Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)

by Danielle Girard

  The car whizzed by, and the driver didn't even glance at him. He waited several minutes, and then pulled out of the driveway and checked the road.

  Smiling, he turned to Amy and ran his finger down her cheek. "We're alone after all."

  Amy began to sob.

  Chapter 36

  A mile past where the killer had stopped, Swain turned the Mustang down a sloped driveway and out of sight of the main road. He was confident that the car with Amy McKinley had stopped to make sure he wasn't following. On this road, there had been no way to go unnoticed. Driving past and continuing on the road around the curve was the smartest thing Swain could do.

  But he still prayed he wouldn't lose the girl because of it. It had been too dangerous to Amy to risk pulling the car over. And Swain had no way to track the car other than by sight. He had guessed the killer would have stopped short of his house, which meant he would be passing again. If he was wrong, the girl was dead.

  He shut the car door and hurried up the hill. The road was quiet. Lying on his stomach in a small patch of grass, Swain made note of the time and waited. Starting to get nervous that he'd been wrong to drive past, he waited impatiently. Several minutes later, he heard the distant rumbling of an engine. The noise grew for ten, maybe fifteen, seconds before the car passed. Swain watched the suspect's gold Maxima fly past, worrying it would get around a corner and he would miss where it turned. But about a mile up the road, the car slowed down and turned into a driveway on the east side.

  Swain jumped up, and moved toward his car. He needed to be careful about his next move. This killer could have been the one to disable Swain's surveillance in Cincinnati, which meant he knew something about cameras and sound. Swain needed to do some surveillance of his own before he blew his cover. Right now, Amy McKinley's only chance for survival was him. And damn if he wasn't going to get it right this time.

  He opened the car door and hit recall and send on his cell phone.

  "Mueller here," came the response.

  "It's Swain."

  "You were supposed to check in twenty minutes ago." Mueller was clearly on speakerphone, and Swain wondered who else was in the room. "Have you confirmed the identity of the suspect?"

  "I'm still on his tail. He's traveled farther out of the city than I had anticipated."

  "Where are you?" Mueller barked.

  Swain glanced at the mailbox on the road. "My location is 1347 Cliff Ranch Road. I'm north of San Francisco, somewhere past Mill Valley. I'm not exactly sure what city limit this is."

  "Why the hell are you out there?" Mueller asked, and Swain could hear murmurs in the background.

  "I've tracked the killer," he explained. "He suspected I was following so I passed and pulled off. His location is about a mile farther down the road. He's pulled into a driveway on the east side. He's driving a late model Nissan Maxima—gold color. Plate is 4-B-D-U-3-5-9. I'm going to need backup here, but it's not an easy place to find. Are you recording?"

  "Yes." Swain recognized Jamison's voice.

  "Take 101 North to Highway 1. Past a place called the Pelican Inn, take a left on Seascape. Follow that until Sea Ranch, and then Cliff Ranch is about a quarter mile up on the right."

  "You should have backup, Swain. What the hell are you doing tracking him way out there alone?" Mueller asked.

  "He's got Amy McKinley."

  Swain heard silence as everyone in the room digested the information. He hadn't wanted to tell them until he was positive, but he'd gotten a clear view of her on the freeway.

  "You're sure?"

  It was the same girl he'd seen with Casey earlier that day. "Positive."

  "Continue," came Mueller's voice.

  "Backup is going to need to be cautious. I believe we're dealing with an especially clever killer. This man may have deactivated my surveillance equipment in Cincinnati. They should expect cameras and sound devices within one hundred yards in each direction."

  "Agent Swain, this is Director Purcell."

  "Yes, sir." Though they had never spoken in person, Swain recognized the director's voice without the introduction.

  "Your reputation precedes you."

  Swain swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

  "And I'm told you're a bit of a cowboy. I want to make sure you're not taking any unnecessary risks—for your sake and for the girl's."

  "Director Purcell, with all due respect, sir, the way I see it, I've got two choices. I can go in there and try to prevent this little girl from being hurt. Or I can sit tight and wait for backup to do it for me. I believe I'm making the best decision, sir."

  "I'll trust your judgment, Agent Swain," Purcell agreed.

  Swain smiled.

  "And you don't need to worry about the killer's surveillance capabilities. The backup team will be advised to check this out as standard procedure."

  This guy required more than standard caution if he'd disabled the system in Cincinnati. "I think extra precaution is needed here," Swain said.

  "It's handled."

  Swain thought about his last big case, about the blame he'd been assigned when things had gone wrong. "In Cincinnati, I thought it was all handled—"

  "Cincinnati was an agency mistake," a voice cut in, but Swain couldn't tell whose. "We added a second surveillance team on McKinley and something got screwed up."

  Swain halted. He heard muffled reactions in the background.

  "I can say whatever the hell I want," the same gruff voice insisted.

  Agency mistake? "I always thought I was at fault for Cincinnati," Swain said.

  Someone cleared his throat, and Purcell spoke. "You do good work out there, Swain, and we'll get the other mess cleared up. I'll see to it personally."

  His mind reeled. "You used McKinley as bait for the Butcher?"

  "Suffice it to say you weren't to blame," Purcell said. "Now that'll stay between us. Right, son?"

  "Absolutely." Swain smiled. All he could think was that it wasn't his fault. He had done good work. He thought momentarily to be pissed off—for himself and for Casey, but he was too relieved. Hot damn. He was back.

  "We'll get backup to you immediately, and we'll warn them to proceed with caution," Mueller said. "Be careful."

  "I'll call as soon as I can." Swain disconnected the call and started the engine with a heavy rev. "Watch out, motherfucker, your day of reckoning awaits."

  He pulled his car back onto the road and drove slowly for three-quarters of a mile until the driveway the killer had taken was in sight. Parking his car on the main road to mark his location, he switched his cell phone to vibrator and pocketed it. Then he pulled his second gun from the glove box. After checking the ammunition in the .22, he strapped it into his ankle holster and checked his glock. Everything was in order. He was going in.

  The glock in hand, Swain shut the car door quietly and headed down into the woods surrounding the killer's location. Within a few minutes, he could see a shack-like house at the end of a long straight gravel drive. The Maxima sat quietly in front, and Swain assumed the girl and the killer were already inside.

  Staying out of view of the house, Swain pushed his way through the thin woods, thankful for the Eucalyptus trees that provided a decent camouflage. He walked for almost ten minutes, trying to hurry but wary of attracting any attention. By the time he was within a hundred yards of the house, his back and neck were drenched with sweat. Even the cool coastal breeze couldn't fight off the heat of his racing heart.

  As he approached, the first thing about the house that struck Swain as out of the ordinary were the basement windows. From the blackened glass, Swain assumed the killer's lair was there. He surveyed them for any change in their tint and wondered if they were as opaque from the inside as they looked from the outside. There was no way to tell if the killer would be able to see him.

  Unwilling to risk it, Swain remained in the woods until he had passed the house. The small woodshed in the back would provide good cover. Swain wiped his face against the sleeve of his s
hirt and prepared to make his move. He listened carefully for any sounds, but heard nothing. Amy had to be drugged or gagged. From what he'd seen of her in the car, he guessed drugged. He bottled his impatience and moved on.

  Swain crept to the edge of the woods and gathered his breath as he counted to three. On three, he sprinted across the driveway and ducked behind the shed. From the new angle, he could see a short set of stairs leading to the basement on the far side of the house from the drive. He'd have to make his way there and see if he couldn't get a look in one of the windows.

  Eyeing his watch, he waited exactly three minutes. It had been adequate time for someone inside to react to his presence. No sounds came to indicate that he had been discovered. Confident he was still safe, Swain prepared to continue. With his breath even, he counted again, pushing himself to run faster and more quietly to the basement stairs.

  Pausing, hidden behind the small outcropping of the stairs, Swain touched the cool cement and listened again for sounds. It was ominously quiet. On his belly, he crept around the stairs and peered in the closest window. Through the dark paint he could barely make out a workshop below. It appeared empty.

  As he started to turn around, he heard a soft whimper and halted.

  "If you want her to take another breath, you won't move."

  Swain felt fear and adrenaline wash a cold sweat down his spine. His back to the killer, Swain thought about the cell phone in his pocket. It wouldn't help. The Bureau knew where he was, and in the meantime, he had a chance to save both himself and Amy McKinley.

  "You missed the camera right above your head," the killer snapped, laughing lightly.

  Swain ignored him, his mind flipping for the next move.

  "Stop wasting time, or she dies," the killer warned. "Turn around slowly."

  The girl cried out, and Swain lifted his hands in the air. He sat slowly and turned around on his knees.

  The killer had shed his gray wig, and Swain was surprised by his youthful appearance. Blond curls and a handsome face, he couldn't have been older than thirty-five. "Stand up nice and slow," he said, the barrel of his gun pressed to Amy's head.

  Swain could tell the safety was off, and he didn't doubt the guy would shoot.

  "Where's your weapon?"

  Swain kept his hands in the air, searching for a move. "My back."

  The killer nodded, pushing Amy forward, careful to keep her in front of him. "Hands on your head." The killer smiled then, and Swain saw the dementia in his eyes. "So fun to be the one saying that."

  The killer's expression leveled. "Turn around and keep your hands where they are."

  His back to them, Swain could feel them drawing closer. With the killer's gun placed at Amy's temple, he didn't dare make a move.

  "Take the gun, Amy. Hold it by the barrel. One wrong move, and I'll blow your head off, understand?"

  "Uh-huh," the girl said, terrified.

  Swain felt her small fingers reach for his gun, and he did nothing to stop her. There was nothing he could do but play it out.

  "Good girl." There was a short pause. "Now, turn around and go down the stairs. We'll dispose of you down there."

  Swain swallowed hard and stepped down the cement stairs, sensing this might be his last glance at daylight, and knowing he wouldn't go without a fight.

  Chapter 37

  The expression on Jordan's face could only be described as grim. "They found the cop at the park—the one that was supposed to be watching you."

  Casey waited for the punch line.

  "Shot twice in the head." Before he could continue, his cell phone rang. "Inspector Gray." Without a word, he handed the phone to Casey.

  "McKinley," she answered, wishing she could force herself to sound stronger than she felt. Instead she awaited the sound of Leonardo's voice with a tight gut and weak knees.

  "Agent McKinley, it's Mueller here."

  Though she should have been relieved at the FBI assistant director's voice, Casey detected something familiar about the tone of his voice that prevented her from relaxing. "Why are you calling me?"

  Mueller was slow to respond. "I've got some news for you."

  Casey was right. She knew the tone. It was the same one he had used when he'd called her in the hospital after her surgeries. Pity. Somehow Mueller knew Leonardo had Amy. Casey didn't have any idea how the hell he knew, but he did. She'd kill him if those bastards at Quantico had watched Amy get taken. "What news, Ken?" No one used Mueller's first name and for what little it was worth, Casey enjoyed uttering it so casually. "Why don't you tell me your news?"

  "We've sent Rick Swain out there."

  "Thanks, but I'd already heard Swain was here. Why don't you cut to the chase, Mueller? Where the hell is Amy?"

  There was a brief silence and the sounds of papers shuffling. Casey knew that was the Bureau's surprised sound. Shock the Bureau, they respond by shuffling papers.

  "Jesus Christ, Mueller. You obviously know where she is. Where the fuck is my daughter?"

  "Casey, I'll tell you where she is, of course. I was getting to that. Swain is with her."

  "What the hell's going on? How are you involved in this?"

  "Agent McKinley, this is Director Purcell."

  Casey nodded. She was not impressed. "I'd like some answers, Director."

  "When we got wind of your situation, we sent Swain out to keep surveillance. We were concerned your life might be in danger. Swain was at the hospital when Amy was abducted. It was lucky he was following her."

  "Is she in Swain's custody?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Where the hell is she?"

  "We have agents heading out to her location right now," Purcell said as though he had single-handedly cracked the case and had everything under control.

  "Is she safe?"

  No one answered.

  "Is she safe?" Casey repeated.

  Mueller spoke next. "We believe the killer has them both at a secluded house approximately fifteen miles north of San Francisco. We've got agents en route."

  "You don't know what the fuck you're doing," Casey cursed. "This is not a Bureau case, and you know it." Casey put her hand over the phone and motioned to Jordan and Michael. "Let's go."

  "Where are we going?" Jordan asked.

  "I don't know yet, but these assholes are going to tell me."

  "Agent McKinley?"

  "I'm here," she said into the phone. "I'm with Inspector Jordan Gray of the SFPD. This is his case and my daughter. We're in the car, and you're going to give me directions to find Amy, and then you're going to put me in touch with whichever of your agents arrives at the scene first. We're running this show, not you." She paused and inhaled, her jaw tight, her blood steaming. "Understand?"

  "I understand you're upset, Agent McKinley," someone else said.

  Casey thought it was Jamison's voice. "You don't understand shit," she said. "And stop calling me Agent McKinley, for God's sake. We need directions—now."

  There was more shuffling of paper and then a voice Casey didn't recognize said, "They're north of San Francisco. Take 101 to Highway 1 and I'll give you directions from there."

  Casey repeated the directions to Jordan.

  "That's not close," he said, pulling out of the hospital and heading toward the freeway. He flipped on the siren and light on his car and began weaving in and out of the traffic toward the city.

  Jordan took the phone and connected the power cord into the cigarette lighter. Pointing to a microphone next to the rearview mirror, he whispered, "Speaker."

  "We're somewhat concerned that the situation may become volatile," Mueller said, his voice echoing through the car.

  Michael leaned forward from the backseat.

  "With this guy it's already volatile." Casey wished she could say something to comfort Michael, to comfort all of them, but there was no good news to be given. Instead, the best she could do was to retain her analytical edge, to try to think of this killer as she had thought of every other—and
to keep her emotional reaction, her fear, no, her terror under wraps. "Put me in touch with the agent in charge of the scene."

  "Agent McKinley, I don't think—"

  "Director Purcell, I don't give a fucking rat's ass what you think," she spit back.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see Jordan nod.

  "Put me in touch with them, or I'll sue the Bureau for reckless endangerment, unlawful termination—"

  "She was never terminated," someone said.

  "Hush," Purcell snapped.

  "Okay, McKinley," Mueller said. "Give us a minute, and we'll put you in touch with the agent in charge."

  Casey held her hands to her cheek, picturing Leonardo with Amy. Oh, God. Please.

  Michael leaned in from the backseat and touched her shoulders. "It's going to be okay, Casey. She's not alone, and we know where she is." But even Michael's soothing voice wasn't convincing.

  Casey knew what Leonardo was capable of. She could only hope that he was distracted by Swain long enough to give her a chance to get there.

  "We'll be at Highway 1 in ten minutes." Jordan had taken the northern route instead of cutting through San Francisco and, thankfully, the midday traffic on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge was light.

  Ten minutes passed in silence before Casey heard a series of clicks over the speaker and then a new voice.

  "This is Agent Franklin," a woman's voice said.

  "Franklin, this is Casey McKinley. Are you in charge there?" Casey asked.

  "Yes."

  "Okay. I'm familiar with this killer, and I don't want anyone making a move without my consent. The child in the house is my daughter."

  "I've been fully briefed on the situation. I think we're prepared to deal with it."

  Casey exchanged a look with Jordan, who shook his head.

  Michael rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

  "Franklin, I want to make sure you understand me. Hopefully, your bosses in Quantico are still with us."

  A series of responses came from the background, indicating the big guys were still listening.

  "Good."