by Leslie Wolfe
Julie moaned quietly.
“This was personal, a vendetta, a setup. Everyone will see it.”
“Get on the ground, face down, hands behind your head. Now,” Tess said. She wasn’t going to let this son of a bitch play games with her head.
“My mistake… My one and only mistake, staring me in the face,” he laughed. “Can you see the headlines? We’re going to have so much fun, you and I. Just like old times.”
He winked, and Tess felt a wave of rage boiling her blood.
“On the ground. Now.” Tess repeated.
“Or what? You can’t shoot me; I’m unarmed and wounded. And I’ll get out. She won’t say a word,” he said, tilting his head toward Julie. “She won’t testify. She’ll say it was consensual, and this was a setup. An old, vengeful girlfriend with separation issues turned federal agent. Silence can be purchased, you see. Freedom too.”
Tess looked at Julie, keeping her gun trained on Dahler. She whimpered and closed her eyes.
“Please, make it stop,” Julie whispered, barely audible.
Dahler laughed.
“It’s never going to stop, not for her, and not for you, Theresa Winnett.”
Tess couldn’t hide her reaction, hearing her name spoken by that despicable man.
“Yes, I remember you,” he continued, “the one who got away. The one who ran, and then became a fed. The one who never saw my face… Oh, how that must have pissed you off, huh, Theresa?”
She looked at Julie and nodded once. Julie nodded too, after holding her gaze for a long, loaded second.
“Please,” Julie whispered.
“On the ground, now,” Tess shouted, her gun trained on Dahler’s chest. “This is your last warning.”
Then she pulled the trigger, twice, double-tapping him in the chest, before he had a chance to react. Dahler froze in death, his eyes still open, conveying surprise as life left his body. She let out a long breath and holstered her gun.
“Come on,” she said, freeing Julie from the last cuff. “Time to go now.” She searched the room quickly and found a light blue, flat sheet. She wrapped Julie in it and helped her lie down on a couch, gently.
“I’ll get us some help, okay? Now it’s really over.”
“Don’t leave me,” she mumbled, panic seeping in her voice.
“I won’t. I’m right here.” She pulled out her phone and speed dialed Gary’s mobile number. She heard his phone ring close by, too close, right outside the window.
“Oh, no,” she gasped, and ran outside.
There he was, lying on the grass, immobile, blood dripping slowly from a head wound. She checked for bullet holes and found none. His pulse was stable, but weak. As she called for help, she heard sirens closing in, and a SWAT truck pulled up, followed by SAC Pearson’s SUV.
She waited for them just long enough to make sure Gary was taken care of. She rushed back inside and sat next to Julie, holding her hand. She listened closely as SWAT cleared the rest of the house, then some of the agents came downstairs.
One of the men offered to carry Julie to the ambulance. She whimpered and turned her head away.
“Don’t touch her,” Tess replied, squeezing her hand. “Let’s have EMS in here with a stretcher. No one touches her, you hear me?”
45
An Invite
Tess sat on the rear bumper of an emergency rescue vehicle, while an EMT fussed over her. Her adrenaline was vanishing, and, in its absence, a wave of pain kicked in. Her left shoulder was in bad shape, her head pounded, and her ribs had caught too many of Dahler’s direct hits. But none of that mattered, because Julie was alive and safe.
The EMT unpacked a blood pressure cuff, and she offered her right arm, absently. She still reeled from facing her own monsters, from finding herself inches away from the man who had permanently altered the course of her life, more than 10 years ago. She still reeled after killing him. Now, with him wiped off the face of the earth, maybe she could hope to live again.
“Winnett,” SAC Pearson said, almost startling her.
“Sir,” she said, turning her roughed-up face toward him.
“I have a slew of complaints to deal with. Palm Beach County police called twice about your condescension and disregard for procedure. Apparently, you reassigned workforce without an approved overtime budget. Then the governor called right after your visit with the Dahlers, citing your name, and saying you had inappropriate questions for one of the most respectable families in the area. Mrs. Feldman Dahler is over there, threatening hell because you entered without a warrant.”
“Sir, I—”
“Don’t interrupt, Winnett. We had this conversation already, about you letting people finish what they have to say.” He ran his hand across his shiny scalp, then across his face. “It hurts me to say, but here goes. Great job,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “For God’s sake, I hope whatever method you used on this case never makes it in the Quantico manuals. What a bloody mess.”
She smiled, a tiny twitch at the corners of her lips.
“I’m willing to bet your report will be a mess, just like this is,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the street, blocked by emergency vehicles and flooded in red and blue flashing lights. “Don’t make me wait too long.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Winnett? When you come back from whatever R&R these guys prescribe, you’ll get your new partner.”
“All right,” she replied, no longer feeling apprehensive. Maybe she was too tired, or maybe things could begin to be different.
“All right?” Pearson reacted. “What, you hit your head, or something?” He didn’t wait for her answer. As usual, he just turned and walked away, ending the conversation Pearson-style.
She smiled for a while after he left, absentminded again, while the EMT removed her vest and cut her T-shirt to evaluate her shoulder. His fingers danced on her skin, and she no longer cringed inside. She took out her phone and retrieved SSA McKenzie’s number from memory. She gave his name a long look, but then decided to call him later, from a more private setting. It was time for her healing to begin.
“This will need X-rays and probably surgery to set it,” the EMT said. He was a young man, not even 30, with steady, cool fingers and a calming demeanor. “Some ligaments and nerves might be torn. Then you’ll need other X-rays too. We’ll take you in.”
“Oh,” she reacted, not thrilled with the perspective. She wanted a hot shower and one of Cat’s burgers and fries. Make that a double, with cheese and bacon and pickles. Artery-popping, soul-mending, Cat therapy. Then she remembered something, and her blood froze in her veins again, and a feeling of revulsion hit her hard.
“Hey, do you mind checking here, on the hairline?” she asked, exposing the left side of her neck to the EMT. “I can’t see… what’s there? Something like a scar, maybe?”
“This is nothing; it’s not even bleeding,” the EMT said. “It looks old.”
“Yeah, but what is it?”
He touched her skin with his gloved finger.
“There are three parallel lines, very thin. Like shallow cuts or something. You don’t remember getting these?”
“No,” she shuddered. “I don’t. But it was years ago, so it doesn’t matter. How’s my partner, Gary Michowsky?”
“He’s fine. He has a concussion; he’s going in too.”
“Is he conscious?”
“Yeah, he’s over there, giving us trouble. Cops, what can you expect?” The EMT scoffed and pointed at Gary, who sat on his stretcher instead of lying down, while two EMTs were struggling to keep him in place.
“Give me a minute, will you?” She hopped off the ambulance bumper, instantly regretting it, as the abrupt move sent waves of throbbing pain to her shoulder and her head. She went over to Michowsky’s stretcher and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Lie down. It’s over,” she said. “You can afford to relax.”
“I’m fine. I don’t want to be carried around like a baby. It
makes me dizzy.”
She leaned closer and whispered in his ear.
“Lie down, or I’ll tell everyone about your midlife crisis.” Then she winked at him, and watched him lie down, letting the EMTs secure him on the stretcher. “We’re going to the same X-ray party, you and me. So relax. Maybe someday you’ll tell me what the hell you were doing in Dahler’s backyard, when you were supposed to stay in the damn car.” She hesitated, and smiled at the ground. “Thanks for having my back,” she added.
He waved her away, and she turned to leave.
“Winnett?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe we can grab a mojito after we’re done with this mess, huh? A real one.”
She grinned and continued to walk away.
“Hey, Winnett?” he called again.
She turned on her heels, feigning frustration, but smiling still.
“What now?”
“You know, for a stuck-up fed bitch, you ain’t that bad.”
~~ The End ~~
Read on for a preview from:
The Watson Girl
She’syoung, she’s beautiful, and she’s a serial killer’s loose end.
~~~~~~~~
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Preview: The Watson Girl
THE WATSON GIRL
Leslie Wolfe
A Novel
*** PREVIEW ***
1
Cold-Blooded Beginning
Fifteen Years Ago
He knocked on the door with the barrel of his gun, then screwed on a silencer while waiting for someone to welcome him in. He checked the surroundings one more time. In the heavy dusk, shadows were long, and sounds were too few to disturb the suburban peacefulness. A dog barked in the neighborhood somewhere, and sounds of remote highway traffic were so distant he could barely register them.
The two-story house had warmly illuminated windows on both floors, with white sheers that made the soft lights shimmer, and gave the massive, Colonial Revival home a fairy-tale look. The distant sound of a cartoon made it all the way to the dimly lit porch. He recognized the guttural voice of Daffy Duck.
Only one car was parked on the wide, three-car garage driveway, the silver minivan Rachel Watson liked to use while performing the functions of modern-day motherhood, with one or more of her three children loaded in the back seats. Allen Watson’s car was nowhere in sight. But Watson always garaged his Benz, careful not to get a speck of dust on the custom paint that must have set him back a small fortune.
Even if he couldn’t see his car, he knew Watson was home.
He knew it because he didn’t leave anything to chance. He’d waited patiently in his own car, parked discreetly around the corner and almost entirely hidden by the generous foliage of a thriving palmetto. He kept his eyes glued to the street, watching, stalking his target. Now he was ready.
He heard footsteps approaching the door, and he tightened the grip on his gun, hidden behind his back. The door swung open, and Allen Watson stepped quietly to the side, a tentative smile on his lips, and a hint of an intrigued frown creasing his brow. He waved him in and he obliged, his gun firmly in hand. Watson closed the door, then looked at him inquisitively.
“What are y—” Watson’s question faltered mid-word, as he registered the weapon in the now-visible hand and froze, taking wavering steps back until he hit the wall behind him. Watson’s eyes, rounded in surprise, drilled into his, while words failed to come out of his gaping mouth.
“No… No…” he finally managed in a hoarse voice, weak and choked.
He hesitated a little and took his time to raise the gun higher, aiming for Allen’s chest from only a few feet away. Then the sound of tiny feet pattering on the hardwood upstairs preceded a high-pitched voice, resounding loudly above their heads.
“Who is it, Daddy?”
He looked up briefly and saw two of Watson’s kids staring down at them, dressed in colorful pajamas, their hands gripping the newels supporting the balcony handrail above the main living room.
“No…” Watson whispered. “Please…”
He couldn’t delay anymore.
He pulled the trigger twice, in rapid sequence, and Watson fell to the ground in a motionless heap, as the terrified shrieks of the two children pierced his ears. He lunged up the stairs, climbing three steps at a time, then ran toward the bedrooms. Within a few leaps, he caught up with the two screaming children. Then silence engulfed the home once more, as he searched the house room by room, looking for the third kid.
Soon he was finished upstairs, and ready to go back downstairs, when a knock on the front door made him freeze mid-step. He pulled back, closer to the wall, and held his breath. Worried, he checked the windows next to the main door, only partly covered by curtains, then he shifted his gaze to Watson’s body, collapsed just a few feet from that door.
The visitor might see his body through the open curtains. All he had to do is want to peek inside, and lean to the side a little. Damn!
The knocks repeated, a little louder and longer this time, followed by the doorbell chime. Then he heard a man’s voice, suppressed by the massive door.
“Hey, it’s Ben from next door. I have your cordless drill.” The man stopped talking, knocked a couple of times more, then continued, “I’ll leave it here, on the porch. Thanks!”
The unwanted visitor went away, his footsteps loud and heavy, but almost undistinguishable against the sounds of the cartoon on TV. He breathed slowly, calm, calculated.
A moment later, he made his way downstairs cautiously, looking for Rachel Watson. He listened intently, and somewhere beyond Daffy Duck’s nasal voice, he heard clattering noises coming from the kitchen. A hint of a smile stretched the corner of his lip and curled it upward as he headed there with silent, feline steps.
He didn’t know how long everything had taken, but it was time to go. The sound of sirens in the distance brought an urgency to his departure, and he left the home quietly and hurriedly, after checking the undisturbed, peaceful surroundings once more, paying thorough attention to every detail. The home across the street had its main floor flooded with light, with all the curtains pulled aside, allowing the light to overflow into the street. The family there was on display while they went about their business. He frowned. People should be more concerned with their privacy.
He decided to sneak behind Rachel’s minivan and screen the surroundings once more, before heading back to his car. He crouched a little, and within a few steps, he was hidden behind the minivan, careful not to touch it. He looked at nearby homes and listened for any sounds that didn’t belong. His frown deepened with the nearing sound of police sirens, but then he looked up and froze, feeling his blood turn to ice.
On the back window of the minivan was a decal, the stick-figure caricatures of a happy family, showing a man, a woman, a boy, two girls, and a cat, all exhibiting anatomically impossible smiles.
He had a big problem. He was fairly sure he’d killed two boys and one girl.
He crouched closer to the ground and groaned, rubbing
the deepening frown on his forehead furiously, as if that friction would solve any problems or hold any answers.
“Think, think!” he whispered angrily.
There was no way Rachel Watson had made a mistake when she’d ordered the decal for her car. Everything else matched, including the cat, whose threatening, phosphorescent eyes had followed his moves from the top of the kitchen cupboard as he’d dealt with Rachel. He’d let the cat live; it wasn’t worth a bullet, because cats can’t talk.
But this? This made no sense, he kept thinking, his eyes glued to the decal. It clearly depicted two girls about the same age, because the respective stick figures were identical, down to the double pigtails with bows. The boy figure was a little larger than the girls’ size. What was Rachel doing? Replacing the damn stickers every year? Probably. And sure as hell, she didn’t make mistakes about the constituents of her family.
Then, what was going on there? He’d found a girl in one of the bedrooms, playing with some Legos by herself on the floor. She could have been five or six, or about there. Then the two other kids were a tad older, maybe seven or eight, but not more.
Both were boys.
Something was terribly wrong.
He listened some more, trying to pinpoint the location of the approaching police cars. Had someone called the police on him? He was sure the gunshots had been quiet enough, but maybe someone had seen the flickers of light through the windows. Maybe the neighbor returning the cordless drill had seen Watson’s body through the open curtains. Maybe.
But maybe there was still time to set things right.
He stared for a second at the back of his hand, slightly trembling in the dim light of dusk, then he decided to do what he had to do. He sneaked back inside the house, closing the door gently, quietly. Then he started searching it, moving quickly, room by room, gun held tightly in his sweating hand.