“I’ve seen worse.” Tom’s smirk turned into a cautious smile, which was understandable given the last time they’d seen each other Ashley had tried to snatch Lucy from him.
“Thanks for coming, Tom. I appreciate it.” Ashley placed the menu down and took a long, slow breath. “I know it hasn’t been easy.”
His smile disappeared and was replaced with a darker look. “At least if you’re here with me I know Lucy is safe at school.”
“I deserve that.” Ashley swallowed hard. She was determined to get this right. Ashley reached out for his hand, but he pulled it away. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
It seemed he was alternating between kindness and firm resolve, as if he was fighting an internal battle. “What do you want, Ashley?”
Ashley didn’t hesitate. She’d rehearsed the line, over and over, until it sounded just right. Though she meant it, she still had to make sure it came out perfect. “I want to make things right, Tom. I know I’ve been a mess lately. That’s caused issues for you and for Lucy. I wanted to say I’m sorry and I want to work out a way forward.”
She’d said what she wanted to say, exactly as she wanted to say it. That was a rarity for her lately. She hoped this was the next in a series of good decisions that might lead her back to Lucy. After her close call with the police, the meeting with Obrist and a few chats with his lawyer friend, it was time to set things right. The lawyer had advised her to reach out to Tom, to rebuild something of a relationship, and to stabilize things between her, Tom, and Lucy.
Everything hinged on that.
“Tom.” Ashley couldn’t resist filling the silence. Her next words were totally unscripted. “I know I made mistakes. I know you’ve got custody of Lucy and that’s the best thing for right now. All I want is hope that I can see her in the short-term and, maybe, we could work something else out in the long term.”
Conceding custody of her daughter for the immediate future hurt her more than any physical pain could. Lucy was Ashley’s greatest achievement, the best thing in her life and the best thing in her future. Nothing made her happy like Lucy could, but Ashley knew that, for the time being, her daughter was better off with Tom. Until she sorted her life out, there was no other way.
Finally, Tom exhaled through clenched teeth, shook his head and leaned forward. “It doesn’t have to be this hard, Ashley.”
She beamed. “I—”
“Let me finish.” His voice was stern now. “I know what you witnessed was hard. I know the trial was difficult. Okay?
“Okay.”
He nodded. “It led to the drinking, the depression, and the self-harm. I get those things. They’re understandable, given the circumstances. But I can’t allow you to put Lucy in danger.”
“I understand.” Ashley felt her resolve start to waver under his withering testimony.
“Good, because you need to.” He leaned forward, animated now. “I didn’t apply to take Lucy because of the trial or the witness protection. I understood all of that. I knew we’d make the right decisions for our family together. But you got paranoid, you saw evil around every corner, and you fell apart. I took Lucy for her own good.”
Ashley closed her eyes and shook her head. She’d tried so hard to keep it together and follow the lawyer’s advice, to take more positive steps, but she could feel herself falling apart again. Tom was right. Though at the time she’d felt her actions were justified, the counseling with Weltering had shown her there was some truth in Tom’s accusations. Still, it was hard to avoid feeling that he’d abandoned her and then stolen her daughter.
“I just want her back!” Ashley stood suddenly, and her chair fell over and clattered onto the floor. “I just want her back, Tom!”
He surprised her by reaching out to grab her hand, stalling her retreat. “And you can achieve that, Ashley, but not right now.”
She relaxed a little bit and squeezed his hand, then fell to her knees in front of him, exhausted. “Tell me what to do! I just want to see Lucy. I just want my little girl.”
Tom slid out of his seat and joined her on the floor. He wrapped his arms around her and rested her head on his shoulder. Neither of them paid any attention to the other patrons or café staff looking at them. “I love you, Ashley. And Lucy loves you. There’s a place for you in both of our lives. But first, you need to go back to Wallingford and get help.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide, searching for answers. “And then what?”
He smiled sadly. “Then we can negotiate. Until then, I can’t let you see her.”
Ashley nodded and nuzzled into his shoulder for the first time since their divorce. She cried. An ocean of emotions flooded out of her. Pain. Desperation. Frustration. Anger. She felt like they’d made progress, but the idea of being away from Lucy for even longer still hurt. She had a plan, and it didn’t involve doing anything stupid, illegal, or harmful. As she cried, she hoped that, she could do what was necessary, and that Tom would be true to his word.
It was her only hope.
23
Duncan
Duncan’s breath came in ragged heaves as he slammed his apartment door, leaned his back against it and slid to the floor. He hugged his knees to his chest, trying to catch his breath. He’d run all the way from Chelsea’s apartment – a distance of thirty blocks. Not the fittest guy in the world, his run had been powered by fear and adrenalin, but now that was starting to wear off. That the sun had risen in that time seemed to make it worse.
“I’m alive.” Nobody had seen him. Nobody had captured him. That was all that mattered. “I’m alive.”
Or so he kept telling himself. In truth, things couldn’t have gone much worse. He’d been halfway through his date with Chelsea when he’d been interrupted. The second he’d heard “FBI” shouted from outside the apartment, Duncan had moved quickly. There’d been no time to do anything except grab his backpack and rush down the fire escape. At least there hadn’t been a bunch of cops waiting at street level. Whoever kicked in the door must’ve been alone.
It was no consolation for having to leave Chelsea alive.
Just when Duncan had thought he was safe, he’d seen a tired-looking Hispanic FBI agent. The agent had approached Duncan, spotted the blood, and started yelling. The agent had fired his pistol just before Duncan plunged his knife into the man’s stomach, but the shot had missed. Duncan had left him alive, simply kicking his gun away and taking his phone, then he’d started running and never looked back.
It wasn’t supposed to have gone like that. Chelsea should be dead by now.
Duncan snarled and stood, his breathing slowing but his mind still racing. All of his effort had been wasted. He’d never be able to finish the job now. There’d be too much heat on her. She’d heal from her wounds and rebuild her life. Worse, he was exposed. He pulled a suitcase from under his bed, cursing his stupidity. He’d revealed more of himself to her than he had to all his other victims combined. And now he’d been cheated, robbed.
This was worse than the very first time he’d been humiliated by a woman, when she’d run from his car and left him sitting there like a fool, alone and heartbroken and confused. He hated when things were out of his control, hated being at the mercy of others. He hadn’t felt this way for a long time, but now the feelings had returned with a vengeance. All because some cop had stumbled across him. Duncan had no idea how, but it didn’t matter. His plan was in tatters.
“Fuck.” He turned on his small bedroom TV.
He flicked to the local news station and pounded the dresser. There were already reports about the woman who’d been saved and the agent who’d been stabbed. It wouldn’t be long before his profile was circulating. Lucky for him, there were plenty of white males of medium height and medium build in their early-thirties in New York City. He couldn’t rely on that to keep him safe, though. He had to get out of the city.
He tossed a few basics into his suitcase, closed it, and then wheeled it to the front door. He reached underneath the dining table an
d found the false identification and cash he’d taped to the bottom. It was his stash, in case he had to disappear. He couldn’t rely on his bank accounts and cell phone remaining secure, so he’d need the stash to keep him going until he got established somewhere new. He’d done it before.
He had one more job to do. He moved to the laundry and pulled out several large bottles of chemicals, including bleach and rubbing alcohol. He poured chemicals on his way to the front door. Once the bottles were empty, he tossed them down the hallway, opened the door, and wheeled his case outside. He lit a zippo lighter, threw it inside the apartment and closed the door behind him.
He headed down the elevator and reached the street just as the fire alarm in his building sounded. Pedestrians looked up at the building curiously, but ignored the man hailing a cab out front. It was only a minute before he was in a cab and making small talk with the driver, trying to calm himself on the ride to Penn Station. He was startled to notice that there was still some blood on his hands. He licked it and then rubbed at it, trying to remove the traces.
He was sad to be leaving New York City behind. It had been one of the most fertile hunting grounds on the planet, full of women who stalked men like beasts who he’d hunted in turn. But it was time. The minute he arrived in a new city he began counting down the time until he was forced to leave. Only by being smart and agile had he managed to stay ahead of the authorities for so long. His hubris had almost cost him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Duncan closed his eyes in the back of the cab, trying to relax a little, when the phone he’d stolen from the agent started to ring. Duncan pulled it from his pocket and stared at the screen. Someone named Chris Horan was trying to reach the man Duncan had stabbed. He terminated the call and put the phone back in his pocket, but a moment later the phone beeped and a message appeared on the screen.
The caller had left a voicemail.
With a sigh, Duncan tapped the screen and the line to voicemail started to dial. He put the phone to his ear and listened.
“I’m going to get you, you fuck.” The caller’s male voice was filled with hate and malice. “I’m going to find you.”
Duncan gave a slight smile and exhaled loudly. The voicemail had cheered him up a little. None of his kills had yet led the cops to his door, and although he’d almost been busted at Chelsea’s house, he’d made it out. Once he was away from New York and in some other part of the vast United States, he’d be invisible again – one person in a country with several hundred million of them. The message was all bluster.
He looked down at the phone, momentarily curious about the business of the man he’d stabbed. He deleted the angry agent’s message and put the phone to his ear again. The phone told him the message was from a day earlier.
“Hi Manny.” The female voice sounded unsure. “It’s Ashley. I wanted to say thanks for helping me the other day. Call me back if you’d like to catch up before I go back to Wallingford.”
Duncan removed the phone from his ear and gripped it tight. He’d known the caller’s voice from the first word, but it had taken his brain a few moments to process the amazing new piece into an already frighteningly complex puzzle. His kill being interrupted was now the second most remarkable thing to happen that day.
Hearing the voice of the woman who’d spurned him so long ago and set him on his path of vengeance wasn’t something he’d ever expected to happen.
He’d left his apartment not knowing where to go, not really caring. Since a terrible date a decade ago, he’d been a nomad in search of something unattainable. He’d killed. He’d taken his revenge on others. Yet those feeling paled in comparison to the fury burning inside of him. A spark of anger had lit a conflagration of vengeance deep down in the pit of his stomach. The woman who’d started it all was within his grasp again.
Suddenly, Duncan knew exactly where he had to go.
24
Chris
“Good morning.” Chris spoke the only words he’d been permitted to say to the sea of hungry reporters.
“Right,” Geary cut in, clearly wanting to divert any attempt Chris might make to broadcast his theories to the media. “Agent in Charge Nowitski will give a statement.”
Nowitski was sitting one seat down from Geary. He began reading his statement. Chris had read it already, so tuned out as Nowitski praised Manny as a great agent, gave an update on his status – critical – and passed on the Bureau’s best wishes to Manny’s loved ones. Chris spent the time wallowing in self-pity, much as he’d done for the day or so, blaming himself for the attack on his friend and hoping Manny would live.
He didn’t want to be here. He’d been hauled in to Geary’s office and told that he was being hung out to dry. He’d attend the press conference, listen while both of his superiors gave their statements, then be a willing and compliant victim as they let the press pack feast on him. They wanted someone to blame, and they told him that if he complied, he’d still lose his job, but might avoid charges. Chris was too shell-shocked to do much but nod.
After Nowitski was done, Geary took over. Chris sighed as she started to explain exactly what had happened that night. Chris kept his face completely passive, but he felt empty and broken. The explanation Geary gave wasn’t necessarily untrue, but it was designed to be as damning as possible. She said that after Chris had illegally broken into the victim’s house, the killer had fled, Manny had ended up in intensive care, and the victim wasn’t much better off.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Geary finished her statement and let out a long sigh for the cameras. “We’ll now take questions.”
Chris winced as hands shot into the air. He muttered under his breath. “Time for the witch hunt to begin.”
Geary pointed at one of the reporters. “You.”
The reporter shot to her feet. “Can you explain how Agent Horan saved the woman?”
Geary sighed. “Though Agent Horan did save her, a killer escaped and an agent ended up in hospital. I don’t consider the outcome a positive one, because law enforcement has to act within the law. We’ve recently become aware of some deeply troubling personal circumstances that have impacted on Agent Horan’s performance lately. He suffered a loss some years ago…”
The paramedics were the first to arrive, which was a little surprising. They pounded on the door and Chris stood to let them in. He had to stand in the bedroom as they pushed past, the little apartment not really built for so many people to be inside at once. He left the door unlocked, because the cops wouldn’t be far away. Then he returned to the living room – to Tamara – where the paramedics were going through the motions. For the first time, he saw it. He frowned. He felt a lump in the pit of his stomach. He bent over, threw up, and then looked back at Tamara. On her forehead, the killer had written ‘whore’ in her own blood…
Chris blinked. The reporters were shouting his name, trying to get his attention. “Sorry, what?”
“Agent Horan.” Another questioner looked straight at Chris. “How does it feel to be a hero?”
Chris looked sideways at Geary, who nodded. He swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’m a hero at all. All my thoughts and prayers are with the victim and my partner.”
Chris’s mind flashed again to Manny. Whatever kudos he was getting from the media, he’d had none from his fellow agents or officers. Chris could deal with the insults and outward expressions of disgust, of which there had been plenty, but it was the colleagues who looked past him that made the loudest point. Although the treatment upset him, he wasn’t surprised by it. Manny was in critical condition at St Jude’s because Chris had freelanced.
The fact he’d found the killer after all this time was bittersweet. Chris felt vindicated. He’d been proven right. But it mattered for nothing when Manny was in the hospital and his superiors still didn’t believe him. In blind anger, Chris had called Manny’s phone, but the call had gone unanswered. Since cooling down a little, Chris simply felt empty. He hadn’t even caught the ki
ller. The man was on the loose and he could end up anywhere.
Chris sighed. The questions continued in a similar vein for another quarter hour. Though his superiors had wheeled Chris out to take the blame, the show hadn’t gone as planned. Chris was being hailed as a hero. Chelsea Butler would almost certainly be dead if not for him. The press was lapping it up. They kept asking how he’d known. Despite Geary and Nowitski’s warnings, Chris decided to give them what they wanted.
He leaned forward, to make sure the microphone picked up his words. “It’s my belief there’s a serial killer targeting redheads. These claims are being ignored by the Bureau, the NYPD and the Extreme Homicide Joint Task Force. I think I almost caught him. Chelsea Butler survived, but the next victim might not.”
The press pack exploded. Beside him, Geary stood and turned to exit. Nowitski was scowling at him. Though he wanted to stay longer and push harder, Chris was ushered out of the room by the media minders. Less than a minute after he’d swung for the fences, he was standing in a quiet hallway with his superiors. Geary and Nowitski both had clenched fists and flushed faces, neither of which seemed promising, but Chris had made his choice.
“Agent Horan.” Nowitski spoke slowly, his anger threatening to boil over at any second. “You knew the consequences if you went off script.”
“I—”
“No, Agent Horan.” Nowitski shook his head and held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re going to listen. You were warned that your behavior was unacceptable. You were warned to work your assigned cases, and to remain quiet about your insane theory. Instead, you doubled down. Your actions have left me with an agent in hospital and a media shitstorm.”
“And one woman still breathing.”
Nowitski stared at him for a good ten seconds. The silence was almost unbearable, but neither man looked away. Finally, Nowitski spoke. “Let me be clear. If I had my way, I’d be firing you right now. You’re a disgrace to the Bureau. The only thing that saved your career is the media branding you a hero cop.”
Dead and Gone Page 188