The Blind

by Shelley Coriell

  That, she could deal with. Later. A clock was ticking.

  Evie hitched her bag on her shoulder and headed for the next church on her list, a mission near Skid Row. She turned into an alley, when footsteps sounded behind her. They grew faster and louder, and she ducked behind a Dumpster.

  A man ran by her, his chest heaving.

  “Holy shit, North!” Evie tucked her Glock back in her holster. “Do you want to go and meet your maker?”

  Brother Gabriel North dropped his hands to his knees and took a series of deep breaths before turning his head and gazing up at her. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing in my world, but I don’t think it’s my time to go yet. There is still much work in this world to be done.”

  “Why are you stalking me?”

  “I called out to you, but you didn’t hear.” With one more deep breath, he stood. “I saw on the news that you’re looking for Douglas Woltz.”

  “You know him?”

  “Never met him, but his mother has been a member of our community for almost a decade. She joined after she lost her husband. She’s always struck me as a kind but lonely woman and dedicated to her son. She was always bragging on him.”

  Another dot. Another step closer to disarming a madman. “Did she mention something about the bombings?”

  “No, but something she said after services a few weeks ago makes me wonder. She told me her son was now going to be a famous filmmaker.”

  “Why would she say that?”

  “Apparently Douglas had just purchased a fancy new camera and lighting equipment.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it, Agent Jimenez. It stood out because all of these years she’s talked about him being a famous artist, and all of a sudden he’s into making movies. It seemed odd.”

  * * *

  2:56 p.m.

  “That makes no sense,” Ricci said when Evie told the task force members gathered in the LAPD war room about her visit from Brother North. “Why would Woltz’s mother say her son is now into filmmaking? Think Brother North is lying?”

  Evie pictured the words behind North’s desk. Thou shall not bear false witness against thy neighbor. And she heard his voice. We’re both in the business of saving souls. “He’s being straight with me. He wants this guy stopped.”

  “Bombers are plotters and planners,” Hayden said. “The film equipment is part of his overall plan.”

  Evie pressed her hands between her knees, bone pressing against bone as she waited for her colleagues to connect the dots.

  “He could be filming the event to share with a larger audience,” Ricci said.

  “Hell, he could be live-streaming,” Knox added.

  Exactly what she’d been thinking. “So we’re not looking for a public place, but a very private place.” Which just turned their search plan on its ass.

  * * *

  4:27 p.m.

  “It’s really creepy that you know how to braid,” Evie said as she sat in her office chair, Freddy tugging at her hair.

  “I told you, I got eight nieces,” Freddy said around the comb in his mouth. “I also know how to paint toenails and use a flat iron in case you want to do a sleepover.”

  “And you’re wasting your talents photographing overpaid and over-made Hollywood actors? Maybe you should get out of the paparazzi biz and open a beauty salon.”

  Freddy yanked on the sections of her hair, folding and tucking. At last he held out his hand, and she slipped the ponytail holder from her wrist and set it on his palm. He secured the braid. “Got a mirror so I can show you my handiwork?”

  “No.” She hopped up from the chair. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  Freddy didn’t let go of her braid. He tugged her closer. “You just make sure you stay fine.”

  “Stop worrying.” She tugged her hair from his hand. “You sound just like Jack.”

  Freddy tucked the comb in his back pocket. “Where is The Suit? Kind of strange not to see him glued to your side.”

  “He’s in his office.” Evie grabbed her bag. Most likely grieving. Her gaze roamed over the photos of Vandemere’s victims: seven Los Angelenos from the Angel Bombings, the Venice art gallery owner, motel night manager Mrs. Francis, and now Abby Elliott, who had slipped out of Jack’s hands not once, but twice. She walked to the wall and ran her hand along Abby’s golden hair. “I’m going to catch him, Abby. He’s going to pay.” She checked her watch. All-hands meeting in two minutes. “Time to catch a killer.”

  Freddy grabbed his man purse and headed for the door, adding over his shoulder, “Don’t forget, you owe me one phone call. An exclusive shot at this guy.”

  “Yes. One phone call. After we catch him. Now promise me you and your camera will stay in a safe place until I call.”

  “No worries there, Lady Feeb. I kind of like most of my body parts.” He patted his wide gut. “I’m not too keen on going to a place where a bomb may go off.” He paused in the doorway. “I’m serious, Evie. Be careful. We got all these weddings between our nieces and nephews coming up, and I don’t want you to miss them.”

  “The best marksmen in the world will have my back.” She pictured her teammate, Brooks. “I’ll be fine.”

  The plan was simple. Identify location. Wait for Vandemere to show with the mother and child. Start to make the switch. Shoot Vandemere. Disarm IED. Save mom and baby. And they all live happily ever after. The end.

  Evie picked up the red dress hanging over the back of her chair. It was a choir robe from one of Ricci’s men, hardly a match of the dress in the Murillo portrait, but it was long and red. She jammed the choir robe in her bag and turned to the door. Her right boot stilled in midair.

  Jack. Dressed in a three-piece suit, his jacket unbuttoned and tie tack crooked. She planted her boot softly on the floor. “Jon told me about Abby. I’m so sorry, Jack.”

  He let out a low, long breath. “We have a lot to discuss, including Abby, but now’s not a good time.” He pulled a box from behind his back and handed it to her. “For you.”

  Jack was a man who collected things, who felt comfortable with things. She knew this was his way of reaching out. “Jack, I—”

  “It’s for the case.”

  Evie reached in and took out a dress of flowy red silk.

  “It’s not an exact replica, but close,” Jack said. “I told the seamstress to make sure it wasn’t too full, that the woman who was going to wear this needed to be able to run and jump and disarm bombs. She made it adjustable so it could fit over protective gear, and she also used a special fabric on the arms. It’s snug so you won’t have any fabric accidentally hitting any wires or getting snagged on anything.”

  Her fingers dug into the silk. People change.

  He lifted both hands in the air in a surrender of sorts. “I love you, Evie, enough to let you go, and if you’re going to die, I want you to die doing what you love.”

  Like Abby.

  She pulled the dress to her chest. It had cost him dearly to have this dress made.

  Jack’s jaw squared. “I know, I’m being controlling, but it’s who I am, and right now this is the best I can do.”

  “No, Jack. This”—she held up the dress—“isn’t controlling. It’s perfect.” Because it meant he wanted in on the deal and was willing to negotiate. She stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss on his lips. “We’ll work out the deal memo later.”

  The dress tucked under her arm, she ran out of her office to catch a killer.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Friday, November 6

  6:39 p.m.

  Don’t you dare say a word.” Holding her skirt with one hand, she aimed a finger at Hatch, who was not bothering to hide a laugh. Brooks raised a single eyebrow, and Hayden pulled out a chair for her.

  “You look perfect,” Parker said.

  Like the woman in the four-hundred-year-old painting and like an FBI bomb tech ready to take on a ticking bomb. She sat in the chair; the dress—custom-made by one of Jack’s associates in a ma
tter of a few hours—rustled.

  “Let’s go over the final details,” Ricci said. “Anything on Freddy’s tip line?”

  Evie set Freddy’s phone on the table. “Nothing yet.”

  Ricci took out a laser pointer and aimed it at a screen set up on the wall of the conference room. She watched as Ricci went man-by-man through a step-by-step time line. She’d let Ricci and his men worry about location and time. For her, the big unknown was the time delay on the IED. If she had the standard thirty seconds, the girl and her baby would be fine, but it was possible that Brooks or one of the other snipers would pick off Vandemere before he flipped the switch. And of course everything hinged on Sabrina and little Angela being still and quiet. The girl was young, just sixteen years old. Would she be able to remain calm? Could she keep the baby calm?

  Riiiiiing.

  Evie grabbed Freddy’s phone. Call display showed a restricted number. “Agent Jimenez,” she said.

  “What a beautiful voice you have, Evie.”

  “Carter.” Douglas. Killer.

  “Yes, it’s me, and I’m looking forward to our little swap. I’ll meet you at the long-term parking garage near Union Station in two hours. Just you, Evie. You come alone, or the mother and child will die.”

  “I need proof of life, Carter. If I’m walking into this, I want to make sure Sabrina and Angela are still alive.”

  There was a sharp shuffling, a click, and finally a faint cry of an infant.

  Her stomach heaved. “Carter?”

  The phone went silent.

  “Carter!”

  The face of the phone darkened.

  “We have knowns,” Ricci said. “Place. Time. Everyone to their positions.”

  A clock was ticking.

  Evie hopped in her rental car. The government and business offices had emptied out, and traffic was light. As she drove toward Union Station her phone rang. Caller ID showed Freddy, but a different number than his tip line. Must be his private cell.

  “Hey, Freddy. This better be important.”

  “Um, yeah, it is.”

  “What’s up? You get another call from Vandemere?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  “He…he…got to me.” A choked sob poured over the line. “Vandemere strapped a bomb on me.”

  Her heart stilled. “Where are you? Is he there now?”

  “N…no. He’s on his way to Union Station. Has the mother and kid. He has me tied up in the lower level of the Elliott Tower parking garage, but I managed to get my phone out. I puffed up my big ol’ gut while he was tying me up, which gave me a little wiggle room. Pretty good stuff, huh? It’ll make a great story.” He tried to laugh, but the sound was more of a husky sob.

  She banged her fists on the steering wheel. “How the hell did he get you?”

  “He called me pretending to have a lead on that old-time Hollywood A-lister boinking his co-star. Anyway, he got to me because he wanted insurance. If you or anyone else tried anything, he’d…he’d…”

  “Freddy, you need to calm down. I want you to look at the IED. Is it similar to the one Lisa Franco was wearing that day at the library?”

  “Yeah, exact same thing.”

  “Hang tight, Freddy. I’m a block away.”

  * * *

  7:08 p.m.

  “I’m sorry, Evie.” Freddy’s words tripped out on a jerky breath as she got out of her car in the lower level of the garage. He sat on the ground near Jack’s black Audi.

  She held up a hand. “Don’t move. Don’t talk.” She pulled out her service revolver and did a visual sweep. Bright security light flooded the entire lower level, and she spotted no bodies, no movement, no suspect objects. Next time she saw Jack, she’d let him know in many different ways that she loved his attention to security detail.

  Gun still extended, she backed up to her car. Her cell phone sat in her bag, but she couldn’t use it for fear of detonating the IED’s ignition device. She had no idea what Vandemere had engineered, but she wanted a closer look. Using the key and not the electronic fob, she opened the trunk and took out a ballistics shield.

  Preserve life, Evie, all life, including yours.

  Got it, Parker.

  She positioned herself behind the shield. She’d prefer her bomb suit, but she didn’t have time. When she got to within twenty feet she could see the IED. Same configuration as the device the other victims wore. Thirty seconds. That’s all she needed.

  “Good news, Freddy. I disarm stuff like this in my sleep.”

  He didn’t move.

  She cautiously made her way toward him. Halfway to Freddy, the lights went out, plunging them into a sea of black. She ducked behind a pillar, blinking until her eyes adjusted. Her eyesight was better than twenty-twenty, and she saw dark gray on black shift near the stairwell. Someone had opened the door.

  “Good evening, Evie,” a male voice said. Rushed and breathy.

  Her stomach heaved.

  Freddy choked out another sob.

  “Calm down, Freddy,” Evie said. “You need to be still.”

  “Good advice,” the voice said.

  She squinted through the black. A man. Buzz cut, five-ten, but not as thin as she remembered Carter Vandemere. “Good evening, Carter.”

  “Such a beautiful voice you have, Evie. Everything about you is beautiful, and the truly beautiful thing is you don’t even know you’re beautiful.”

  She flattened herself against the concrete.

  “I’ll never forget the way you looked at me when we first met. Do you remember meeting in the Elliott Tower lobby?” The footsteps grew closer.

  “Give yourself up, Carter. Ricci and the team are on their way.”

  “No they’re not. They’re headed for Union Station. Probably with a few bomb dogs, heat-seeking equipment, and a sniper or two.”

  “Ricci’s expecting me. If I don’t show, he’ll come looking, and it will be as easy as putting a locator trace on my cell phone.”

  “Then we better get a move on things. Tick, tock, like a clock.” More footsteps. Louder.

  A soiled, sour smell rolled through the garage. Bile rose up her throat. “It’s not going to work, Carter. I don’t know what you have in mind, but you’re the most wanted man in America. You’re not going to get out of this city alive. Give yourself up. Ricci wants this thing over, and he’s ready to deal.”

  “I, too, want it over, and it will be. As soon as we paint the final strokes on the canvas, and as soon as Jack loses what he values most.”

  He turned on a light attached to a band about his head, the kind miners wear underground.

  Evie’s blood froze. “The baby.” Vandemere looked so bulky because he wore one of those soft-sided baby carriers all her brothers used to tote around their kids. Strapped across his chest, the baby reminded her of a rag doll, head lolling to the side, eyes closed.

  Oh, God! Dead?

  Carter picked up the baby’s hand and waved it at her. “Don’t worry, Evie. Angela’s still alive.” He pinched the child’s hand, and a soft mew came out. “But very, very sleepy. A few shots of pain medication knocked her right out, but I’m more than willing to completely knock her out if you want to go that route.” He pulled his hand from behind his back and aimed a 9mm at the baby’s head. “Would you like to see me shoot the baby?”

  A cry tore up Evie’s throat.

  “Decisions, decisions. The baby or your friend, Freddy. One of them will die if you choose to save the other. Like you, Evie, I’m pretty smart. So here’s the deal. I will keep everyone alive, but you need to do your part. First, take your gun out of the holster and place it on the ground, and stop looking at the elevator. No one will be riding the elevator. It’s conveniently without power right now thanks to a little maintenance memo from Claire.” He jabbed the gun at the baby’s head. Another weak cry.

  Evie set down her gun. “It’s me you want. Take me and let them go.”

  “That’s the plan, but first I n
eed to get you where you won’t cause any damage. You’re such a live wire, Evie. You’ve done some very brave things in your career. Sometimes I think you use your heart more than your head.” He pointed the gun at the door that read, Stairs. “After you. But first, slide your phone across the floor.”

  She hesitated. This was her lifeline with the world. He aimed the gun back at the baby. She slid her phone to him, cringing as he crushed it with his shiny brown shoe.

  * * *

  7:19 p.m.

  Ricci pulled his car onto a side street north of long-term parking near Union Station. Knox’s blue sedan was two cars ahead, and Parker and his guys were pulling up behind him. He slid out of his car and waited for the little red Beetle.

  Chapter Forty

  Friday, November 6

  7:42 p.m.

  The Elliott Tower north stairwell was pitch-black. Even the emergency security lighting had been snuffed. Vandemere must have shut off the power to this section. Probably not too difficult for a man wielding the clout of Jack’s executive assistant.

  As Evie climbed the stairs, she counted landings. On the eighth floor, Freddy, huffing and gasping, stumbled. She grabbed him before he pitched forward and got him back on his feet. On the tenth floor, the baby whimpered. On the sixteenth floor, Freddy grabbed the railing. “Can’t.” Huff. “Go.” Huff. “Anymore.” Huff. Huff. “Leave here.”

  “Fine with me,” Carter said, “but that would mean leaving a bullet in your head.”

  And that was Evie’s issue. Vandemere didn’t need Freddy alive. The photographer wasn’t on the canvas. He wasn’t part of the show. To Carter, Freddy was as expendable as an empty tube of paint.

  Evie slipped her arm around Freddy. “You can do this.”

  “Can’t.”