by V. K. Sykes
Tonight, though, circumstances were a hell of a long way from normal.
Robitaille started to move forward, her back to the killer. A few seconds later, Garneau grabbed her phone from its hip holster.
Luke’s cell vibrated. He spat out a low curse, guessing what must have happened.
“Go,” he whispered, knowing Gardner was close enough to Robitaille that he might be able to overhear.
“Garneau’s rigged a bomb on me.” Her voice rang out out clearly over the drumming of the rain. “If you take him out, a det cord gets pulled as he drops. So, you have to get the tac team out of here right now. Back right off and do not follow us.” She raised her voice even more, as if she were the commander on scene. “I repeat, do not follow.”
Tac team. Message received and understood, babe .
“How about the others?” He deepened and roughened his voice while keeping it barely more than a whisper.
“He says he’ll release them.”
“Roger that,” Luke said, hoping like hell she was right. “Team is withdrawing.”
The line went dead. Everything she said had obviously been for Garneau’s ears. He thought it highly unlikely that the killer had recognized his voice, since he’d only said half a dozen words in a gravelly voice. He hoped he’d sounded passably like a tac team leader.
He watched through the scope as Garneau freed M.L. and then Cooper from their restraints. Robitaille edged closer as the killer leaned forward.
As soon as the four of them started down the pier—M.L. holding Cooper in her arms, followed by Robitaille, then Garneau—Luke moved off quickly. He looped back past the excavator and then across an open area into the shelter of another low building to his right. By the time he looked back, Garneau and his captives had disappeared.
* * *
Before Garneau disconnected the detonator from his belt, he made Cooper stand beside him and pressed the barrel of his gun against the boy’s neck. Amy couldn’t make a move even if she could think of one and, worse still, Beckett no longer had a shot now that they were between the buildings.
The bomb might no longer be a factor, but that did little to change the probabilities. Amy didn’t have even a glimpse of an opening to launch an attack. Not yet. But somehow he’d have to immobilize her, or risk that she’d attack him after M.L. and Cooper were out of danger. Thought Garneau was fit and strong, if she could surprise him she could surely take him down despite the gun. But she couldn’t make the attempt until M.L. and Cooper were free and clear. Otherwise, he’d punish her for defying him, and the best way was to kill the people she loved. Right in front of her eyes.
Garneau ripped the tape from M.L.’s mouth, then from Cooper’s. Cooper instantly wailed in pain and fear. M.L. hugged him tight with her free arm, sobbing over and over again that everything was going to be all right.
Though it was just mother-talk, Amy prayed with all her heart that her sister would be proven right.
Garneau handed M.L. a plastic loop and told her to tie Cooper’s wrist to the bike rack near the car. Cooper wriggled, and M.L.’s hands shook so badly that it took her most of a minute to get the loop in position and tighten it. As M.L. took a step back and looked into Garneau’s face, he punched her in the arm.
“No! Make it tight, bitch, like this!” He yanked the tie hard, and Cooper gave a strangled cry.
“You motherfucking asshole,” M.L. snarled. She almost launched at him, catching herself at the last second.
“Go ahead,” he taunted. “Do it, then you can watch the kid die. Makes no difference to me.”
“Do what he says, Chère,” Amy cried out, jerking her sister’s attention away from Garneau.
M.L. trembled, her face a mask of rage and fear.
“Robitaille, tie this moron next to the kid,” Garneau said, handing her a loop.
With her own hands tied, Amy had to struggle to wind the loop around both the rack and M.L.’s wrist. When she got the ends together, she pulled the loop snug enough that her sister gave a little wince. She couldn’t afford to risk what Garneau might do if he thought she was fooling around.
“Please don’t kill my sister!” M.L. cried. Her high-pitched plea was only just audible in the increasing howl of the wind and the clattering of the rain on the tin roof of the building next to them. “She’s the best person in the world. All she’s ever done is help people.”
Amy blinked back tears, raging silently at the injustice that had brought them to this unthinkable moment. How could this be happening to her family again? But she forced a smile and blew her sister a kiss. “I love you, Chère. Please tell Mom and Dad how much I love them, too.”
M.L. wailed, but managed a nod.
“The cops will be back here soon enough,” Garneau said to M.L, “so you and the kid are going to be free in no time. So, I’ll say goodbye now. Have a nice life, Mrs. Wilson, and be a better wife to Justin.”
Despite her fear, Amy felt a rush of relief. Though her gut had told her Garneau just might live up to his end of the bargain, the jaded cop in her hadn’t totally believed it. Now, it seemed her gut might have been right after all.
His gun still pointed at Cooper, Garneau yanked open the back door of the Hyundai and pulled something out. As he slammed the door shut with his elbow, Amy saw he held a capped syringe in his left hand. “Face the car and flatten yourself against the hood,” he told her.
He’d have to get within inches to inject her. Should she launch an attack now?
No . Fighting him here would be too big a risk. If she blew her chance, M.L. and Cooper were dead.
“Do I have to say it again, Robitaille? Do you really want me to have to kill the fucking kid? Because I will do it.”
“All right, all right!” Amy yelled. She bent forward and stretched her arms across the slick metal of the hood.
“Put your fucking face down flat on it!” he screamed. “Now!”
Amy lowered her head until her cheek touched the hood’s cold surface. The car’s engine must have been off quite awhile, she registered in a cop moment.
She couldn’t see Garneau in this position, and she probably couldn’t hear his movements. Not with the drumming of the goddamn rain on the car and the rooftops. She had no sense of him anymore, and might as well be blind and deaf as long as she was splayed out like this.
“Don’t move or I’ll blow a big fucking hole in your back. Then I’ll kill those two over there, but much more slowly.” A second later, his gun jammed hard into her spine.
At that moment, she knew she’d lost the first battle. But whatever happened to her, she’d won the war. She finally believed that M.L. and Cooper would be safe. If Garneau was going to kill them, he’d have done it by now. And made her watch every horrifying moment.
When the needle jabbed into her neck, Amy flinched but didn’t cry out. Then a smothering darkness took her.
* * *
Luke took off, traversing the grass strip back toward the parking area. When he turned onto the street, he stopped and looked behind him at the marina.
Headlights flashed on and Garneau’s car began to move. Luke pivoted and raced up to Main Street and the intersection. Flattening himself behind an oak tree, he cradled the rifle to his chest. He’d barely made it in time because Garneau—or whoever was driving—careened around the corner and right through the intersection, ignoring the stop sign. The car veered left, heading east on Main.
Luke sprinted the remaining half-block to his car. The tracker showed Garneau about a mile and a half down Route 15. Not far enough ahead yet. Luke grabbed some towels he’d stowed in the car and quickly dried his face to clear his vision. Except for his torso and his feet, which had been protected by the rain jacket and his waterproof boots, he was utterly soaked.
When he estimated that Garneau had reached the junction of Routes 15 and 729, Luke fired up his engine. He clamped his hands on the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white.
For now, the bastard had beaten them. Luk
e could try to blame the failure to take a shot on the weather, but even on a clear, windless night, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to pull the trigger. Not with the hundred percent confidence level Robitaille had rightly demanded.
The son of a bitch hadn’t given Robitaille even a sniff of an opening to attack him. If he had, Luke had no doubt that the guy would be on the ground right now, cuffed and ready for transport.
Or maybe lying in a sodden heap with his neck broken.
He punched in 9-1-1 and gave the dispatcher instructions for finding M.L. and Cooper. He damn near called Cramer, too, but stopped himself because he’d solemnly promised Robitaille that he wouldn’t. Not when it wasn’t yet time.
Now everything depended on Plan B. And, unfortunately, Plan B sucked.
70
* * *
Sunday, August 8
1:15 a.m.
Luke constantly shifted his eyes as he drove, trying to simultaneously monitor the dark narrow road ahead, the small screen of his smartphone, and his fuel gauge. The needle had been on empty for a couple of miles and now the warning light had come on.
How the fuck had he neglected to fill his gas tank before they left for the rendezvous? In less than twenty minutes, he’d be running on fumes. If he was running at all.
Garneau had zigzagged his way cross-country for over an hour, first heading north and then turning east onto Kenner Highway toward Stuart. Luke hadn’t been surprised since he’d expected Garneau’s hideout to be close to the kill zone between Stuart and Jupiter. But after fifteen more minutes, the killer had changed it up again, cutting back to the northwest on a line virtually parallel with his initial direction. The tracker showed that after three more quick maneuvers on country roads, Garneau was back on State Road 15 and headed over the north end of Lake Okeechobee. Luke was about six miles behind, coming up to the little town of Taylor Creek. Despite his feint toward the populated I-95 corridor, Garneau had quickly reversed his tracks and headed for the lake country.
Had it not been for his fuel problem, the meandering route would have suited Luke fine. Plan B was about handling the situation themselves—just Robitaille and him taking on Garneau after M.L. and Cooper were free. But if things went all to hell and Garneau killed them or otherwise put them out of commission, he and Robitaille had agreed that the cavalry should be near enough to take the killer out before he got away for good.
It had been his call as to when to bring Cramer into the Plan B loop, and Luke had gone strictly with his gut when twenty-five minutes ago he’d rousted the captain out of bed. After listening to Luke’s three crisp sentences of explanation, Cramer had roared like a cornered bear and threatened mayhem when he got his hands on him and Robitaille.
But after he’d exhausted his repertoire of curses, Cramer had gotten with the program fast. He’d been on the phone to Luke twice since to get updates on Garneau’s location as he mobilized his forces. The SWAT team, including the county’s SWAT-trained medics, was now on route. He’d also requested Martin County to dispatch its nearest deputies. Luke was now about call and tell him to add two more counties to the list because Garneau was already in Okeechobee and about to cross into Glades.
Cramer had threatened death and destruction when Luke continued to refuse to give him his exact coordinates. But Luke figured that if the killer caught the sound of a helicopter out here, he might well murder Robitaille on the spot, then dump her and run. So, he had to give Garneau time to reach his hideaway. He obviously had a reason for not shooting Robitaille at the Pahokee pier—he clearly wanted her alive. Alive so he could play his sick games, no doubt, just like he’d done with the others. Beat her, cut her, and terrorize her until she begged for death. Then he’d shoot caustic chemicals into her veins and finish her off.
Luke wrenched his mind away from that nightmare image. Robitaille was not only still alive but only a few miles up the road. She was smart and tough and resourceful, and as long as blood kept flowing through his veins, he would get to her before it was too late.
He flicked another glance at the fuel gauge and cursed again. He was briefly tempted to floor it and close the gap with Garneau, maybe even try to force him off the road. But he knew her chances under that scenario were minimal.
Though he had to be patient for Robitaille’s sake, it was the hardest thing Luke had ever done.
* * *
A jarring series of metallic clangs dragged Amy back to consciousness. She forced her eyes open, blinking again and again to adjust to sudden bright light. Everything looked a little fuzzy, but she finally realized they were parked inside a small garage. The clanging must have been from the overhead door opening and closing.
Garneau pressed his gun into her side. “Shit, I didn’t expect you to come around so fast,” he said, clearly rankled. “That dose should have put you down for at least a couple of hours.” He poked the gun hard into her ribs. “I guess you really are one tough bitch.”
Amy suppressed a grunt of pain. She heard his words but was having trouble putting them together. It was almost as if he spoke through a fistful of gauze.
Tough? Hardly. Amy’s head ached and her limbs seemed barely responsive. The tight plastic loop around her wrists had rubbed her skin almost raw.
Thank God he hadn’t been able to get her strapped down like the others before the sedative wore off. That had been the part of Plan B that had troubled her most. She knew she’d be in a world of trouble if she let him take her to his lair and tie her up like he’d done with the others. She’d be basically helpless, then, forced to hope that the cavalry—in the form of Luke Beckett—would arrive before Garneau shot screaming death into her veins.
The cavalry would eventually arrive—she had no doubt on that score. Beckett would find her, no matter what. But he’d have to take Garneau down on the killer’s own turf, and do it in the knowledge that any little mistake would mean her death. And maybe his own, too.
Beckett hadn’t wanted to listen, but she’d hammered away at him until he’d grudgingly admitted that there was no other way to make it work if they didn’t succeed at the initial rendezvous with Garneau. She’d told him that only two things mattered tonight—saving M.L. and Cooper, and capturing or killing Garneau. She’d made him promise he wouldn’t let any feelings for her lure him into making a stupid mistake that would let the serial killer go free or put Beckett himself in direct line of fire. After all, he now had a daughter to think about.
He’d mumbled that promise, but she wasn’t one bit sure she believed him.
At least M.L. and Cooper are safe now.
Amy glanced down at her bound hands as they rested in her lap. Garneau had tied them in front—a dumb mistake on his part. And the little GPS unit still felt hot on the delicate skin of her breasts. That comforting heat must mean it was still transmitting.
“This is where you brought them all,” she rasped, her throat as dry as sawdust. “So, where the hell are we?”
“My little house on the lake,” he drawled. “I sure don’t like having to say goodbye to this place. It’s served me real well, as you know.”
The FBI profile had been right in that regard. Garneau’s place was indeed central to his killing spree. Amy shuddered, not just for herself but for Krista Shannon, Carrie Noble, Ashley Rist, and Megan O’Neill. And for M.L., who could have ended up here instead of her.
Whatever the outcome, Amy knew she’d done the right thing.
Garneau had brought her here for a reason, just like he’d brought the others. Yes, to inflict physical pain, but more than that. She figured he had something to say to her, and maybe something to prove. If so, that should take some time, and time was on her side. Beckett had to be right behind them, and he’d never give up.
Garneau shuffled around the front of the car and opened her door, his gun now pointed at her head. “Get out. And if you decide to try anything, you’d better be goddamn sure it’s going to work, because if it doesn’t…” He gave her a sickening little grin. �
�Well, trust me, you’ll wish you’d played nice.”
Amy managed to slide her legs out until her shoes hit concrete, then carefully raised herself out of the compact sedan. Because he’d lowered the hood of his rain jacket, for the first time she was able to get a good look at Joey Garneau.
Young looking with short, spiky black hair and a slightly receding hairline, he had deep-set eyes that gave some maturity to an otherwise almost boyish face. His prominent nose had been broken. He’d shaved off the stubble Jodie Jamison had described and he looked a fair bit different from Orosco’s composite. The eyes the artist had inserted had definitely missed the mark. Though only a few inches taller than Amy, Garneau had an impressive, muscular body that was evident when she looked at the tight tee shirt beneath his open jacket.
It was time to get personal. Personal with Joey Garneau, serial killer. Her serial killer.
“Look, I’m not going to be stupid. Believe me, I know you can inflict an unimaginably painful death.”
He gave her a satisfied smile.
“Do you mind if I call you Joey?”
“That’s my name, isn’t it?” He pushed open the door connecting the garage to the house and waved her through.
Inside, she turned to face him again. “I really need to know why you killed those women, Joey. I don’t want to die never knowing why all this had to happen and why I ended up here.”
She played to his arrogance, and had reason to believe it would work. Garneau was a smug little bastard if there ever was one.
“I suppose that’s a reasonable enough request,” he said. “We’ll see.” He poked her with the big gun again. “Move your sweet little ass down the hall and take the second door on your right.”