Rex and Sherlock began to bark and howl with delight the instant Dan pulled the Tahoe into the driveway. He could see them side by side inside the plate-glass window, front paws resting on the sill, chests raised, ears perked, tails whipping the air. They became even more frantic when he exited the car.
“Hey, guys. I’m happy to see you too,” Dan called out, trying to calm them as he approached the house. The trick was going to be greeting them without getting trampled. Unconditional love was great; he just hoped it didn’t get him seriously injured. It was also why he decided to leave the box with the Dirty Ernie documents in the car. As he neared the front door, the dogs began to prance, nails clicking against the window and the sill. His neighbor had taken them out for daily walks and let them run at the park in Cedar Grove. Dan didn’t even want to think about what they would have been like if they hadn’t exercised. They’d likely come straight through the window.
As Dan unlocked the deadbolt, they dropped their front legs from the sill and bounded toward the door. His attempts to soothe them continued to fail. “Okay. Okay. I’m home. I missed you too. Easy now. Easy.”
He struggled to push the door open with 280 pounds of dog on the other side, each fighting to be first to greet him. Their snouts batted the edge of the door, forcing it open, and they burst out. They knocked Dan off balance, but he managed to brace himself and not get sent sprawling to the ground. He rubbed their fur and scratched their heads as they circled him, whining with pure joy. After a minute, Dan stepped onto his front lawn. “Go run. Go run.”
The dogs raced around the yard, slamming into and bouncing off one another like bumper cars. Dan encouraged them—anything to get them to expend their pent-up energy before going back inside. Luckily they weren’t built for endurance, and after a few minutes they came back with their tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths. He gave them another minute of attention before they all went inside.
He shut the door and called Tracy’s cell again. He’d tried on his drive, but his calls had gone to voice mail. This one did as well. He checked his watch, wondering if she’d gone for a run, though by this point it would have been a really long run and he doubted she’d have left the house at night alone, given the circumstances. He tried her home phone, but that, too, went to voice mail.
He was concerned, but not overly. He’d spoken to her earlier, and she’d told him she was locked inside and everything was fine.
So then why wasn’t she answering the phone?
He set his phone on the marble counter, turned on the television to the local news, and went into the kitchen. He found a lone Corona at the back of the fridge and a block of Reggiano cheese. He retrieved a box of crackers from the pantry and a knife from a drawer and started snacking and drinking his beer. About to take another sip of his Corona, he turned to the television and noticed a ticker running across the bottom of the screen.
He thought of the lights tripping in Tracy’s backyard. Then he thought again about her not answering her phone.
Kins took the exit for the West Seattle Bridge, kept left at the fork in the ramp, and blew by the line of cars waiting at the stoplight. The evening commute across the bridge was also heavy, but there were more lanes to work with, so the other cars could more easily move out of his way.
Faz hung up with dispatch, who had called him back to tell him units were on their way to Tracy’s home.
“Have they been able to contact her?” Kins asked.
“Not yet.”
“At this rate we’ll beat them there,” Kins said, his frustration peaking.
Admiral Way was the first exit off the bridge. At the bottom of the ramp, he turned right, ascending a steep grade. As they neared the top, he slowed to turn, moved his foot to hit the accelerator, then had to quickly brake hard. The car stopped inches from the back of a UPS truck parked in the narrow road.
Tracy lay on her stomach, Bankston atop her, his breath and spittle warm on her neck, the rope strangling her. She had managed to get the fingers of her left hand beneath the rope just before Bankston had cinched the noose tight, and she was now fighting to keep that precious half inch, to keep him from completely cutting off her oxygen.
Something was jabbing into her rib cage. With her right hand, she felt around and found the piece of broken handrail wedged tight beneath her. She gripped it, summoned her core strength, and lifted with her hip and stomach muscles just enough to slide out the piece of wood.
The rope cinched tighter. She started to see bursts of light.
She lifted her hips again, rolled, and swung the piece of wood like a club, striking Bankston hard on the left side of the head, a dull thud. The blow knocked him to his right, and he lost his grip on the rope. Tracy yanked the rope away from her throat and sucked in a deep breath. She swung the club again, then a third time. Bankston rolled off her, trying to ward off the blows. She rolled away from him and struggled to her knees, in pain and still gasping for breath. She yanked the noose over her head and threw it into a corner of the room. She sucked in more air, gagging and wheezing. It felt like someone was burning her shoulder with a branding iron. She felt light-headed and nauseated.
And pissed. Really pissed.
Unsteadily, she got to her feet.
Bankston, blood flowing from a gash on the side of his head, staggered and also stood.
Tracy raised the broken piece of banister. “Come on,” she said, teeth clenched. “Come on, you son of a bitch.”
Bankston charged.
Kins had never seen a UPS driver move so fast. With Faz screaming for him to move his truck, the man ran across the lawn and nearly vaulted behind the steering wheel. Gears ground, and the van lurched forward, front wheels bouncing up onto the sidewalk. Kins squeezed past, and they shot down the street, tires skidding to a stop in front of Tracy’s house. They flung open their doors and jumped out. Kins rushed to the gate and pushed the intercom button, still hopeful Tracy would answer.
She didn’t.
“Where is the damn patrol car?” he said, looking back up the street while pressing the buzzer again and again.
Two patrol units screamed down the block, emergency lights flashing. They stopped in the middle of the street behind the BMW, and four officers exited. One carried the Ram-It, a tubular piece of steel with handles that could be wielded like a battering ram.
Kins stepped back from the gate. “Break it down.”
The biggest of the officers gripped the handles, swung the steel tube back, and smashed it hard into the gate just above the keypad. The fence rattled and flexed, but the gate didn’t open.
“Again,” Kins said.
He hit it again, then a third time, and a fourth. With each blow, the gate flexed and shook, but that was it. “Hang on.” Kins bent and looked more closely at the lock. The deadbolt, a thick piece of steel, extended at least two inches into the metal plate. With the flex in the fence, they couldn’t get the bolt to pop free of the lock.
“No good,” Kins said. “Too much movement.” He considered the fence, then spoke to two of the other officers. “Cup your hands. Give me a boost.”
“You can’t go over,” Faz said. “What about your hip?”
“You got a better idea?”
“Send one of them,” Faz said.
“Cup your hands,” Kins said. The two officers did as instructed, and Kins stepped into their hands. “On three. Lift me and hold me up until I tell you to let go. I’ve had one vasectomy in my life. I don’t want another. Ready? Three.”
The officers lifted. Kins reached for the horizontal bar running six inches below the spear tips, used his arms to brace himself, and swung his right leg, and good hip, over the bar. He straddled the spear tips, holding himself up like a gymnast on the pommel horse. His arms shook from the exertion. “Okay, let go,” he said.
Kins held his breath, clenched his teeth, and swung his left leg over the fence. When it cleared the spear tips, he pushed off, dropped, and rolled to soften the impact. A
bolt of white-hot pain shot from his hip down his leg.
“You all right?” Faz asked.
Kins struggled to his feet, the pain taking his breath away. He grimaced and said, “Toss the Ram-It over.”
It landed with a bang, cracking one of the patio tiles. Kins picked it up and limped to the front door. He stood back a foot and rammed it just above the keypad. He heard the wood crack, but the door didn’t give. He hit it a second time. The wood splintered, but again the deadbolt held. When he hit the lock a third time, the door exploded inward.
He dropped the Ram-It, pulled his Glock, stepped inside, and hit the button on the control panel to the right of the door to release the gate. Then he rushed in calling Tracy’s name.
Maria Vanpelt’s photographer slid the last of the equipment into the news van and turned to her. “Outstanding,” he said. “You must have fallen under a lucky star or made a deal with the devil.”
She smiled. “Maybe both.”
Vanpelt was still feeling the adrenaline rush. She’d just scooped not only all the other local stations, but every national network. The station’s assignment editor had called to tell her that all the major affiliates were running their video. Vanpelt’s cell phone rang. “Did you see that live shot?” she said, answering. “Has anyone ever been live on the scene when police found the hideout of a serial killer?”
“Where are you?” the assignment editor said, and Vanpelt detected concern in her voice.
“We’re just packing up the van. Why? What’s wrong?”
“We’re getting all kinds of reports of something happening at Tracy Crosswhite’s home in West Seattle.”
“What?” Vanpelt felt her stomach drop. “What kind of reports?”
“Don’t know. But something big is happening. The scanners are going crazy. I’m sending someone—”
“No,” Vanpelt said. “I’ll take it.”
“You’re too far.”
“It’s my story. I’ll get there.” She hung up and looked across the yard, past the two CSI vans parked on the lawn. Johnny Nolasco stood huddled with the FBI team. Despite what they’d found, no one looked to be celebrating. There were no high fives or handshakes, no satisfied smiles.
“Maria?” her photographer said.
“We need to move, now.”
As David Bankston rushed forward, Tracy timed his approach. She pivoted sideways and swung with her right arm. Bankston absorbed the blow with his forearm and crashed into her, hurling them both backward. The pain in her shoulder exploded upon impact and again when she hit the floor, but she kicked and scratched and beat at Bankston until he yanked the piece of railing from her grasp.
Straddling her, breathing heavily, glasses askew, with blood flowing down the side of his face and beard, Bankston raised the club.
Kins rushed through Tracy’s bedroom and bathroom, didn’t find her, then hurried back to the stairwell, passing Faz and the other officers entering the house. Something crashed below them. Kins limped quickly down the stairs, his hip burning, Faz close behind. In the gray-black light, he saw two silhouettes. A man sat atop Tracy, his back to them, arm raised, something in his hand.
Kins raised his Glock, feet separating naturally into a blade stance, left hand rising up to meet the right, arms forming a triangle with the gun at the tip. He sighted the tiny red dot. “Freeze,” he yelled. The man spun. David Bankston. “Drop whatever is in your hand, David.”
But David Bankston didn’t.
“Don’t!” Kins yelled.
Bankston hurled what he’d been holding. Faz raised an arm to deflect the blow, but Kins didn’t flinch. He slowly exhaled, and squeezed off three shots.
The noise was deafening, and the three shots lit up the room in bursts of silver-white light. The smell of gunpowder quickly permeated the air. “Call it in,” Kins told one of the officers. “We’re going need an ambulance and the ME. Tell them to send a CSI team.”
He moved first to where Bankston lay on his back, eyes open. Bankston had been propelled backward by the impact of the bullets. Kins dropped with effort to a knee and felt for a pulse, but couldn’t find one. He turned his attention to Tracy. She sat holding her left arm close to her body. “I think my collarbone is broken.” Her voice sounded like someone had rubbed the inside of her throat raw with sandpaper, and even in the dull light he could see a red line on her neck.
“We have an ambulance coming,” he said.
Tracy pointed. “You better check on Faz.”
Faz remained on one knee, hand pressed to his forehead, bleeding from where the piece of wood had struck. “I’m all right,” he said. “I absorbed the blow with my face.”
“Can you walk?” Kins asked Tracy.
“I think so. Help me up.”
He helped her to her feet. “How’d you know?” she asked.
“We saw the news report. And you weren’t answering your phone.”
“News report?”
“Let’s get you some medical attention, and I’ll fill you in.”
“I should have told you about Stinson.”
“Water under the bridge,” he said.
“Can you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Call Dan. Tell him I’m okay.”
“No problem.”
She turned to one of the officers still there. “There’s a can of cat food and a spoon on the floor somewhere. Take it out back and bang on it. My cat’s still out there.”
CHAPTER 53
Tracy sat in the back of the ambulance, her left arm in a black sling. Her throat burned when she swallowed, and she was also having trouble taking a full breath; her ribs hurt each time she inhaled.
The CSI and medical examiner vans had further congested her cul-de-sac, drawing her neighbors out of their homes. They mingled on lawns and sidewalks. Someone had set up a police line well down the street. Behind it she saw the glare of television crews’ lights.
As a paramedic looked for a vein in Tracy’s arm for an IV drip to administer painkillers, she watched two members of the ME’s staff carry a gurney out the front door with David Bankston’s corpse zipped into a body bag. They dropped the wheels on the patio tiles and guided the gurney out the gate to the back of a blue van. Kins and Faz followed the gurney across the patio, Faz now sporting a large medical patch.
“How’s the head?” Tracy asked.
“They say I’ll need a couple stitches. Who knows, could be an improvement. How’re you doing?”
“Feels like somebody stomped on my throat.”
Faz smiled. “You sound like me now, Professor.”
“Thank that dumbshit Nolasco when you see him,” Kins said. “They moved on Bankston’s house without first taking him into custody.”
“Why didn’t they wait?” Tracy asked and grimaced in pain.
“I suspect because he wanted the arrest to air live. Vanpelt was there. Front and center, Kins said. Some coincidence, huh?”
“He tipped her,” Faz said. “He cut us out, and then he tipped her. He’s the damn leak.”
“Sure as shit,” Kins said.
“He brought in the FBI so he can take the credit,” Faz said. “He becomes the detective who caught the Cowboy, and we look like assholes.”
“What did they find?” Tracy asked. “What did they find at Bankston’s house?”
“I don’t know,” Kins said. “I suspect they’re still processing it, but from what I saw on the television and what I’ve been told, they found a coil of polypropylene rope and every news article on every murder, along with dozens of photographs of you.”
“What about the noose?” she asked, knowing the distinct knot would be important.
Kins shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“I meant the one here, downstairs.”
“Oh. CSI is processing it, but it looks like the noose left at the shooting range.”
“Tracy!” She recognized Dan’s voice. He stood behind the barricade, waving to her.
“Can you get him in?” she asked Faz.
“I’m on it.”
Tracy looked to Kins. “We need to try to find some connection between Bankston and Beth Stinson.”
“Bankston might not have killed her, Tracy. No match on the DNA.”
“He had to have, Kins. Too many similarities.”
“Maybe that’s where he first got the idea,” Kins said. “Maybe he read about it, saw it on the news.”
“Then why did he wait so long?”
“He was away. He was in Iraq. When he came back, he got married and had a kid. It’s like Santos said. These guys can go years without killing. But when they start, they have trouble stopping.”
“We need to look into his background anyway.”
“We will. Right now you need to get to a hospital and take care of yourself.”
Dan hurried to Tracy’s side. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “This is getting to be a bad habit.”
“What happened to your voice?”
“This is my sexy voice.” She smiled, then grimaced again.
A paramedic stepped forward. “We need to get you to the hospital and get you looked at, Detective.”
“I’ll follow you,” Dan said.
Tracy looked at her house, CSI detectives going in and out the front door. “I’ll make sure things get locked up here,” Kins said.
“Did they find Roger?” Tracy asked.
“Police officer said he was hiding in the bushes. The cat food worked to get him to come out. I’ll lock him inside.”
“Feed him and you’ll have a friend for life,” she said.
“That means he’s Italian,” Faz said.
CHAPTER 54
Tracy spent the next week recovering in Cedar Grove, her arm immobilized in a sling. She had indeed cracked her collarbone, though it wasn’t dislocated. Her ribs were bruised but not broken. The noose had damaged her vocal cords, and the doctors told her to keep her talking to a minimum.
Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) Page 29