“Sergeant,” he said, talking over Dixon’s hello. “Where do they film cop shows in L.A.?”
Dixon sputtered for a moment.
“Well, all over,” he finally said.
“No,” Mac said. “Not just any place. Think Linda Vista Hospital. Someplace abandoned, private, where you won’t be disturbed.”
“Right,” said the sergeant. Mac could hear the gears turning. “That would be the jail in Lincoln Heights. They shot L.A. Confidential and–”
“Where is it?”
“You know what,” said the sergeant, starting to catch some of Mac’s enthusiasm. “It’s not that far from Linda Vista or from County USC!”
“Text me an address right now,” Mac said, heading to the front door. “I’m downtown. Not far.”
“I’ll send backup,” Dixon shouted. “Don’t go without backup!”
“Text me the damn address!” Mac said, pulling the door open and ending the call.
Now it was his turn to stalk his prey.
• • • • •
Prentiss raised the knife and felt the familiar thrill begin when Isabelle’s eyes popped open.
“I can read you,” she screamed. “I can feel your pain.” Prentiss began the downswing just as the words hit home. Only an inch from her knee, the blade came to a haltering stop. “Don’t you want someone to understand you?” she said, her voice shaking. He stared at her, his jaw tight. “Your pain,” she repeated. “The ultimate pain. Isn’t that what you want?”
He did have the ultimate pain. All day. Every day. No one knew. No one even suspected. He stared into Isabelle’s tear-streaked face. But she could feel it. She would know!
Prentiss looked at the downward-turned blade in his hand. He didn’t have to give this up–maybe just delay it. Isabelle’s entire body trembled, her fear so palpable he could feel it. He faked a jab at her and relished her quick shriek and the way she jerked in the chair.
Yes. Maybe he didn’t have to rush this.
Slowly, he closed the knife even though his heart had started to race.
This kill had become completely unique.
CHAPTER TEN
Everything about the place was right, thought Mac. Right down to the fake vehicle in the parking lot. A white Crown Victoria with a push bumper added and a few antennas. But the license plate was wrong. It had regular registration tags.
It’d only taken twenty minutes and, aside from the Crown Vic, the enormous parking lot was empty. Mac pulled as close to the building as possible, parked, and jumped out. He pulled his Glock out of the holster and ran.
• • • • •
Isabelle couldn’t keep herself from shaking. The handcuffs rattled constantly. The Chameleon slowly circled behind her. Though he’d put the knife away, Isabelle’s dread only rose. Her hands behind her, there was no way she could know when he’d touch her. He moved silently, taking his time, and the fear that swept through her only mounted higher the longer he delayed. An acrid taste crept up the back of her throat and she tried to swallow to keep from throwing up but her mouth was completely–
Suddenly, there was pressure in her left palm and the reading began. Isabelle saw herself scream and writhe, laying on the metal cot. Although her mind railed against the horror of it, another sensation quickly intruded–pleasure. Cruel delight surged into her and she knew that Prentiss–that was his real name–had truly enjoyed seeing her suffer. The images flew past: her body in the trunk, checking his body makeup in the mirror, her and Mac in the elevator, buying an air gun, shopping in the adult shop, buying handcuffs, and then Angela. Isabelle sucked in a breath as Angela died.
Prentiss had been disappointed because the suffering had ended.
Angela, thought Isabelle. At least it was over for her.
Suddenly, Prentiss was on the sand looking up at a ferris wheel. Angela shrieked as the stethoscope seared into her hand and Isabelle’s arm jerked in response. The images began to flow faster. Esme now, barely conscious as the tip of the blade pressed past her skin. The utter delight that flooded through Prentiss. There was another victim, in a dark bathroom. She was screaming. It echoed from the tiles and glass. Isabelle’s throat burned with Prentiss’s screams of joy. One victim after another, their pain, his euphoria, until Isabelle felt the room spin. But suddenly, there she was–Prentiss’s mother.
The woman lunged at him with a small, kitchen knife and Isabelle felt it land in Prentiss’s leg. She heard cartilage rip, felt the thudding vibration as the blade sank to the hilt, and then the pain–excruciating, unending.
“Mother!” she wailed, the sound impossibly high, at the top of her lungs, as the sensation of ripping flesh traveled up her thigh. “My leg!”
“Yes!” Prentiss yelled behind her. “Yes!”
• • • • •
Mac skid to a stop and spun toward the sound.
There could be no mistaking it.
“Isabelle,” he muttered.
• • • • •
Prentiss barely heard the pounding of feet over Isabelle’s wail. But at the end of the long corridor, an agent with a gun appeared. Prentiss immediately ducked and, when his fingers stopped pressing into Isabelle’s palm, her scream died away.
“Step back,” the agent yelled and Prentiss could see that he had his gun drawn and his run had slowed to a walk. Prentiss nearly jumped and ran at the sight but now he froze, transfixed. The gun was pointed at him but, luckily, he’d been behind Isabelle, who slumped forward in the chair such that Prentiss had to cower. “I said, step back,” the agent yelled, still advancing.
Prentiss quickly swiveled his head this way and that but there were only empty cells, the corridor in front of him, and a dead end behind.
He was trapped.
But as he crouched behind the chair and looked down at Isabelle’s wrists, handcuffed to the chair, he couldn’t help but think of the the most intense, exciting, and beautiful moment of his life. He looked up at the agent who held his gun with both hands, out in front, slowly advancing.
Wait. I recognize him. This has to be Mac.
Prentiss squinted at him around Isabelle’s shoulder.
He can’t shoot because she’s in the way.
“Step back from her,” Mac yelled.
Wait, wait, wait, Prentiss thought, calming down. Who is the actor here?
Slowly, Prentiss moved his hand to the holster, unsnapped it, and withdrew his weapon. As he stood, he pointed it at Isabelle.
“Drop your gun,” he ordered, his voice firm and resonant.
Mac came to a quick stop, some twenty feet away. Prentiss smiled at the fast reaction and realized his mustache was slipping from the sweat pouring from him. He pressed it back into place, all the while keeping his eyes on Mac, waiting to see what he would do. Prentiss didn’t have a lot of experience with improvisational theater but he had a little. It wasn’t exactly his favorite.
“Drop your weapon,” Prentiss said, louder this time. And for emphasis, he put the gun to Isabelle’s temple and shoved. “Drop it or she gets a bullet!”
Isabelle moaned in response and Prentiss didn’t know if it was her or the way he was playing the scene but Mac held his gun in the air, dangling from one finger.
“Whatever you say,” Mac said. “You’re in control.”
Prentiss couldn’t help but smile though the mustache barely hung on.
“Drop the gun,” Prentiss ordered.
Slowly, Mac complied. He crouched lower until he could lay it on the floor and then put it down with a light clatter. Right at his feet. Then he stood.
Does he think I’m an idiot?
Prentiss glanced to his right.
“Kick it into that cell,” he ordered.
Though he took his time, Mac did as he was told. The gun skittered loudly over the concrete floor and quickly over the threshold.
Prentiss aimed the gun square at the man’s chest and stepped from behind Isabelle.
This was proving interesting.
Mac? Isabelle thought.
The voices were so dim.
Is that you?
God, she was tired. It would be so easy to just sleep.
The grey haze of the reading was slow to clear but something was pushed into her temple and the pain there actually helped.
“Whatever you say,” Mac said. “You’re in control.”
She tried to shake her head but it was so heavy. Though she slowly opened her heavy lids, she could barely see her lap through the haze. Then the images from the reading began to organize themselves: Prentiss with his mother, his victims, his work in acting, more victims, his preparations, all the costumes.
“Drop the gun,” Prentiss said.
The gun, Isabelle thought tiredly. Something about the gun.
But what?
She tried to shake her head again.
I can’t think.
“Kick it into that cell,” Prentiss said.
But as she heard the gun scrape across the floor, she remembered.
• • • • •
If he could keep from getting shot, Mac had a chance at saving Isabelle–if he could keep from getting shot. Backup couldn’t be far behind.
The Chameleon was true to form. The cop uniform was impressive. So was the completely different look.
Mac stared hard at Isabelle. She was alive but barely moving.
“Into the cell,” the Chameleon said, waving the gun and pointing with it.
Mac glanced at it and then back at him and realized that Isabelle had moved. Slowly, she raised her head but her staring and unfocused eyes told him that she didn’t see him.
“Fake gun,” she breathed, before her head dropped again.
The Chameleon jerked his gaze toward her and then back to Mac. The look in his face said it all: anger, surprise, and fear.
As he raised the gun to hit Isabelle with it, Mac charged him. Adrenalin compounding fury, Mac covered the space in a heartbeat.
“Shit,” the man had started to say, just as Mac slammed into him with a flying tackle.
They smashed into the ground, the fake Glock flying down the corridor, as the air rushed out of the Chameleon in a loud grunt. Mac immediately landed his fist in the middle of the man’s face and felt a second connection reverberate when the back of his head crunched into the floor. The next blow landed on the side of the Chameleon’s head sending blood from his nose spewing out in an arc that cut Mac across the chest. As he stood, Mac grabbed the front of his uniform and hauled him to his feet. Then he planted his fist so hard in the man’s stomach that his feet left the floor. Then he did it again. And again.
As the rage poured out of him, Mac grabbed the Chameleon’s throat, and forced him against the bars. Though his eyes had already begun to roll back in his head, Mac squeezed. A gurgling choke emerged from the bloody mouth, the mustache hanging from the corner, and Mac squeezed tighter, banging him against the bars with a reverberating metal clang. But as the Chameleon’s eyes closed, Mac knew he had to stop–but not to save the man’s life. The Chameleon had to suffer, not die. Slowly, Mac released his grip and the Chameleon sagged to the floor in a heap.
Mac whirled to Isabelle and took a step but was brought up short. The handcuffs. Quickly he bent to the Chameleon’s body, shoved him onto his side, and popped open the handcuff compartment on the utility belt. The keys slid out and Mac snatched them up.
Instantly, he was at the front of the chair.
“Isabelle?” he tried as he unlocked the cuffs that bound her ankles but there was no response. He looked up into her face, her head hung low and her eyes closed. As he stood, he gently lifted her head, moved her shoulders back, and helped her sit up to take the strain off of her arms. The pulse at her jugular was fast but weak and her breathing was shallow. He’d been about to lay her head back when her eyes slowly began to open. Her parched lips started to smile.
“I knew it,” she whispered in a dry throat, “I knew you’d come.”
But no sooner were the words out than the little smile vanished and her eyes closed again.
Mac eased her head back, circled behind the chair, reached for the handcuffs and paused. Her left wrist was swollen and bleeding and she wasn’t wearing gloves. The fury built in him again as he unlocked the cuffs and glanced at the Chameleon’s still body. Maybe he wouldn’t wait to vent his anger. But as Isabelle’s hands came loose, he let the handcuffs and keys fall to the floor. Outside, he could hear the sound of approaching sirens. Careful not to touch her hands, he moved them into her lap before scooping her up in his arms.
Cradling her limp body to him, he lifted her so that her head could rest against his chest. He lowered his face and gently pressed his cheek against hers. Then he closed his eyes to the softness of her skin.
“Isabelle,” he whispered and, for a moment, the outside world fell away. “I’ve got you,” he murmured as relief flooded through him. He took in a deep breath, hugged her a little tighter, and then slowly let that breath go. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Prentiss drew closer as his mother shoved him from behind.
“Go on!” the woman yelled. “Get it over with!”
But Prentiss hardly needed to be prodded. Though his mouth opened and closed like he was a fish out of water, Isabelle realized he was changing. He was the priest, then the surgeon, then the cop. She tried to move her hands to push him away but she didn’t know where they were. Prentiss’s cycling face pressed in closer, took over her vision, completely surrounded her until Isabelle felt like she couldn’t breathe.
“No!” she screamed.
Abruptly, she sat up and her eyes flew open.
“It’s okay,” someone said. “You’re all right.”
Frantically, Isabelle’s eyes searched for the reason her arms wouldn’t move. Padded restraints.
“What?” she said.
“You were pulling out the I.V.,” Mac said. “Here, lay back.” She looked up into his face. It was Mac. His blue-green eyes gazed down into hers. “It was a dream,” he said quietly. “You’re all right.”
Isabelle felt the pillows behind her and sank back into them as the room began to spin. She felt Mac reach across her.
“Nurse?” he said. “We need some help in here.”
Then Isabelle felt Mac’s hand along the side of her face. The feel of it was so warm, so–
Her eyes popped open.
“Mac,” she said, panic rising. “My gloves.”
“You’re wearing them,” he said quickly.
Yes. She could feel them now.
A nurse appeared on the other side of the bed and adjusted a little switch on the I.V. tube.
A strange taste coated the back of Isabelle’s throat and, in moments, the world faded comfortably away.
• • • • •
Though Isabelle had protested that she was fine, Mac noticed she didn’t refuse his help on the way up the stairs to her apartment. With her lacerations and dehydration treated, the hospital stay had only required one night. Though the nurse had called the doctor who would sign the release form, they’d waited for thirty minutes before Mac had had enough. While Isabelle had gotten dressed, he’d tracked the surprised doctor down in the cafeteria and had the forms signed.
“Will Esme still have to testify?” Isabelle asked as he unlocked the front door.
All the way home, she’d peppered him with these types of questions. How was Esme doing? What had Ben said? Was Isabelle’s testimony going to be enough to put Prentiss Coulter away for life?
“Esme’s already said she wants to testify,” Mac said.
Ben was hoping that it might help his daughter move on, give her the closure that she so desperately needed. Now Mac found himself wanting the same thing for Isabelle. She hadn’t said a thing about her time with the Chameleon.
Though all the agencies had been anxious to debrief Isabelle, Mac had put his foot down. Prentiss Coulter wasn’t
going anywhere. Even in the prison’s infirmary, he was completely locked down with an armed guard present at all times.
Mac took Isabelle’s purse from her and set it on the small table next to the door and then he closed and locked it. Though it was only early afternoon, he could see that Isabelle was exhausted. For that matter, he was tired too. The sleepless days that led up to Isabelle’s rescue didn’t seem to help him sleep in the hospital. Isabelle had woken up four times, screaming.
As he turned to her, he could see she was staring at the bedroom at the end of the hall. She wrung her hands in front of her and didn’t move.
“Do you want me to change the sheets?” he asked quietly, when she didn’t budge. It would only make sense that she’d want to be comfortable–truly rest–after what she’d been through. “Those are our sheets but it’d only take me a minute to–”
“No,” she said. “God, no. I don’t want to be alone.”
Instantly, Mac had his arms around her.
It was the first time they’d embraced since he’d found her. But as he pulled her closer, her arms didn’t go around his waist. Though she laid her face quickly on his chest, her hands were still between them. He waited for her to move them, thinking they’d simply been caught there, but after a few moments passed, he realized she wasn’t going to move them. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair even as his chest tightened.
Something has changed.
Whatever had happened to Isabelle, whatever that freak had done, she was different.
Mac clenched his jaw.
It was too soon to tell, he told himself. After everything she’d been through, it was too damn soon to tell. But the sinking feeling in his stomach said otherwise.
Taken (Second Sight) Page 6