Face Off

by Brenda Novak

  “This isn’t the end,” Jasper hissed, twisting around to get a final glimpse of Amarok as they booked him.

  “Yeah, I think it is.” Amarok grinned at him. “Have fun making new friends.”

  The baleful glare he received could’ve cut through stone, but that didn’t bother Amarok. A huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Now, finally, maybe Evelyn and her family could get past what Jasper had done, since he could no longer terrorize them.

  Amarok had the satellite phone in his truck, but he saw no point in paying two bucks a minute if he could use the pay phone at the jail for so much less.

  He put in his credit card and dialed the number for Phil’s house. Phil had gone over to Amarok’s earlier to take a video and photos before the coroner removed Samantha’s body, but Amarok still had a lot of work to do at the scene. He wanted to make sure Jasper was convicted for Sam’s murder in addition to all the others. So he’d insisted that Evelyn go home with Phil and spend the night.

  The phone barely rang before Phil answered. “Did you get him?” he asked without preamble.

  The exhaustion of being up all night and of having so much adrenaline pumping through him hit Amarok hard. He leaned against the wall to help him remain on his feet. “I did.”

  “It’s done,” Amarok heard Phil say, and rested his head against the wall, too, as the phone was transferred to Evelyn.

  “He’s in custody?” she asked.

  “They’re booking him now.”

  “Was he surprised to see you?”

  “Absolutely. But Fitz, the pilot, played it perfectly.”

  “What’d Jasper say when you appeared?”

  “Not a lot. He thinks he’s going to kill me one day, of course. Swears it’s not over between us. But he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars.”

  “You did it,” she said. “Thank you, Amarok. There were times, plenty of them, when I was afraid I’d never see this day. I can’t thank you enough.”

  He grinned at her words. “I know of one way.…”

  She laughed softly. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll have to help my family from a distance, because I could never leave a man like you.”

  EPILOGUE

  Six months later …

  Evelyn sat behind the plexiglass and studied her newest inmate. Jasper didn’t look particularly dangerous and never really had. He looked like a rather handsome but regular guy, one who was probably even a little frightened of what lay ahead but was trying hard not to show it. Prison wasn’t an easy place, even for a serial killer. Maybe he’d experience what it felt like to be raped—or worse. After all, the other men in Hanover House were just as bad as he was, and as much as prisons tried to protect their inmates, there was no question that some of that kind of thing went on.

  “Welcome to your future home, Jasper,” she said once the CO who’d dragged him to the interview left. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “I suppose you think it’s funny that I’m here, under your control, some kind of poetic justice,” he said.

  She tucked the strands of hair that’d fallen from her messy bun behind her ears. “I suppose I do.”

  So many friends and family members had expressed shock when they’d learned that he was coming to Hanover House. They couldn’t understand why she’d petitioned to have him transferred there and expressed concern that she might not be able to tolerate the daily reminder of what he’d done to her and those she cared about. But those people didn’t understand. What Jasper had done wasn’t something she could forget, regardless of where he was. And it was his brain she most wanted to study. Who knew more about him than she did? She could examine him in a way she wouldn’t be able to examine any other psychopath—because she’d been one of his victims. He’d revealed his true nature to her, and she was one of the few to live through the experience.

  Besides, there was nothing he’d hate more than having her in a position of power over him. She finally had justice, closure, all the things she’d needed so badly but had been denied for so long. Not only that, she was as safe as she could ever be. At least she could keep an eye on him herself, because it didn’t matter what prison they locked him up in; if he ever got out, he’d come after her again. So what good would it do to incarcerate him somewhere else? She’d just have to wonder, constantly, how things were going.

  She made a show of straightening the papers in his file. “My, how things have changed since you were Andy Smith. I hear your trial in Boston progressed nicely.”

  He said nothing, just glared at her.

  “Tim was sure grateful to be set free. I know that. And, if it’s any consolation to you, we won’t be seeing much of each other this coming year. Maybe longer. You’ve got quite a bit of travel on your calendar, what with all the trials that remain.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Let’s see … you’ve been charged with killing those five women in Peoria. That trial will be next. Then you’ll be taken to San Diego to answer for murdering your parents. And, last but not least, you’ll stand trial here, for Katherine, Sierra and that poor prostitute you murdered last. Ruth was her name, wasn’t it? The one you dumped at the shack near the Barrymore cabin for Amarok to find? Oh, and Samantha, of course. The woman you murdered in my own bed.”

  This elicited a small smile.

  “I doubt you’d be feeling that smug if you knew there wasn’t another person on earth I liked less. I would never have wished her dead, because I’m not like you. I don’t wish terrible things, even on my enemies. But let’s just say … I feel worse about the others.” She clasped her hands on the desk. “So … will there be any surprises? Any other charges?”

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “I’m guessing yes,” she went on, ignoring his vulgar language. “Police departments wherever you’ve lived are digging through their unsolved cases, trying to determine what other missing persons or murders you might be responsible for. I predict you’ll set a murder record at Hanover House—and considering the men we have here, that’s really saying something.”

  Nothing. No response.

  “You know … I realize I shouldn’t, but I actually feel bad for your parents. They loved you so much. What happened? They just became too much of a liability or what?”

  “Go to hell,” he growled.

  “You don’t have a pithy or clever quip now that the tables have turned?” She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t be a sore loser. You’ll have plenty of time to get used to your new position in the world. I predict you’ll become more tractable eventually.”

  He jumped to his feet. “I won’t become more tractable! I won’t ever be one of your guinea pigs! The research you do here is ridiculous! A waste of time!”

  “Perhaps, but we have to make the effort. Anyway, you will volunteer soon enough.”

  “You can’t say that, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I know more about you than anyone else, which is why I can also predict that boredom will soon replace me as your greatest enemy.”

  “Forget it,” he insisted. “You’re delusional.”

  “We’ll see.” She started for the door but turned back at the last moment. “Oh, and in case you’d like to congratulate me”—she smoothed a hand over her belly—“I just learned that I’m expecting Amarok’s baby. I plan to tell him tonight.”

  She’d managed to surprise him. She could tell by the expression on his face. “You can still have a child? After everything I did to you?”

  “Apparently so,” she said with a smile.

  Read on for an excerpt from Brenda Novak’s next Evelyn Talbot book

  BLINDSPOT

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  1

  Dr. Evelyn Talbot sat trembling on a cold cement floor, blinking into pure darkness. No matter how hard she strained her eyes, she couldn’t see so much as a glimmer of light, had no idea of the dimensions of the room where she’d been tossed, or
who’d thrown her in it before locking and bolting the door.

  Considering all the psychopaths she’d studied over the years, she was afraid to find out.

  She had to calm down, she told herself. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have the presence of mind, or the physical strength, to save her own life. She had to manage her fear and remember everything she’d learned as a criminal psychiatrist who’d spent the past twenty years studying serial killers, because, in this moment, her education was the only weapon she had.

  She removed the suit jacket she was wearing over a matching navy blue dress and rubbed the arm she’d landed on to see if it might be broken. Whoever had grabbed her as she was getting out of the car at her own house had attacked her without warning. He’d come up from behind, thrown a bag over her head, hauled her off her feet and shoved her into the back of a van. Before she could even reach up to remove the bag, she’d felt a knee in her spine as someone held her facedown while tying her hands behind her. Then the door had slammed shut and she’d heard an engine rev and tires squeal as she was launched to one side with the motion of the vehicle.

  She didn’t believe her arm was broken, just bruised or sprained and, fortunately, the rope that’d been used to tie her up had been cut off as she was tossed into this room, so she could feel her hands. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized that her ankle was tender too. She must’ve rolled it in the brief scuffle before she’d been thrown in the van. But that was the extent of her injuries. For now …

  Who’d abducted her? She hadn’t caught a glimpse of her attacker, but something about him had seemed familiar. Why?

  Her mind sifted through the dangerous men she’d studied since graduating from college, but she couldn’t even venture a guess. It was frightening not to know what she was up against. It was even more frightening to acknowledge that no one else would have any clue where she was—or even that she’d been taken—least of all Sergeant Benjamin Murphy, Hilltop’s only police presence and the man she loved. It was summer in Alaska, that brief period where the days lengthened to almost twenty hours and tourists came from all over the world to enjoy the natural beauty of the last frontier. She and Amarok—Inuit for “wolf” and what the locals had been calling him since he was in junior high—had finally relaxed and begun to believe that the inherent danger Evelyn had faced for so long, until Jasper Moore had been caught and imprisoned six months ago, was over. They’d been so sure of it they’d been planning their wedding. She was supposed to meet Amarok at the Moosehead today—possibly right now; she’d lost track of time—to talk about the food they wanted to serve. They were going to be married in a small ceremony in Alaska, where he’d been born and raised, the first week of July. Then, after the birth of their baby, they were going to fly to Boston, where she’d grown up, for a second reception in the fall.

  Struggling to even out her breathing and slow the pounding of her heart, she hugged her knees tighter to her chest—as much as her swollen stomach would allow. If the person who’d kidnapped her was one of the psychopaths she’d worked with, she had some inkling what to expect. He was probably someone who was easily threatened. Someone who lived to dominate others. Someone who had to win no matter what the cost. Someone who enjoyed torture and/or killing.

  She could go on, ticking off the traits listed on the PCL-R, which was what Dr. Robert Hare had created to help diagnose someone as psychopathic. She knew what such people had in common. The real question was: Could she tolerate what he had in store for her? Hold him off long enough to get away?

  She had to. If she wanted to live, if she wanted the unborn child she carried to survive, she had to be both strong and smart. But her panic and fear were exacerbated by the most debilitating memories. This wasn’t the first time she’d been victimized. She’d been only sixteen when her boyfriend, Golden Boy Jasper Moore, had killed her best friends and tried to kill her. It was a miracle she’d managed to drag her broken and bruised body from the shack where he’d left her after torturing her for three days. Had she been any less determined to survive, she wouldn’t have made it.

  That experience was the reason she’d decided to fight back with knowledge, to make the study of such individuals her life’s work. Jasper had been an only child who came from a good family. His wealthy parents had doted on him. There’d been no abuse or deprivation in his past, nothing one would think necessary to “create” such a monster. That was the most puzzling part of the equation and the reason she’d established Hanover House, the first prison of its kind. Located in a town of only five hundred people an hour outside of Anchorage, it housed over three hundred inmates, including one hundred and ten of the worst serial killers in America. According to some estimates, psychopaths made up almost 4 percent of the general population and over 20 percent of America’s prison populations, so someone had to figure out a way to treat the untreatable.

  Unfortunately, it was a dangerous job.

  She had a terrible feeling she was about to be reminded just how dangerous.

  Tilting her head back, she drew in a deep, calming breath as she tried to estimate the length of time she’d been in the van so she could attempt to determine where she might be in relation to Hilltop. Had her kidnapper driven an hour? Longer?

  It was tough to say. Shock and fear—not to mention disorientation—made it almost impossible to come up with an accurate estimate. Ten minutes in such a situation felt like ten hours. Her captor could’ve taken her to a remote cabin in the middle of the wilderness on the far side of Hilltop. After all, there was no snow on the ground right now, nothing to make those mountain roads impassable. Or he could’ve taken her to Anchorage or even some smaller town or community where it would be easier to get groceries and other necessities.

  She held her breath, listening, but she couldn’t hear anything. When was her captor going to make himself known? Where was he?

  After a few more minutes during which nothing happened, she finally gathered the nerve to move from the spot where he’d dumped her. By pressing her ear to the door, she thought she might be able to make out a noise or two that would provide some clue as to what was going on.

  She managed to find the door by crawling on her hands and knees and feeling her way across the rough, hard floor. If her captor had left the premises, maybe she could bang on the door or the walls of her prison and bring help. It might even be possible for her to kick the door open and escape.

  The tantalizing hope that thought offered was dashed the second she felt the door, however. It wasn’t the usual, somewhat flimsy wooden panel found on most houses these days. And there was no crack underneath. It felt like the heavy steel door of a walk-in freezer. She couldn’t hear anything through it, and she couldn’t break it, either.

  Once again, her unease began to spiral toward panic. Was she about to run out of air? Had whoever grabbed her tossed her in here to suffocate?

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she whispered as she began to crawl around the room, searching for any opening or other possibility through which she might escape.

  On the opposite wall, in the corner, she ran into a small commode. She had no idea how dirty it might be so she hesitated to touch it once she figured out what it was, but she could tell it was a toilet. There was a handle and everything. There didn’t seem to be an accompanying sink, however. There didn’t seem to be anything else in the room except a cot, which was bolted to the floor, with a lumpy mattress, a pillow and a few blankets.

  By the time she made it all the way around to the door again, she’d determined that her prison was only about six feet by seven feet: the size of some walk-in freezers. She was fairly certain it was a freezer. But at least the presence of the toilet and the bed made her think she hadn’t been put here to suffocate. Those items wouldn’t be necessary if she was going run out of air.

  Forcing herself to stand, despite her wobbly legs, she made a second circuit. The blackness was so complete she doubted she’d find the window she was praying for. It had been daytime
when she’d been abducted, and there was no way enough hours had passed for it to be night—not during June in Alaska.

  Still, she wanted to learn as much as possible about her surroundings, to perhaps find a light switch.

  There was nothing on the walls, not so much as a picture or a nail. But once she gathered the courage to walk straight through the middle of the room, waving her arms to see if she could determine whether there was a high ceiling or a low one, she encountered a thin chain. It hit her face, startling her for a moment before she gave it a hesitant tug.

  A small snap sounded and a single light bulb flickered on, buzzing with electricity and painting the stark white walls of the narrow room a dull yellow.

  Evelyn felt infinitely better just being able to see. Darkness made everything more frightening. But her situation hadn’t improved otherwise. There was nothing else in the small, enclosed space besides what she’d already discovered—nothing except what looked like an HVAC vent to one side of the light bulb on the ceiling. As she stared up at it, she realized that she would have air, but her captor had taken great care in selecting and preparing this place.

  There was no way she’d be able to escape on her own.

  * * *

  “She get caught up at work?”

  Amarok swiveled on his stool to see Shorty, the proprietor of the Moosehead, wiping down the bar. “Must’ve.” Amorak had been having a beer while watching the Giants play baseball. He’d figured Evelyn would arrive any minute. She was busy, had more to do than most people, so he could see why she might be a little late. Now that Shorty had drawn his attention away from the TV, however, he could see that the huge clock between the two moose heads, which hung on the wall staring sightlessly down on the most popular gathering place in town, indicated she was more than “a little” late. She would never make Shorty or Shorty’s sister, both of whom were supposed to be meeting with them to go over the menu for the wedding, wait for thirty minutes without some form of communication.