Last Breath

by Michael Prescott

  “I was just ... talking.”

  “Sure you were. So how about it, darling? How about a bloodbath right now?”

  “Adam, no—”

  She tasted metal.

  The gun barrel, in her mouth.

  “Suck hard, bitch. You’re good at that. I remember.”

  She grabbed his arm, trying to push him away, but he only forced the gun in deeper.

  “Don’t fight it. It’s over—for both of us. You go bang. Then your friends swarm in and take me out. Suicide by cop—isn’t that what it’s called? Appropriate, huh?”

  She held on to his arm, waiting for the shot she would never feel.

  “It’s come full circle. You wearing a uniform is what killed our marriage. Now some other uniforms get to kill me.”

  She felt the muscles of his forearm tighten, knew he was applying pressure to the trigger.

  “Good-bye, C.J.,” Adam whispered.

  Gunshot.

  Her head snapped back, thumping on the concrete floor.

  Blood in her mouth. Bitter taste. Copper pennies.

  He’d shot her—blown off the back of her skull—so why was she alive?

  More blood. On her face, in her eyes. Blood everywhere, and the alarm again, shrieking—

  Not the alarm.

  Adam.

  She was still holding his arm, and she felt wetness coating her hands and realized the gun was not in her mouth any longer, and not in his hand either.

  His hand, which flapped limply on a stalk of pulverized bone. His hand shattered at the wrist and spurting blood.

  From across the room, a booming fusillade. Parts of the walls fell away as dark figures streamed through.

  Adam screaming.

  Blood.

  Hands on her face, her throat—“No!” she shouted, sure the hands were Adam’s. “Get off me, get off!”

  “It’s okay, Killer.” A familiar voice in her ear. “You’re okay.”

  Lights came on. The drifting beams of flashlights. Men in flak jackets toting rifles. They seized Adam and wrestled him away as his screams subsided into hiccupping sobs.

  Beside her, kneeling, Rick Tanner. Touching her face.

  “His blood or yours?” Tanner asked.

  She read concern in his eyes as he peered down at her, lit by his own flashlight. Concern and something more. Tenderness.

  “C.J.—is it his blood or yours?”

  The question got through this time. “His. I think.”

  The SWAT team members were bandaging Adam’s wrist, ordering him to hold still, while he whimpered in pain.

  “What happened?” C.J. asked, sitting up slowly.

  “I had to take the shot. Wasn’t supposed to, but he didn’t leave me any choice.”

  “Talk slower. Explain.”

  “We landed a chopper right outside—the alarm covered the sound of our arrival. Once we were on the ground, we killed the power to the alarm so we could negotiate. We were ready to talk all night. But when I took up my position in the alley, I heard him threatening you. Got to the window in time to see him put the gun in your mouth.”

  “Saw him how? It’s pitch-dark.”

  He pulled down goggles, covering his eyes. “Night vision. Swiped it out of the SWAT squad’s gear when we deplaned.”

  She saw herself reflected in the lenses. “It looks good on you. Better than those sunglasses of yours.”

  He raised the goggles. “Shades are more my style. Anyway, I didn’t want to risk the shot from that distance, so I came inside and got close.”

  “Contrary to procedure ...”

  “Yeah, well, I got news for you, Killer. You’re not the only one who can climb through a window in a hostage-barricade situation to face a crazy man with a gun.”

  She had to smile. “Never said I was.”

  “Anyhow, I was only five feet away when I unloaded. Blew the gun out of his hand. Was afraid if I went for a head shot, he might squeeze the trigger in a death spasm.”

  “You could have called for an invasive entry.”

  “Then he would have killed you for sure. Besides, you know what they say about those SWAT raids. They have a way of going wrong sometimes.”

  “So I’ve heard,” C.J. said, and she squeezed his hand.

  “Now come on. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Like hell you are. You’re getting a complete physical, Killer.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Tonight it seems appropriate.” He glanced at Adam and smiled. “You took Mr. Nolan for an E-ticket ride.”

  She couldn’t argue.

  Adam had been subdued now. He lay on his back, hands cuffed over his stomach, a wad of bandages on his wrist. The bandages were already soaking through with blood.

  “We need to evac this asshole right now,” one of the SWAT guys was saying. “He’s got a spurting wound. We wait too long, he’ll bleed out.”

  “Load him up,” another man ordered.

  Tanner led her past Adam, who gazed up at her from the floor. She expected to see hatred in his gaze, but there was only exhaustion.

  “You’ve got to admit,” he whispered, “it was one hell of a last dance.”

  She just looked at him. “Try not to die, Adam.”

  “Why? You thinking we could get back together?” At least he said it with a smile.

  “I’m thinking,” she answered, “how much I’ll enjoy testifying against you.”

  He laughed. A bubble of blood leaked out of his broken nose.

  “You really are a bitch, C.J.” He shut his eyes, still laughing silently. “God damn, I wish I’d killed you.”

  “Better luck next time,” she said, walking away.

  Tanner whistled. “That’s what I call a love-hate relationship.”

  “Heavy on the hate.”

  “But it was love once?”

  “I don’t know what it was.”

  “What’d he mean by that crack about the dance?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” She glanced at Tanner. “You happen to like Emmylou Harris?”

  Tanner took a moment to reply. “I can pretend to.”

  “Good enough. Friday night, a club in the Valley? Chicken wings and beer?”

  “Sounds good, Killer.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “C.J., I mean. See how fast I learn?”

  She thought about Adam, her three years wasted with him, and the year of loneliness since. “Faster than I do, I hope.”

  Then they were outside, under the bright stars and the setting moon, and a rumpled man in a rumpled jacket was reaching out to take her arm. “Officer Osborn, I’m Detective Walsh.”

  She recognized his voice. “You interviewed Adam.”

  “Not my finest hour. He snowed me.”

  “He’s good at that. Got me to marry him.”

  “At least I didn’t go that far.”

  The SWAT team moved past, carrying Adam on a gurney. They put him aboard the big chopper that sat not far from the warehouse, its rotor blades glinting like the wings of some fantastic insect.

  “How’d you find me?” C.J. asked. “Where is this place?”

  “Foothills near San Dimas. As for how we got here—you know the old joke that goes, ‘We’re from the federal government, and we’re here to help you’?”

  “Yes?”

  “This time it was no joke.” Walsh turned serious. “Listen, I hate to tell you this, but your problems aren’t over. There’s someone else who may be after you.”

  “The Hourglass Killer,” C.J. said.

  “You know?”

  “I know. God, I have the worst luck with men.”

  Walsh smiled, but there was no humor in his voice. “This wasn’t luck. He selected you deliberately. There seems to be a history.”

  C.J. stopped.

  “What?” she breathed.

  “Did something happen to you as a child? Were you ever threatened, menaced? Because this man ...
” Walsh let his words trail off, and C.J. knew he could read the answer in her face.

  “The boogeyman,” she whispered so softly that only Tanner, standing beside her, could hear.

  “What was that?” Walsh asked.

  She shook her head. “How close are you to nabbing him?”

  “We were close,” Walsh began, “but—”

  “He outmaneuvered us.” Tanner picked up the thought. “It was my operation, C.J. I let him slip away. I’m sorry.”

  She was barely listening. Part of her was in the crawl space of her parents’ ranch house, gripping a kitchen knife while a stranger’s tread vibrated through the floorboards.

  “This isn’t the time for pointing fingers,” Walsh said. “Bottom line is, he’s been killing for years—decades. He has some kind of fixation on you. And as Deputy Tanner indicated, he’s still at large.”

  C.J. hugged herself against a chill, but when she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice.

  “Not for long.”

  PART THREE

  The Bad Fox

  MIDNIGHT-2:00 A.M. THURSDAY

  59

  Gavin Treat, the Webmaster. Bluebeard. The Hourglass Killer.

  These were some of his names, but of course he’d had so many others through the years. The San Bernardino Stalker, the Pied Piper of Taos, the Mojave Strangler. In Dallas he had been the Night Shadow, and in the high country of Colorado he had been the Forest Trail Murderer. An incident in New Orleans had given him a sobriquet he especially liked—the Angel of Death.

  These were names bestowed on him by himself or by the media. Then there were other names given to him by his victims in their last minutes or hours. Freak, psycho, piece of shit—the words people used when pain and terror had driven them past all calculation into the realm of pure emotion.

  He cherished those names most of all. They were badges he wore with pride. Medals of honor, ribbons bedecking his chest, notches in his gun.

  He wondered what name Caitlin Jean Osborn had for him. There must be one. He had traumatized her as a child. Such experiences, even if repressed, were never wholly forgotten.

  He would like to ask her what she called him in her private thoughts. Perhaps he would. Soon.

  His laptop computer—wired into the AC power to save the battery, connected to the Web via a cell phone using an ISP shell account—displayed the video image of Caitlin’s bedroom. The clock on the computer screen read 12:01 A.M. The Webcam was still running. The bedroom was visible in real time.

  It was empty, as it had been all night. But Caitlin would have to return home sometime.

  And he was patient, as patient as a trapdoor spider lying in wait for its prey.

  He had waited sixteen years for his second chance at her. He would not give up now.

  ***

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  C.J. shut her eyes briefly, fighting off a wave of fatigue. “I’m sure.”

  “You don’t have to. We’ll catch him eventually. It’s not necessary for you to put yourself in jeopardy.”

  Her eyes opened, and she faced Morris Walsh. Because she knew he was only trying to be kind, she kept her voice level. “First of all, I won’t be in jeopardy. I’ll be safer than I’ve ever been. Isn’t that right, Rick?”

  Tanner, seated at the far end of the table in the Parker Center conference room, hesitated only a moment before answering. “The way we’ll be covering your house, there’s no way he can get past us. He’ll be spotted no matter what he tries.” He swiveled toward Walsh. “We’ll have infrared sensors, long distance mikes, telescopic lenses trained on every door and window.”

  “Plus they’ll be watching the live feed on the Web,” C.J. said. “They can see me in my bedroom even with the curtains closed.”

  “Maybe,” Walsh persisted, “but it’s still unnecessary.”

  “Wrong. It’s very necessary. We have to stop this guy.” C.J. glanced at Detective Cellini, seated next to her. “You’ve read parts of his journal?”

  Cellini nodded. “And the forensics crew found news clippings in his bureau. Some of them were taken from newspapers that aren’t even in business anymore. He’s been doing this for a long time—twenty years, we’re guessing. The body count by now ...” She let the statement trail off unfinished.

  “He can’t get away this time,” Walsh said.

  C.J. refused to accept that argument. “Why not? He’s been getting away for two decades.”

  “But now we know who he is. We know his name. We have his driver’s license photo, his social security number.”

  “Until he changes his name, gets fake ID, a new birth certificate, a new SSN. Come on, Detective. This man is smart. He’ll know how to lose himself. He’s probably got it all planned out. He might be on his way out of state right now, with a new identity, a new face.”

  Walsh spread his hands. “Well, if he’s left town, your plan won’t work anyway.”

  “It might.”

  “If he’s not watching your house ...”

  “He’ll be watching, even if he’s fifty miles away. Look, you told me he took his computer with him when he fled. He can hook into the Internet from any phone line.”

  “He doesn’t even need a phone line,” Cellini said. “His phone bill gives no indication he was using dial-up. Most likely he’s gone wireless.He probably uses a cell phone as a modem, with the cell account under another name.”

  “Any way you look at it”—C.J. plowed ahead—“he can monitor the Web site. That’s how he’ll watch the house even if he’s nowhere near. And when he sees me in the bedroom ...”

  “He’ll come after you,” Walsh said. “If he’s as obsessed as you think.”

  “Detective, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind for sixteen years. I’m betting he feels the same way about me. If he sees an opportunity to get me, he’ll take it.”

  Walsh lowered his head in resignation. “You’re determined to go through with this?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then let’s get it done.” He looked at Tanner. “How many officers will be undercover at the scene?”

  “Twenty LAPD, including Metro’s D Platoon. Fifteen Sheriff’s, including Pardon’s SWAT squad and yours truly. Plus technicians to set up the surveillance, and EMTs on standby.”

  “EMTs,” Cellini said with a glance at C.J.

  “For Treat,” Tanner added hastily. “Or for our guys, if Treat resists.” He looked at C.J. “He won’t get near you. There’s no way he can penetrate the perimeter and get inside the house. Simply not possible.”

  “So everything’s copacetic,” C.J. said with her best imitation of a smile. “How soon can we start?”

  Tanner checked the clock on the wall, which read 12:45. “One-thirty,” he said. “With luck, we’ll have Treat in custody before dawn.”

  60

  “There she is.”

  Rawls nodded at the screen of his desktop computer, where the live video image on Steven Gader’s Web site showed C.J. Osborn entering her bedroom, wearing an LAPD jacket that looked too large for her.

  The lamp on the nightstand had been turned on by the police when they inspected the house hours earlier, and it remained lit, casting a dim glow over the room. Low illumination, but sufficient for the Webcam’s sensitive lens.

  C.J. circled the room, pausing at the nightstand to handle a shapeless blob of blue, unidentifiable in the low-resolution image. She left it where it lay and entered the bathroom to get a drink of water.

  “She’s checking out the place,” Rawls said. “Wants to make sure she’s alone.”

  “Of course she’s alone. That’s the whole point—to lure him to her.”

  “I guess she’s not taking any chances. Can you blame her?”

  “No, but I’m betting she’s got nothing to worry about. He’s had three hours to make tracks. I say he’s nowhere near her house. This whole thing is an exercise in futility.”

  Rawls smiled. “You can go ho
me if you like.”

  “Hell, no. I’m staying put, even if we have to pull an all-nighter.”

  “You mean, in case you’re wrong?”

  “It could happen.” Brand shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  ***

  C.J. took some comfort from the sight of her purse on the nightstand, and more important, from the feel of the handgun inside. Nice to know it was still there. The off-duty gun was an old friend, and she liked having it close.

  She considered removing it from the purse and putting it inside her jacket but decided against it. If Treat was watching, he would wonder why she had moved her purse out of camera range. And if he so much as suspected a trap, he would not come.

  Besides, she didn’t need the gun. She already had one, a 9mm Beretta that Tanner had given her, which was now tucked into the waistband of her shorts beneath her LAPD jacket.

  “There’s no chance you’ll need this,” Tanner had said.

  “So why are you giving it to me?” she’d countered.

  “Well, there’s that old Murphy’s Law business. Just take it, and keep the piece out of sight when you’re in the bedroom.”

  The bedroom, yes—her private sanctuary, which had turned out not to be private at all. For a month she had slept here, worked on her exercise rig, showered, brushed her teeth, dressed and undressed, and because the curtains had been closed, she had thought she was unobserved.

  Wrong. The curtains were closed now, but she knew that eyes watched her as she made a pretense of putting some laundry away. Gavin Treat’s eyes, perhaps. The eyes of Detective Walsh and Detective Cellini and Deputy Tanner, certainly—they were observing her on a computer monitor in an unmarked car down the street. And other eyes—the eyes of strangers, visitors to the Web site, lonely men who spied on her in secrecy late at night.

  Those eyes troubled her most of all. Possibly there were only a few dozen watchers of that sort, yet they were scattered across the country or around the world; they were faceless, nameless; they could be anyone, anywhere; and they had been in her bedroom, had invaded her life, just as surely as if any of them had come through her window wearing a ski mask.