“What?”
Phillip shook his head and chuckled. “Snipers have it made. They do it from a distance. A hundred, two hundred, three hundred yards away. Yeah, they’re looking through a scope, but it’s so fucking far away. It’s different. It’s … I don’t know, I think it’s easier. A sniper may feel the kill, I guess. I’ve never asked one. I mean, yeah, your target’s dead, but you’re removed from the dirty part of it. All you have to do is lower the scope and there’s no body there. But up close and personal … the blood … the brain matter …” He swallowed. “It’s hard.”
“Did you have to do that? Up close and personal?”
Phillip nodded. They stared at each other a long moment, a silence that spoke volumes.
“I don’t think I could do that.”
“That’s okay, Scotty. You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing.”
“That may be true after I leave home.”
They both laughed.
“All right,” Phillip said. “Enough talk. Take the stance I taught you.”
Phillip made sure the grip was right. He made several corrections, reminded Scott to lean forward and sight down the barrel to line up his shot.
“I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Phillip said. “Go ahead. Remember—slow, even pull on the trigger. And don’t close your eyes.”
Scott did as Phillip instructed, and the round exploded from the chamber with a rapid recoil of speed and power, the likes of which Scott had never before experienced.
Scott looked down range at the bottle target. His jaw dropped open and his hands went limp.
“Wow, brother. You completely missed the target. How’d you do that? And—Jesus, watch where you point that thing, remember?” Phillip grabbed the barrel of the Glock and directed it down range.
“Sorry. Sorry.” Scott swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I–uh … Wow. That was, that was really awesome.” He looked over at his brother. “You were right. I had no idea.”
Phillip grinned knowingly. “It’s the kind of thing you can’t prepare for until you do it. And once you do it, you know. You understand. So don’t forget. Life or death. That’s what you hold in your hands. Don’t take it lightly. Be responsible with that weapon. It can save your life or take a life.”
Scott refocused his eyes, the memory of that day with Phillip fading into the air. He tightened his grip on the pistol’s handle.
“Life or death …” he whispered into the moist air. “Today, death.”
60
Vail walked down the marble-floored corridor, the Court of Honor plaza to her left. No sign of SWAT officers yet—but she did see a tour group of a dozen Asians, with headphones covering their ears as they listened to their guide’s narration. They were staring at ocean blue and earth-toned mosaic maps covering the wall to Vail’s right.
She waved at the guide and held up her badge. His eyes, however, went directly to Vail’s Glock, which she was holding at her side, by her thigh, to avoid frightening the visitors.
“I need you to get these people to safety.”
“What’s going on?”
“Down there,” she said, gesturing toward the stairs and the grassy mall beyond. “Police are waiting to tell you where to go.”
“But—”
“Do it. Now.”
Or I’ll tell you where to go.
The man turned back to his group and spoke to them through his headset, motioning them back the way they came. Through the open left wall, broken up by square columns, Vail saw another tour bus pulling up to the front and two cops rushing toward it.
Her phone vibrated. Really? Now? With the people in the plaza and moving quickly at their guide’s urging, she brought her Glock back up to a ready position and answered the call. It was Del Monaco.
“Got some more info on Scott Meece.”
“Summarize. I may be engaging him any minute.”
“I did some digging and cross-referencing. Meece has ties to each of the cities where bodies were found. Family’s got a long tradition of military service.”
That certainly makes sense.
“He had family members stationed at bases in each of the cities where he’s killed. I mean, we don’t know for sure, but it definitely—”
“Go on.”
“So he had a grandfather, Emanuel, who served in World War II. He’s buried in Oahu, at the National—”
“That’s where I am right now.”
“That could be signific—”
“I know, Frank. What else?”
“His uncle Ronny was stationed at Fort Hood outside Dallas before getting killed there in a training exercise. Pretty much the same story with the other cities and other relatives. So there’s obviously a connection between—”
“Got it, Frank. Thank you. Great work. This helps a lot. Anything else I need to know before I engage him?”
“I’ll text you if something jumps out at me.”
Hopefully Scott Meece doesn’t jump out at me.
She hung up and continued down the corridor, more mosaic maps to her right behind a low wrought-iron fence topped with spikes designed to keep visitors away from the artwork.
She reached the end of the gallery, which doglegged left. She passed a couple of American flags flanking the copper-doored entrance to the memorial chapel’s anteroom.
Vail turned right—and saw Russell seated in a pew on the left, front row, in front of a gold wall-mounted Star of David and to its right, above the altar, a large cross.
To Russell’s left sat Scott Meece.
Vail took in the room in a quick glance: a large domed window on each side, not filled with glass but with an intricate copper design featuring translucent colored squares imprinted with Lady Liberty’s face and crown. There were no other entrances or exits besides the one Vail was blocking.
To get out, Scott Meece was going to have to get through her, be escorted out in handcuffs, or carried out in a body bag.
And he ain’t gettin’ through me.
She glanced around, checking for trip wires.
“Scott,” Vail said authoritatively. It echoed in the small, high-ceilinged room. “My name’s Karen. Can we talk?”
She took a step toward them.
“Stay back,” Meece said.
She figured he had the guard’s pistol shoved into the left side of Russell’s ribs.
“Scott,” Vail said, her voice softer, exuding calmness. “Is your grandfather buried here, at the Punch—at Punchbowl?”
Meece’s head twitched slightly. But he did not turn around. Did not answer.
“I know about Emanuel’s service. About your family’s long history of distinguished military service.”
Still no response. Russell turned his head a few degrees in Vail’s direction but did not dare move his torso.
Gotta have a gun in Adam’s ribs.
Vail inched to her right, toward the opposing rows of pews, but did not want to relinquish her position blocking the exit. She got a better angle, however, on Meece.
Another step—and he swiveled his head to make eye contact with her.
She saw a troubled man. A blank, though tense, expression.
Or am I reading into it?
Vail kept the Glock out in front of her, aimed at Meece. Just like her concerns regarding SWAT, an aggressive stance on her part risked escalating the situation. Unless forced to lower her weapon, however, readiness to fire gave her an advantage if the situation degenerated suddenly and spiraled out of control. She was not going to risk losing Russell at the expense of letting Meece live. There was something morally wrong with such a scenario.
“So what are we doing here, Scott?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re here because I’m here.”
No shit.<
br />
“And you’re here because …”
He did not answer for a long moment. Then: “I’m here to right a wrong.”
“And what wrong is that?”
Meece did not reply. His gaze moved downward. To the gun?
“Is this about your brother?” Vail asked, trying to refocus him.
Refocus him, indeed: his head swiveled hard toward her, his expression changing, eyebrows bunched together, nose creased into a snarl.
“What do you know about my brother?”
“I know Phillip died a hero in Somalia. He was Special Forces. Army Rangers.”
His gaze remained steady.
“And I know there was some friction with your stepfather. He wanted you to serve, just like Phillip.”
Meece turned away. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
Him. Phillip or the stepfather?
“Tell me about your mother, Scott.”
His head shot back toward Vail.
“Tell me what she did to you. About the abuse.”
“I don’t want to talk about her either.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about her. She’s why you’ve been poisoning all those women. With the aconite. And the drop of red dye in the soap.”
Meece’s eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, we know about the soap. And the chocolate bar wrappers. We just don’t know why. Was it because of what your mother did to you?”
He grabbed Russell with his free hand and yanked him up. They both stood. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Vail almost laughed.
Adam seems to agree with you.
“So tell me,” she said. “Help me understand what happened.”
“It was Nick.”
Nick, his stepfather?
“What did Nick do to you?”
Meece bit his bottom lip. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Abuse. I know that much. Emotional? Physical?”
“Yes.”
“Sexual?”
Meece’s lips quivered. “Yes.”
“Scott, no one should have to endure that. I understand what you’ve gone through. I’ve dealt with a lot of people who’ve been victimized like that. Let me help you. I can set you up with someone to talk about it.”
Meece hesitated, as if he was considering her offer. Of course, Vail had not bothered him with all the details … the trials for all the murders, the convictions, the lifelong incarceration. Sure, there’d be counseling and psychiatric treatment along the way.
But hey, your care and prescription meds will be fully covered. No copays. No deductibles! Such a deal.
“Too late for that,” Meece finally said. “What Nick did …” Meece shook his head. “What I did …”
Vail had to get him back on task. “Why the women? If it was Nick who abused you, why have you been taking it out on women who look like your mother?”
Meece’s head cricked to one side.
“Yes,” Vail said. “I get it. I understand what you’ve been doing, even if you weren’t completely aware of why. Do you know why?”
He stared at her blankly. His eyes glazed over.
Please don’t lose touch with reality here. I don’t want to have to shoot you.
“Scott.” Vail’s voice was soft, almost melodic. “Do you know?”
He blinked and refocused his gaze on her face. He swallowed hard. “Because she let him.”
“Your mother? Mary let Nick abuse you?”
Meece nodded almost imperceptibly.
“She knew and didn’t do anything about it?”
He laughed, a creepy snarl. “She helped him. And she killed my dad. My dad …” He swallowed hard. “My dad loved me.”
Vail wanted to know more, but now was not the time to probe deeper. Meece was not stable. At the moment, she needed to disarm him and get Adam away safely. “We’ll get help for you. I promise. Right now I’m concerned about Detective Russell. Can you give him the gun? I’ll make the rest happen.”
Scott stood there, the pistol in his hand. Power, Phil had called it. The power to give life or take it.
Yes.
“Can you give him the gun?”
Scott looked at the weapon, at the tip of the barrel poking into the side of his stepfather. A slow squeeze of the trigger and he would avenge the years of abuse.
He felt a stab of pain in his rectum. Memories of Nick’s sick idea of discipline. Most fathers disciplined with a slap of the hand on the rump. Some cracked a whip on the ass. Nick liked to ram glass soda bottles up his bottom. Push them in as far as—
“No. No more. Time for you to pay for what you’ve done.”
“Scott,” Vail said firmly. “You need to put that gun down. Now.”
“Time for you to pay for what you’ve done.”
At least, that’s what Vail thought he said. His speech was suddenly slurred, almost incoherent.
He’s having a psychotic episode.
“Scott.” Calmer, reassuring. “Look at me, okay?”
But his gaze was boring into Russell’s neck. And Russell was standing rock still, his head bowed slightly but his eyes locked on Vail. He knew he dare not speak, that Vail had to fix this.
“Scott. That’s Detective Russell next to you. It’s not Nick. It’s not your stepfather.” She waited for a reaction. “Is that who you see? Do you think Nick is there?”
“Power,” he slurred.
Power? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? The gun? He’s finally got the upper hand?
“That’s not Nick, Scott. Look at me. I want to help. Look at me, Scott.”
Vail knew that psychotic episodes could end suddenly or last days, weeks, or months. She had no idea if Meece was on medication, if he had taken it, or if he had not been sleeping well … It was nearly impossible to adequately assess him. But one thing was clear: he had a loaded pistol in his hand and he saw Russell as his stepfather, a primary source of his pain and suffering.
“Tell you what,” Vail said. “How about I arrest Nick and put him in jail? He won’t be able to hurt you again. How does that sound?”
Meece’s right eye narrowed. He was still staring at Russell’s neck. Vail could not get a read on whether she was on the verge of resolving this or if Meece was about to pull the trigger.
She was running out of time. And her forearms were getting tired. She had been holding the Glock out in front of her for several minutes. Her right hand was cramping but she dare not move.
“Scott, I need you to work with me here. Just … just look at me, okay?”
He did not react.
Dammit, he’s stuck in some alternate reality. I’ve gotta reach him.
“Scott,” Russell said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. I realize that was wrong. I’m going to surrender to the police, go to jail.”
Meece looked down at the gun.
“Scott, you sum bitch, I did what I did because you were bad. You were a bad kid. And I’m gonna do it again. Ima gonna get the bottle. ’Cause you deserve it.”
“No. I was not bad! I wasn’t. Can’t do this anymore!”
Scott felt the metal in his hand, the tension of the spring against his index finger.
Power? Yes.
Life? No.
Death? Yes.
He squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening. It echoed. Maybe this is what combat sounded like.
A hot pain in the chest. Another. Ow. Oh.
And then, nothing.
61
Vail watched with trepidation as Russell played the part of Nick James. It was a huge gamble. Meece was not in his right mind. He would likely hear what his alternate reality created, not what Russell was actually saying. Russell could be unwittingly playing right into the psychotic episode’s n
arrative.
There was nothing she could do but watch and hope her concerns were unfounded. Meece might buy it. Hell, nothing else was working.
He looked down at his gun.
Is he surrendering?
And then he pulled the trigger.
Shit!
Vail fired as well, two shots to the chest and one to the head. Meece went down first, followed by Russell, who was trying—unsuccessfully—to hold onto the back of the pew. Meece’s shot was close range, directly into the detective’s side.
Vail was on her phone as she advanced on Russell. She kicked away Meece’s pistol, which went skittering across the green marble floor.
“Officer down, officer down! GSW. National Memorial Cemetery chapel. Shooter’s also down.”
She tossed her phone aside, the line still active, and dropped to both knees beside Russell, gripped his right shoulder.
“Hang on, Adam. Help’s on the way.”
His cheeks were drawn up into a wince, trying to hold it together. “Oh man … this fuckin’ hurts.”
“Seriously? You’re in a military cemetery. Lots of these guys were shot multiple times. Some lost limbs. You think they whined about how much it hurt?”
Russell could not help but smile—at least, he tried to. “You … suck … Karen.”
“So I’m told.”
“Meece … down?”
“Oh yeah.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Deader than a sack of hammers. Two at center mass, one in the head. I wasn’t gonna miss at fifteen feet. You think I’m a hack?”
“Thought did occur … to me.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who nearly got myself killed.”
He snorted.
“Admit it, buddy. I broke the case.”
“You broke … something … Got a bullet … in my side. Just hocus pocus … bullshit. You got lucky.” He winced again.
Don’t die on me!
“I’d rather be lucky than smart,” she said, stroking his forehead.
“You got the luck part … down.” Another wince. “Need to work on the smart part … Hone your hocus …pocus skills.”
Red Death Page 28