A siren in the distance.
“Can you hear it? Ambulance. They’ll be here any second.”
“A light. I see a … bright light.”
Fuck.
Wince. “Just … kidding.”
“That was not funny.”
The sirens were loud. Shouting. Footsteps in the gallery hallways. SWAT officers crowded the back of the chapel, yelling commands.
Vail raised her hands. “Karen Vail. FBI.”
“ID?” the commander asked.
Vail carefully extracted her creds and held them up. “Detective Russell’s been shot. Perp’s dead. Ambulance?”
“Medics are on the way up.”
Vail leaned over Russell’s face. “Stay with me, Adam.”
His eyes clamped closed. “Was going to … tell you the … same thing.”
“They’ll have to tear me away.”
Noises in the corridor. More yelling. A couple of officers pointed their assault rifles in the direction of the approaching footsteps.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Vail said.
Russell grimaced. “You sure?”
“How should I know? I’m making this shit up as I go.”
Russell forced a contorted grin. “That’s … what I … thought.”
She bit her bottom lip and looked up as two medics appeared with a gurney.
62
Vail stood on her balcony looking out at the ocean. The sun had risen an hour earlier, spreading oranges and pinks across the horizon. As the sky brightened, she saw the breaking waves rolling in and receding.
So serene. Hard to believe it was the setting of such violence only a day prior.
She thought of Scott Meece, of his family’s longtime service to its country, making the ultimate sacrifice to secure freedom and liberty for its citizens. And now, the family name soiled by an outsider—and an errant gene in the mother who apparently did not get the DNA that instills in most parents the innate, overwhelming desire to protect their young children at all costs.
The knock at the door roused her from her fugue.
She turned and walked past her suitcase, then let Harry Bachler in.
“Ready?”
“You really didn’t have to do this. I could’ve taken an Uber or a Lyft.”
“We appreciate all your help. I guess the chief wanted me to see you off properly.”
“Properly,” Vail said, pursing her lips. “Very nice. I usually get kicked in the ass out of town. This is a pleasant change.”
Bachler was not sure what to do with that comment, so he stepped forward to grab her suitcase.
“Just kidding. You know that, right? Ferraro just wants to make sure I leave his island. That’s really what this is about.”
“If you must know … yep, that’s true.”
She snorted. “So how’s Adam?”
“Still in recovery. Doc says he’ll be okay. The liver is a very fungible organ.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
Bachler laughed. “Fungible means one part can cover for another. And it’s got an abundant blood supply, so it’s pretty decent at self-healing if it’s not hit in the wrong place. And Adam got lucky.”
Vail laughed. “He said the same about me.”
“Maybe we all did. I’m not sure Scott Meece would’ve stopped killing if it weren’t for you.”
“I had a lot of help.” Vail pulled the door closed behind her as they headed down the hallway. “Honestly, it’s hard to know. This might’ve been his plan all along. End up here, at Fishbowl, and—”
“Punchbowl.”
“Yeah. Sorry. Weird name, I just gotta say that.”
“It’s named after a—”
“I know, I know. Anyway, Meece wasn’t in a healthy state of mind. Well, I guess that kind of goes without saying. He was a serial murderer. And he was subject to violent psychotic episodes, any one of which could’ve been a trigger for him to take his life.”
“You ever get tired of what you do?”
“Hell no. Every offender’s different. Each presents his own challenges. Just when I think I’ve seen every kind of depraved crime a human can commit against another, a new case hits my desk.”
“And hey, you get free trips. Like this one to Hawaii.”
Vail harrumphed. “You don’t want to hear what my ‘free trips’ have been like.”
Bachler laughed. “I think I have a good idea.”
Trust me, you don’t.
As they exited the building, Bachler’s phone buzzed. He held it up and consulted the screen. “Text from Adam. He’s awake. He wanted to say good-bye.”
Vail started to open her mouth when Bachler’s handset rang.
He raised his brow, then handed the device to Vail. “It’s Adam.”
She put it to her ear.
“On Skype.”
“Oh.” She pulled the phone away from her face. “There you are. Miss me already?”
“Hey.”
His voice was weak and raspy.
“Hey. You look like shit. You doin’ okay?”
“Doc said they ran a blood test when they brought me in and found I had too much lead in my body. Go figure.”
Vail chuckled.
“Oh.” Russell grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“So you called to say good-bye?”
“Not exactly. Got a surprise for you.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
A small truck pulled to a stop behind them.
“Harry, did they arrive yet?”
“Who?” Bachler asked. “Oh—the surprise.” He swiveled, looked over his right shoulder, and said, “Yep. Just got here.”
Vail stole a look and saw a blue van but could not read the writing on the side.
“They didn’t find any relatives of Mary Wingate, and none of her friends wanted another dog, so they were going to take Oscar to the pound.”
“The pound?” Vail’s jaw dropped open. “Adam, you can’t let th—”
“But I convinced them to meet you there.”
Vail turned back to the truck, where a woman was leading Oscar toward her. The miniature greyhound saw her—and started pulling in her direction.
Vail knelt down. “For me?”
“Oscar,” the handler said, “meet your new mommy.”
“Let me see,” Russell said.
Vail handed Bachler the phone. He swiveled it so the camera was facing Vail.
Oscar was licking her face and wagging his tail so hard his rear end swung in unison.
“May Oscar give you as much shit as you’ve given me,” Russell said.
Vail lifted the dog into her arms and stood up, facing the phone. “Adam, I don’t know what to say.”
“Thanks for thinking of me is a good start.”
“Thanks for thinking of me.” She leaned back and with her free right hand, stroked Oscar’s fine-featured face. “But I need a crate for the plane.”
“Took care of it yesterday,” Russell said. “Good thing I didn’t die. I wouldn’t have gotten the pleasure of seeing this moment.”
Vail planted a kiss on Oscar’s forehead and left a red lipstick stain between his eyes. “This is one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.”
“Hey. I did it for Oscar.”
“Yeah. Sure. Anyway, gotta go. You’re gonna make me late for my flight.”
“Wow,” Russell said, shaking his head. “I just survived a major gunshot wound—and I gave you a new dog. And you’re worried about missing your flight?”
“I miss this one, I’m stuck here another day.”
“Another day in paradise. Where’s my violin? Poor Karen.”
She leaned closer to the camera. “If this is what paradise is like …”
She grinned.
“Seriously. I didn’t want you to leave before I had a chance to thank you.”
“No, no, no,” Vail said. “It was a team effort.”
“Damn straight it was. But that aconite. That zeroed us in. And you probably saved some lives in pointing us to the memorial. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Your criminal investigative bullshit.”
“Analysis.”
“Whatever. We make a good team.”
Bachler pulled out his key and hit the remote button, then hefted Vail’s suitcase into the back seat. The crate he set in the trunk.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“You’ll keep me posted as to what happens with that inspector general investigation?”
“Don’t think I can. Probably shouldn’t talk about it anymore than we have already. But I have a feeling you’ll be hearing from them before I do.”
“Good luck with it.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got friends in high places.”
“You mean, like, God?”
Not sure I’d call Douglas Knox “God,” but some on the OPSIG team might feel that way.
“Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“Hey. Next time we have a serial killer on Oahu, I’m going to call the BAU and request … Frank Del Monaco.”
“Go right ahead.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. And two days later you’ll be calling back and begging my boss to send me.”
Russell winked at her. “Let’s hope the next serial killer on Oahu will be twenty years from now.”
“Twenty years? I’ll be enjoying my retirement by then.”
“On a beach in Oahu?”
Vail thought about that. “Who knows, Adam. Life is strange. You never know where you’re gonna find yourself.” She planted another kiss on Oscar’s head, then set him on the ground. “Or what curves life is gonna toss your way.”
“Hmm. FBI profiler. Political commentator. And now philosopher.”
“Didn’t you look at my business card? It says, ‘Renaissance Woman.’”
“Must’ve missed that. And I’m gonna miss working with you.”
“Hey,” Vail said, giving Oscar’s leash a tug toward the car. “You know what they say. Life’s a bitch.”
Russell laughed. “This is Hawaii, remember? We prefer ‘Life’s a beach.’”
Acknowledgments
For me, writing a novel often takes a village. In the case of Red Death, it was more like a hamlet. I’d like to thank several people who put their imprints on the manuscript in important ways:
Mark Safarik, supervisory special agent and senior FBI profiler with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit (ret.) and principal of Forensic Behavioral Services International, for reading the manuscript and correcting my FBI and law enforcement procedural errors. He also helped me navigate the male versus female offender issue.
Jeffrey Jacobson, Esq., former assistant US Attorney, for assistance with the attorney general’s investigation of Vail.
John Sylvester, Lt. Col., US Army, for assistance with Phillip Meece’s rank and army career timeline. Mark Spicer, British SAS sniper (ret.), security consultant, military and law enforcement trainer, and CEO of Osprey Group USA, for his assistance with understanding the mind-set of a sniper and the detached feeling that comes over someone staring through a scope. I met Mark several years ago and remain very impressed with his breadth of knowledge and experience. His courage and training are the ingredients of a patriot.
Jane Willoughby, Ph.D., biochemist, for assistance with chemistry—never one of my favorite subjects. Once I realized what I was getting into with homemade soaps and dyes, I knew who to call. Jane made sure my chemical names—and in particular the nature of FD&C Red 40—were properly expressed. Unfortunately, there are no shortcuts in science.
Harvey and Ronnie Hartenstein, cousins, for acting as professional tour guides of their home island and for pointing out places of interest to visit—including Joe’s, which is real—really beautiful, featuring really delicious food.
Success in most industries is a team effort. My team includes my agents, Joel Gotler and Frank Curtis, who ensure that the royalties, rights, administrative matters, contracts, and foreign sales are executed properly; my editor Kevin Smith, the senior member of my crew—having worked on every Karen Vail and OPSIG Team Black novel (sans The Hunted)—who helps make sure my characters are consistent from book to book, that the story and characters are well-drawn; and finally my copyeditor, Chrisona Schmidt, who corrects my grammatical failings and ensures that everything flows properly and conforms to CMS guidelines, the bible of standardized style manuals.
My team is rounded out by my editor, Philip Rappaport, and the tireless group at Open Road Integrated Media. Publishing a book not only requires tremendous time and effort by many talented individuals, but passion and professionalism. I’m fortunate to be surrounded by all of that at Open Road.
My readers and fans, some of whom read my novels more than once, for the support, review love, and Facebook camaraderie they afford me. Does it matter? Absolutely! I love hearing from you and I appreciate all you do to let friends, family, and neighbors know of my work.
My wife Jill always comes last in my acknowledgments—but first in my thoughts. Aside from reading (and editing and rereading), she makes sure I have the time I need to put the necessary (and seemingly endless) work into the novel. That’s no small ask. Remember that village (or hamlet) I mentioned earlier? At the end of the day, all that responsibility falls on my shoulders. My name is on the cover and my sole focus is on giving you, my reader, the best possible experience. I couldn’t do that without my wife’s ongoing, steadfast support.
About the Author
Alan Jacobson is the national bestselling author of fourteen critically acclaimed novels. In order to take readers behind the scenes to places they might never go, Jacobson has embedded himself in many federal agencies, including spending several years working with two senior profilers at the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s vaunted Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. During that time, Jacobson edited four published FBI research papers on serial offenders, attended numerous FBI training courses, worked with the head firearms instructor at the academy, and received ongoing personalized instruction on serial killers—which continues to this day. He has also worked with high-ranking members of the Drug Enforcement Administration, the US Marshals Service, the New York Police Department, SWAT teams, local bomb squads, branches of the US military, chief superintendents and detective sergeants at Scotland Yard, criminals, armorers, helicopter pilots, chief executive officers, historians, and Special Forces operators. These experiences have helped him to create gripping, realistic stories and characters. His series protagonist, FBI profiler Karen Vail, resonates with both female and male readers, and writers such as Nelson DeMille, James Patterson, and Michael Connelly have called Vail one of the most compelling heroes in suspense fiction.
Contact Jacobson via his website, www.AlanJacobson.com, Facebook (facebook.com/alanjacobsonfans), Twitter (@JacobsonAlan), or Instagram (alan.jacobson).
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Alan Jacobson
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6356-2
Published in 2020 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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