“Eighteen ninety-one. Franklin Farwell purchased fifty-five acres in what looks like the southwest portion of Loudoun County.” He rotated the page and tried to get his bearings on the accompanying map. “I’d say that would qualify as a family ranch.”
Bledsoe rose from his chair with a grunt and leaned over the table to get a look at Robby’s find. “Got an address?” Bledsoe’s button-down oxford was ruffled, the sleeves rolled to the elbows. A large Coke stain adorned the front, dating back to sometime around 3 P.M., when he’d fallen asleep with the can in his hand. It had awakened him real fast.
“Got a plot number. Eighteen. Plat nine of county map four. Remember, this is from the nineteenth century.”
“We need a map,” Vail said, “one that’s up-to-date, so we can look that up.”
Bledsoe stifled a yawn as he lifted the bound volume that contained the Farwell ranch. “I’ll bring this to the clerk in there. Let her tell us where it is. She could probably locate it a hell of a lot faster than we could.”
After the records clerk spent five minutes triangulating the Farwell ranch on a current map, Bledsoe notified each of the task force members and set a meeting at the op center for one hour. His next call was to the Loudoun County Emergency Response Team, who was to prepare to mobilize in the next few hours.
The ride back to the op center was a long one, complicated by traffic caused by a motorcycle versus pedestrian accident. Ambulance and emergency response vehicles lined the shoulder, slowing the rubberneckers to a crawl.
Vail’s heart was beating harder than normal, and even though she felt herself daydreaming about her bed and getting some sleep, her energy level had risen a few notches since the discovery of the Farwell ranch. The thought occurred to her that she must have been there as an infant—and even though she would not, of course, have a memory of it, she realized how fortunate she had been that her mother had snatched her from the grasp of Patrick Farwell’s sick mind. It was the only decent thing Linwood had ever done for her.
And for the first time, it sunk in that Patrick Farwell was her biological father. Her own genes, a rapist and sadistic serial killer. She would have to spend some time chatting with Wayne Rudnick about this one: nature versus nurture . . . and how she turned out on the right side of the law, hunting down men like her father, when her own flesh and blood had gone in the opposite direction, showing a total disregard for human life. She found the thought impossible to come to grips with.
As she wrestled with that philosophical debate, she rested her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, they were parked at the curb in front of the op center and Robby was waking her.
sixty-nine
He’s here now, with one of his whores. It’s the one he likes, I can tell, because she’s here a lot. I started planning a few weeks ago, started thinking that I could do what he does, and I could do it better. I got excited thinking about it. But I’m scared. I’ve never done it before. It’s not like I don’t know what to do or how to do it. But something is holding me back. Yet there she is, lying on the bed. My chest tingles. I’m short of breath.
I have to do it! I’ll do what he does to me. Knock him out with the lead pipe. I got me one at Billy’s Hardware on the way home from work. I’m ready. I’ll beat him, I’ll beat the whore and leave. And I won’t come back—
HE SAT THERE, staring at the blank wall, thinking, remembering that time when he was finally ready to stand up for himself. But just as he was about to act, the cops came and took the prick away. They didn’t see him, hiding in his secret room. They crunched those handcuffs on his wrists and slammed his face into the wall a few feet away from his little peephole. He thought for sure they’d find him. But they didn’t care about him. They were there for the bastard, for what reason he never found out, because he never talked to him again. But the important thing was that he had the whole place to himself. The ranch, the house, everything.
At first he wondered if he was going to come back. But as the days and weeks passed, he figured the place was his, and he claimed it as his own. No one knew, no one came by. It was just him. He paid the electric bill with cash he earned from his job, and between stealing meat from work and making hot dogs, cheap spaghetti, and whatever else he could afford, he did just fine.
Couldn’t have asked for a better place, really. Plenty of land, perfect for dumping bodies, if he was into that sort of thing. But at the time he wasn’t thinking like that.
He’d heard it said that with age comes wisdom. Must be true, because he’d learned a lot over the years. And he had to say he felt pretty wise now. But one of the more important things he learned was to be able to recognize when the end had to come. He always promised himself he would be ready when the time came. And now here he was, about to confront it, wondering how it would feel. It came upon him suddenly, this need to conclude, to confront, to take the final step.
This is where it all started. Beginnings meeting endings, endings coming full circle, the circle of life.
Life as we know it, about to end.
Life about to end, a full circle.
He wondered how it would feel.
seventy
The geoprofile was right on. Vail held it in her hand and stared at the distribution, marveling at its accuracy. Though the Farwell ranch was outside the target areas, it lay on the westernmost boundary of the report’s overall geographic area.
During the past hour, Bledsoe had worked with the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office in obtaining a warrant for the ranch. The lieutenant had called out the Sheriff’s Emergency Response Team, or SERT, and assigned the incident to tactical commander Lon Kilgore. Kilgore was in his late thirties, with a face that reminded Vail of something that had been chiseled from granite: severe, rugged features and a five o’clock shadow. His hands were wide and thick, but his fingers were long enough to palm a basketball.
Five years with the marines instilled in him a learned discipline evidenced by the way he walked, addressed his unit, and directed an assault on a violent suspect. Bledsoe told Vail that although he and Kilgore had disagreements in the past, none of the missions had gone sour. Bledsoe said he respected Kilgore’s skills and only occasionally challenged his opinions.
Due to the size of the Farwell property, Bledsoe agreed with Kilgore’s assessment that they required more accurate reconnaissance before they sent in the SERT team. They needed an aerial view of the ranch to determine what vehicles, buildings, barns, or other structures were there, and exactly where they were located. Kilgore wanted a full background on who Patrick Farwell was, and what he was capable of doing.
The task force stood around, arms crossed, tired and hungry, yet eager to help. They were at the Loudoun County Special Ops South Street office, an aging building in downtown Leesburg. A framed color photo of the sheriff, taken at the Adult Detention Center in full dress uniform, hung prominently on the wall. Vail’s unpleasant visit to the ADC surged into her thoughts. She turned away and focused on Kilgore. She needed to forget about her personal problems and exert all her remaining energies on catching Dead Eyes.
“Specifically,” Kilgore said, “I want to know if this guy is capable of planting mines and setting booby traps.” He was standing in front of a five-foot-square enlargement of a topographic area map where the ranch was situated. “He grew up there, he knows this terrain like the back of his hand. Who knows what he’s got set up there.” He took a moment to study the surrounding area, then said, while still facing the map, “We’re gonna need to hike it in to maintain a stealth approach. We go barreling in with a big old SERT assault truck on a dirt road, we’ll kick up a dust trail that could be seen for miles.”
“So we go on foot,” Bledsoe said.
Kilgore turned to face Bledsoe. “We go on foot. You and your people stay back.”
“Look, Lon, you and your men take the point, but we’re going in with you. We’ve put too much into this case to sit back and wait here for a phone call.”
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“Don’t you mean you’ve put too much in to fuck it up? Because that’s what you should be thinking.”
“We’re detectives, Lon, not rookie beat cops. We’re going in behind you.” He stared the man down.
“Yes, sir,” Kilgore said with a mock salute. He picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Sally, call out the whole dog and pony show. Teams Alpha and Beta. Have them meet us at the Red Fox Inn, in the Jeb Room. I want them there in one hour. Then call the manager there, she knows me. Tell her we need the room for a few hours. Oh—and ask the Air Force for a satellite image of the property.” He listened a moment, then said, “No, no, that’s too long. We need it within the hour.” Kilgore shrugged, then said, “Fine, that’ll work. Give me some large format prints ASAP.”
He hung up, then turned back to his map. “We’re going to use something on the Internet called Virtual Earth. It’ll give us aerial and 3D views of the property. And we’ll have it in a couple minutes instead of a few hours. Soon as we have it, we can start planning for deployment.”
“We’ll be ready,” Bledsoe said.
Kilgore frowned. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.”
seventy-one
While they waited for Kilgore’s staff to assemble the recon images, the task force members went to the lobby vending machines for coffee and snacks. They had not eaten much all day, and the prospect of downing solid food in the next several hours was dim at best.
Vail remained with Bledsoe, who contacted the local Middleburg police department to explain the nature of the operation to the watch commander. Kilgore anticipated a problem since the much larger Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office had coordinated the operation without consulting the Middleburg Police. Middleburg’s entire department consisted of only five men. But according to Bledsoe, the lieutenant in charge was belligerent, feeling that his territory had been trampled. He insisted his own officers be part of the action and threw a fit, claiming jurisdictional issues would be pursued with Loudoun’s police chief.
Bledsoe put the guy on hold, no doubt concerned he would lose his temper and say something that would delay the entire operation for hours. He told Vail what the problem was.
She shook her head, once again amazed at how law enforcement professionals could act so petty, losing sight of the primary goal: catching the bad guy. “Men are like dogs, Bledsoe. They like to piss all over to stake out their territory. That’s what this guy is doing. You’ve seen it a million times.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. All it does is waste my time.”
“I doubt the Loudoun chief gives a shit about turf wars. All he wants is to be able to say his people captured the Dead Eyes killer. He doesn’t care whether the police or sheriff brings him in, right?”
“Right.”
“Then tell your Middleburg buddy, Lieutenant Doberman, or whatever the hell his name is, to go ahead and call the chief.”
Bledsoe issued the challenge and waited while the lieutenant was supposedly making the call. Ten minutes later, the receptionist handed Bledsoe the phone. After listening a moment, Bledsoe thanked the caller, then hung up. “‘Lieutenant Doberman’ said that all his investigators are busy on cases, so it’d take a while to call them in, and he didn’t want to delay our op.” Bledsoe grunted. “Truth is, if they pulled any of their guys in, half their district would go unpatrolled. Middleburg would use the Loudoun SERT unit anyway.”
“Pissing matches and big egos,” Vail said. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that you guys sit around bars comparing the size of your penises.”
“Give us some credit, Karen. We leave that talk in the locker room.”
Kilgore took the Virtual Earth images and topographical map with him in the Full Assault Vehicle and headed toward Middleburg’s Red Fox Inn. The task force followed in one of the SERT team member’s cars, which was equipped with two black tactical outfits, radios, helmets, shields, infrared goggles, and masks, since the officers often reported directly to an incident site in their own vehicles.
With Bledsoe driving and Del Monaco riding with Kilgore in the assault vehicle, Vail watched as the Red Fox Inn, a four-story field-stone Bed and Breakfast, came into view. “I’ve always wanted to stay here,” she said.
Robby craned his neck to get a look at the building. “It’s just a big old house.”
“That’s like saying the White House is ‘just a big old house.’ The Red Fox Inn has roots going back to the early 1700s. I think Washington slept here. It even played a role in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.”
“And how do you know this?” Manette asked.
“You’re always challenging me, you know that?”
“Somebody’s got to. You think you know everything about everything.”
“I was going to book a room here about six months ago. The Belmont Suite, very romantic. You have the Blue Ridge and Bull Run mountains surrounding you, lush greenery, and the rooms are furnished like they were two hundred years ago.” She gazed out the window at the passing undeveloped countryside. “Then I realized that no matter how romantic a place is, if you’ve got no one to share it with, it’s very lonely. I threw away the brochure.”
She could feel Robby’s gaze burning the back of her head. He would take her there, she had a feeling, during her self-proclaimed vacation. With Dead Eyes almost in the bag, her time off was suddenly within reach. She allowed herself a brief moment to daydream.
“In case you’re interested,” Manette said, “your romantic get-away was around when Franklin Farwell bought his ranch.”
Vail cocked her head. Manette was right. She shuddered to think how close it was, how close the young women who had gone to the inn for a special night of pampering had come to getting something they were not expecting.
A MOMENT LATER, Bledsoe followed the assault vehicle into the front lot and parked. Kilgore hopped out of the truck’s cab and led the way to the inn’s entrance.
As they entered the Jeb Room, the task force members took in the dark wood paneling, fireplace, and ceiling beams.
“I run all my tactical sessions out of here whenever we’ve got a maneuver in the area. Manager’s my aunt’s friend.” He placed the Virtual Earth images on a long table by the far wall.
“So who was Jeb?” Manette asked.
“General Jeb Stuart, Confederate Army. In fact,” Kilgore said, “General Stuart met with the Gray Ghost, Colonel John Mosby, right here in this very room, planning their strategy for the Civil War.”
Manette frowned. “That don’t make me feel at home.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Robby said.
“Political views aside,” Bledsoe said, “I hope our strategy session is more successful than theirs was.”
Kilgore stood the topographical map against the wall. “It will be, Bledsoe. It will be.”
The seven tactical team members arrived during the course of the next hour. Kilgore reviewed the map and Virtual Earth images and formulated a plan. Coffee was brought up by management, who met one of the officers at the door. With a sensitive operation being planned, no outsiders were permitted into the room.
An hour later, Kilgore began packing away the maps while the tactical team and task force members headed down to the truck to suit up.
Bledsoe stood in front of his seat, hands on his hips.
“What’s wrong?” Vail asked.
“My chair. I left it there,” he said, pointing to a spot, “and now it’s here.” He indicated a location several feet away.
“I think you need some sleep. We all do.” Vail pat him on the back, then headed out the door.
“I’m serious.”
“That’d be Monte,” Kilgore said. “Ghost from the 1700s. He moves things around, makes noises.” Kilgore craned his neck and spoke to the ceiling: “Cut it out, Monte, you’re scaring this guy.” Kilgore chuckled, then headed out the door, maps in hand.
“Ghost?” Bledsoe asked. He looked around the room, suddenly realized he was alone, and
warded off a chill. Then he rushed out the closing door.
A LITTLE OVER THREE HOURS from the moment they had arrived at the Loudoun Special Ops building, the tactical assault vehicle and accompanying car pulled to a stop amongst a stand of mature oaks a half mile down the road from the perimeter of the Farwell ranch. The SERT team of eight men jumped out the rear, black-vested jackets covering their torsos and sniper rifles gripped in both hands as if they were an organic extension of their arms.
The task force members were outfitted in similar garb, most of them using vests for the first time in years. Fortunately, it was a cold afternoon, and the added weight and insulation provided warmth. They did not know how long they would be outside, exposed to the elements, without supplies from the truck to tide them over.
Several of the men tossed a tan-and-brown camouflage canvas over the truck while others collected brush from the surrounding trees and gathered it around the tires. Large branches were thrown atop the team member’s black car to prevent any reflection from the mirror or windows.
The 7th Victim Page 38