The waiter delivered their food: Oriental chicken salad for Vail, well-done chili burger for Robby. Vail watched him dump globs of ketchup onto his fries. She flashed on the image of herself as a child. The thought seemed to emphasize the age difference between the two of them. She lifted her fork and felt Robby’s gaze on her face. He had put his foot forward and was patiently waiting for her to take the next step. She let her wrist go limp, lowering her fork back to the plate, and said, “You’re what, twenty-nine, thirty?”
“Thirty.”
“I’m . . . a little older. Why don’t you pick on someone your own age?”
Robby’s hamburger sat in front of him, untouched. He leaned toward her; she was now his total focus. “Karen, I’ve seen things, lived things most kids never should have to live through. I could’ve ended up on the street like the thugs we haul in—but that’s not what I’m about.” He paused to read her face, but she did not react. He popped a ketchup-dripping french fry in his mouth. She took another sip of wine. He finally swallowed, then shrugged. “I may not be thirty-two, like you,” he said with a wry smile, “but I’ve been around the block. A couple hundred times.”
She nodded slowly, then held up her glass. He filled it and topped off his own.
Her eyes moved from the wine to his face. “So then the method would be one step at a time, see how things turn out.”
Robby smiled. “A methodical approach. Like any good investigation.”
“Move too fast and you can screw things up, make mistakes.”
Robby lifted his glass. “To theories and methods.”
Vail raised her glass and touched it against Robby’s. “And methodical approaches.”
twenty
Another victim lies in the next room, tied up and waiting for me to return. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re like a quadriplegic, watching things happen around you but physically unable to participate. You see the deaths, the murder, the devastation of their lives, and you’re powerless to stop me.
Look—look at the victim. Open your eyes, do you see her? I said look! In the bed, tied down. Look at her face, look at her eyes, watch as I climb atop, straddle her, then stab her left eye. I draw the knife back, bring it forward fast and hard and whack! The blade sinks into the socket. Blood and fluid spatter on me, on my chest, on my chin. I withdraw the knife, agonizingly slowly as if it were some playful act of sex, then lean back and shift my weight so I can stab the right eye.
Don’t you see it yet? I stab the eyes because you can’t see what needs to be seen. You can’t see me. Look! Look in the mirror above the bed. That’s it—come on, raise your head!
As she tilts her chin back, she sees the mirror’s reflection. And staring back at her, in vivid Technicolor, is a redhead.
You see it now, don’t you. You see it!
She looks at the killer’s face but can’t see anything—no eyes, no mouth, just a blurred out image as if a television censor had altered it, the way they obscure a woman’s bare breast. But just as she is about to turn away, it comes into focus—and staring back at her from the mirror is someone she knows.
She’s looking at her own face—
Vail awoke with a gasp. She’d seen the face of the Dead Eyes killer. And it was hers. She dragged a clammy hand across her eyes, as if wiping them would make the image disappear. What did it mean? She didn’t have much time to ponder it—and even if she did, what good would it do? It was just a dream, something that no doubt stemmed from her frustration with being unable to get a handle on the case. Still, it hovered like a storm cloud, following her throughout the day.
She got out of bed and showered, then drove to work. The call from the unit secretary came through at 8:03 A.M., two minutes after she had sat down at her desk: “Mr. Gifford wants to see you in his office ASAP.”
Vail dropped her leather satchel on the chair and headed into Gifford’s office.
The meeting was short and to the point: the Office of Professional Responsibility had reviewed her report on the Virginia Commonwealth Savings Bank incident and concluded she needed to complete a refresher course at the Bureau’s training facility, Hogan’s Alley. The mock-up town had been created to hone an agent’s real-world skills: because when you were in Hogan’s “town,” in the bank, in the drugstore or movie theater, motel or photo lab, anything could happen. You never knew who or what was part of the exercise ... you had to play it as it came, and as you saw fit. As Gifford had explained it, after the episode in the bank, the bureaucrats felt she needed “some work” on her tactical skills.
“It’s a small price to pay,” Gifford had told her, “and a light sentence.”
The vivid image of this morning’s nightmare crept into her thoughts. She pushed it aside and forced herself to focus on Gifford’s comment. He seemed to be waiting for her to respond. “In the middle of Dead Eyes? Can’t it wait?”
“You’re one member of a task force, Agent Vail. You’re not even one of the investigators. You’re just support.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Report to the Academy immediately. Your contact is Agent Paul Ortega.”
That was an hour ago, and she was now standing outside the Hogan Bank and Trust, gun drawn—blanks in the chamber—but her pulse jumping just the same. Fucking OPR. Why’d they have to make it a bank?
“We’ve got three armed Caucasian males inside,” the voice crackled over her radio.
No, we’ve got a serial killer on the loose in our own damn backyard. And I’m playing games.
She peered around the brick wall into the front window, then lifted the radio from her belt and depressed the talk button. “Suspects visible.”
“Two units on their way. Hold your position. ETA one minute, then we’re going in.”
Her heart continued to pound. Adrenaline was in her veins, speeding her pulse, dilating her pupils. Brain as sharp as a pinpoint. I’m ready.
She tightened the grip on her gun and she flashed on Alvin cradling the hostage in his arms, his eyes bouncing back and forth, his feet shuffling—
And her cell rang. What the hell?
Anything goes in the town of Hogan’s Alley. Anything. But a phone call in the middle of a bank robbery? It could happen. It is happening. Answer it? Was this part of the exercise?
Low roar of a car engine in the distance . . . she would have to storm the bank in a matter of seconds. Phone ringing.
Shit. Pulled the BlackBerry from her belt, looked at the display. Blocked number. Of course. They were not going to make it easy. Hit the button, glanced down the street for the approaching vehicles. “Vail.”
“Karen, get your fucking ass over here. Jonathan forgot his school book and wants you to pick it up—”
“Deacon?”
“Jonathan says the teacher needs the book today. Come get it.”
Her eyes swept the street. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Training exercise or not, she didn’t want to blow this, especially since the report would be going straight to OPR.
Back to Deacon: “Why can’t you bring it over?”
“’Cause I can’t. I’m busy.”
Shit. “Fine, I’ll be there as soon as I can get away.”
“Only gonna be here another hour—”
She hit the End button as the first vehicle pulled up to the curb. Two agents poured out and made eye contact with her. The second unmarked car then screeched to a stop, followed by the voice over the radio: “All units, Charlie Delta Echo. Go go go!”
Vail grabbed the door handle, swung her body around, and stormed the bank.
THE CAR KEYS were in Deacon’s hand as he stared at Vail through the screen. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it. I’m out the door.”
“Just give me the damn book, Deacon.” Vail had handled the bank situation just fine, but the exercise left her jittery, the residual adrenaline still sloshing around her bloodstream. She was in no mood for Deacon’s bullshit.
He snarled, then walked back toward th
e living room. She entered and stood in the entryway, tapping her foot. Being in the house gave her the willies. She had the overwhelming urge to take the butt of her gun and crack him good across the noggin. Just for old times’ sake. And for what he’d been doing to Jonathan. Most of all, for what he’d done to her yesterday.
“So,” Deacon called from the kitchen, “did you enjoy our last rendezvous, Karen?”
She squeezed her left arm against her body and felt her Glock, shoved into its holster. Deacon suddenly appeared around the bend with Jonathan’s book in hand.
He was wearing a shit-eating grin as he danced into the living room. Did a spin in front of Vail. “Here ya go, darlin’.” Held the book in front of him.
As she reached for it, he pulled it away and hid it behind his back.
Rage. Crack him across the head. Right between his mud brown eyes.
“Deacon, I’m not in the mood. Give me the damn book.”
Her face was inches from his. She leaned forward, he leaned back. “You shoulda pulled the trigger yesterday, Karen. Because I’m still around, and as long as I’m still around I’m gonna make your life miserable. Then there’s Jonathan, and I’m already making his life miserable—”
Her blood pressure had risen beyond safe limits and if she didn’t let off some steam or get the hell out of there fast, she was going to do something she would regret. She clenched her jaw, then spun around. Book or not, she was leaving. Jonathan would have to understand.
But as she turned away
Deacon grabbed her arm
And the tap opened and anger poured out like water from a faucet—
she swung hard, bone on bone
and he fell backwards
knees crumpling
And he hit the floor with a loud thump!
She looked down at her fallen ex, who was shaking his head, trying to regain some sense of self. “You deserve that you son of a bitch,” she spat. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”
She located the textbook, which had skittered beneath the sofa, and bent down to retrieve it. After straightening up, Vail heard movement behind her and started to turn—
But Deacon grabbed her ankles and twisted and she fell back, landing sideways on the couch.
Looking at him, his eyes still distant and vacant: she yanked her right leg free and kicked him in the face, a swift shot intensified by the heel of her shoe. A moan escaped from Deacon’s bloody lips and he fell back to the floor.
Vail pushed herself off the couch and stood over her stunned ex-husband. Then kicked him in the ribs, for good measure. “I mean it, Deacon. You come near me again, I’ll kill you.”
OUTSIDE, VAIL SAT IN HER CAR, her heart pounding, her strength gone, her mind racing, on the verge of tears. The squeal of brakes from a nearby delivery truck put her back on track. She found her keys, tossed the book onto the seat beside her, and started the engine.
She thought of the last time she drove down this road . . . beaten, dazed, and frazzled. A victim.
But at the moment, Deacon was the one beaten and dazed. And she had to admit, it felt much better this way.
twenty-one
He sent off his message but had not yet received a response. He ended up having to do some thinking, let alone a lot of research, to make it work. He could’ve just haphazardly thrown his writings out there, but what’s the sense in that? No, he had to do it just right. The proper tool is key to honing your work. A painter could no more create a finely detailed landscape with a wide brush than a photographer could capture the close-up beauty of a flower with a box camera. The right tools for the right jobs.
Which got him to thinking . . . tools weren’t the only things that mattered. Presentation was critical. Would an artiste display his most precious work in a basement somewhere, where no one could see it? Or would he look for the right stand, the proper lighting to emphasize its attributes, the best setting for his piece? A writer must do the same. What good would his work do sitting on a hard drive locked away in a computer? So he spent the time to do it right . . . such things can’t be rushed. After all, patience is a virtue. Who said that? Who cares? Somebody did, and it happens to be true. And that’s really all that matters to me.
They’ll react. They have to.
The neighbor’s dog was barking and that made it hard to concentrate. He sat at the computer and nothing came out. Was this writer’s block? He’d read about that, where you stare at the blank screen and can’t write anything. He was no writer, at least he never thought he was, but that goddamn cocker spaniel had been hitting the same pitch and rhythm for the past fifteen minutes. Bark-bark-bark. Bark-bark-bark. Bark-bark-bark. Same monotonous tone that wore on him. Who can write with this noise? Can Stephen King? Definitely not!
He had the urge to go next door and drive a knife through its fucking brain, end the incessant noise.
Yet annoying as it was, it was something he was able to control. He could stop himself from killing the dog because it was a lower form of life—and therefore worthy of some mercy. It knows not what it does.
But when it came to the bitch-whores, he couldn’t help himself. He finally realized he didn’t want to, because it defined the very essence of who he was. It took him a while to understand that. Once he did, he knew how to satisfy the desire, the need for more. For satisfaction.
No, it was more than that. It was an uncontrollable urge. A hunger.
It was something only he understood. He’d never tried to make others feel what he felt, because he knew they wouldn’t, or couldn’t. He accepted that. He accepted that he was different—and that even his inner self would never accept him for who he was.
So be it. He’d gotten comfortable with who he’d become. No longer would someone control his life, dictate when he could do the things he wanted to do. He’d learned how to free himself. Freedom was one of the most valued rights of our great country, and it took him years to learn how to find it. So much more the reason to savor it.
But perhaps the best freedom of all is that no one has stopped him from fulfilling his needs. Because they couldn’t. No one could find him. He had the perfect hiding place, the perfect disguise. And no matter how hard they searched, no matter what places they looked, he wasn’t there.
They will never find me.
The dog’s bark quickened for a moment, the change in rhythm breaking the monotony. Someone strange was near. If there was one thing he looked for in a potential target, it was the absence of a dog. He could kill the dog, that wasn’t the problem—first time he did that he was about thirteen, maybe fourteen. The problem was that the damn thing would bark and he didn’t need the noise. Or the hassle of possibly getting bitten. It was just easier to avoid them.
He walked to his door in time to see the FedEx delivery person heading toward his stoop, a box wedged beneath her arm. As the woman was reaching for the buzzer, he pulled the door open. Ms. FedEx jumped backward.
He sniffed deeply, smelled fear. A dense odor, putrid almost, and moist . . . a familiar scent he’d sampled far too many times to count ... and it was oozing from this slut’s pores like sweat. Must’ve scared the crap out of her.
He signed for the package, and as he was taking it, Ms. FedEx squinted a bit when looking at him. He hated when people did that. It’s just damned rude. He dismissed the delivery person—she didn’t realize how lucky she was—and grabbed a pair of scissors, then took to the box with the excitement of a child descending the stairs on Christmas morning.
After clearing away the packing, he saw his new tool . . . lying in the box, propped up and ready for use. He removed the stun gun and read the advertising panels. Some guys get excited over drills and power saws and screwdrivers. For him, a useful tool has to do more. It has to help him define his freedom. That’s the way he looked at it. This was his freedom tool.
He glanced at the instruction manual. Not as precise a resource as he’d like it to have been. There was more mumbo jumbo lawyer junk to head off liability claims
if the unit was used improperly than about the operation of the damn thing.
Downstairs, the cocker spaniel barked again.
He looked down at the stun gun in his hands and instantly felt the spark of excitement inside his chest. He would try out his new tool on the dog. Lower species or not, it was going to get the jolt of its life.
He felt the balance of the precisely machined device and realized the power harnessed in its small, black rectangular body.
The right tool for the right job.
twenty-two
State Senator Eleanor Linwood sat behind her massive, highly polished mahogany desk. Her auburn hair had been colored and re-cut this morning, then gelled and sprayed into place. A man, bent at her side, swiped a makeup brush across the gentle folds of her neck, attempting to lessen their prominence for the TV cameras. With gold reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she read aloud the lines her speechwriter had prepared. “And let me state right here and now—”
“Senator.” Chief-of-staff Levar Wilson was standing in the doorway, sheaves of dog-eared papers clutched in both hands. “What are you doing?”
She waved off the man applying the makeup. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m practicing, for the press conference.”
“Senator, with all due respect, this is an extremely important speech. The public is going to see you like they’ve never seen you before; you need to make the most of this situation, seize the moment—”
“I’ve delivered hundreds of speeches over the years, Levar—”
“This isn’t a stump speech where you’re angling for votes. You’re telling your constituents they’re safe. That you’re doing everything humanly possible to catch this killer. All the mothers out there are putting the safety of their daughters in your hands. You have to show them you’re strong and in control, that you’re up to the task.”
“Your point?”
“Let’s give it a run-through in the conference room. I need to go over some details with you.”
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