta crack the case wide open. No wonder you get the big bucks.”
I took a slim breath. “Do you ever think about wearing a color other than black?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Pink, maybe.”
“I look better in black.”
“How’s your coffee?”
She drank some. “Horrible.”
Well, at least she had good taste.
I found some puffed rice cereal and poured it into a bowl for her.
“I notice that you’re wearing your mother’s perfume.”
She paused with the coffee cup halfway to her lips. Just then the phone—Ralph’s phone—rang. I glanced at the number on the screen: unknown.
Kincaid walked around the magnificent enclosed courtyard of the Stratford Hotel. It was absolutely breathtaking: hanging gardens, verandas, walkways, fountains. And winding around everything was an indoor whitewater river with a pool at the base of an eight-foot waterfall. Even though the temperature outside was dropping, in here it was still over 60°F. Right now the hotel staff was busy setting up fifty round tables on the east side of the courtyard for the luncheon.
And in less than two hours the tables would be full.
Yes, his family had been infected and would be breathing the airborne bacteria on the guests as they served them, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.
He went back into the kitchen where his family was preparing the meat. As Marcie walked past, he nodded to her. She lowered her gaze and nodded back deferentially.
Humans typically contract both tularemia and Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever through ticks, but either can also be contracted through direct contact with the blood of infected livestock. He’d opted for the cattle rather than the ticks. In fact, he’d infected his whole herd. Even now the roasts that the conference attendees would be eating were soaking in the infected blood he’d shipped on Friday.
Governor Taylor arrived at the Stratford Hotel and went up to his suite of rooms. The presidential suite. Aptly named, he thought as he slid his key into the lock.
Anita Banner followed the governor closely, wearing her favorite skirt, enjoying the turned heads of all the young men she passed. Soon she’d be able to afford an even better skirt. In fact, a whole new wardrobe. A whole new life.
A life finally free from the groping hands of Sebastian Taylor.
Tessa watched to see if I’d answer the phone.
It rang again. I reached for it.
She ventured a bite of cereal.
I flipped the phone open and then snapped it shut, turning off the ringer when I did.
She’d been following my movements out of the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you answer that?”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Noticing you.”
Suddenly I remembered the words from Christie’s note: Don’t run from the risk of loving her . . . “We need to be here for each other,” I said. I wondered if Christie had left a similar note for Tessa. I’d never asked her. Make it right, Pat. C’mon.
Tessa was toying with her spoon. “I found it in the dresser.”
“Found what?”
“Mom’s perfume. It’s OK, isn’t it? That I’m wearing it, I mean?” For a moment she almost looked shy. A shy raven.
“Yeah. Of course. I’m glad you’re wearing it. Really.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s cool.”
“Cool?” she said with a slight grimace. “Did you just say cool?” “Is that OK? Is it still cool to say cool?”
“I guess,” she said. “It just sorta surprised me . . .”
I picked up the jug of milk and a jet of pain shot through my shoulder. I flinched and set the jug down again.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying. Don’t lie to me.”
“You’re right.” My back was throbbing. “OK, honestly, I hurt my shoulder pretty bad yesterday.”
“Doing what?”
“Someone tried to blow me up.”
“Really?” She sipped her coffee.
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
I stirred some honey into my tea. “I’m not certain, but I’m reasonably sure it was the serial killer.”
“Oh,” she s
aid, and then, “How many people has he killed so far?”
“At least six. Maybe more. Probably more.”
“So, not up to the average of eight victims yet? I mean, for North American serial killers?”
I hesitated. “You know, in some families this kind of conversation would seem a little odd.”
“Not in this one,” she said.
I blew on my tea. “Not quite up to eight yet. As far as we know.”
We ate our cereal.
“So, why do they do it?” she asked after a few minutes.
I gave her my stock answer. “Well, I try not to ask why. You get sidetracked doing that.”
She scoffed. “Yeah, right. That’s a cop-out if I ever heard one. I know you wonder. You have to. You’re too curious about stuff not to.”
My cup of tea trembled in my fingers. Her words struck home. “Well, I guess maybe I have, but in the end I think the why is easy: killers want the same things out of life everyone wants—fulfillment, accomplishment, a sense of worth, acceptance, power—”
“Love.”
I fumbled for what to say. “Yeah. That too. But they don’t know the right way to get it.”
Neither do you.
“No one does,” she said. “Not all the time, at least.”
I couldn’t tell if she was saying that as a simple observation, or as something more personal. After a moment she added, “So then what makes us different from them?”
I was about to say something trite, clichéd, stupid. But the truth is, there’s only a fine line that separates us from them, and sometimes it wavers back and forth like a snake in the sand. Sometimes we step over it, all of us do. Curiosity, maybe. Desire. Anger. Who knows. But the ones who step over with both feet are still just as human as we are. All of them are: those people in Jonestown, the killers I track. They’re searching for hope, looking for love, trying to figure things out. Just like us. In so many ways they’re just like us. That’s the scariest truth of all.
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference,” I said. “I guess a lot of it boils down to the choices we make.” Then I remembered a quote I heard once. “I think it was Goethe who said that all of us have within us the potential to commit any crime.”