Authors: Alan Jacobson

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Vail 01 - The 7th Victim (63 page)

BOOK: Vail 01 - The 7th Victim

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eighty

V
ail watched the minutes tick by. Angry at her body for betraying her when she needed it, frustrated that she had to remain behind. Concerned they may have made a grave mistake.

As her cold pasta sat in the pot in front of her, she stared at the clock in a daze, running all the Dead Eyes facts through her mind. It all fit. It all made sense. So why was she filled with this sense of unease?

It was a copycat killing, it had to be. All they had was a beat cop’s first-on-the-scene impressions. He wasn’t a homicide detective and he wasn’t a profiler. The finer points of behavior strewn out across the victim’s bedroom would be lost on him, just as they would be on the new agents she taught each month.

But the unease ate away at her. And Robby had not called. She was tempted to phone him, but her better sense told her not to. She needed to let them evaluate the scene without interference. He said he would call . . . he’ll call, she just had to be patient.

But being patient was not part of Karen Vail’s makeup. Acknowledging she needed to divert her attention, she limped over to the stove and began placing the food into containers. She sniffed the sauce and caught a whiff of the fresh pasta and garlic. It would have made a special meal. But with Robby gone, she had lost her appetite.

She slipped the food into the fridge, then pulled the stool in front of the sink. She turned on the hot water and began washing the dirty dishes and pots. It was more difficult to do from a sitting position, but at least it kept her mind off the crime scene, Robby, and her knee pain.

As she placed a dish into the drainboard, she heard a noise somewhere behind her. She stopped the water and listened. Her eyes bounced around the room, noticed the fireplace had completely burned out and was now a smoldering layer of embers. Perhaps a piece of wood had fallen from the rack.

She turned around and returned to the dishes, moving on to the pots. As she maneuvered one into the sink, she heard a
clunk!
and quickly brought a hand up to the faucet, shutting the water again. She swiveled on the stool and squinted into the family room.

Nothing.

She thought of where she had left her Glock. In its holster, in her bedroom. She slid off the stool and lowered herself to the floor, then hobbled down the hallway, moving slowly, eyes wide and her body ready to react. Question was,
react to what? To whom?

“THIS IS PAUL BLEDSOE,” he shouted into the handset in his car. Robby’s hands were locked on the dashboard as Bledsoe maneuvered through the traffic. “Get out an APB on Chase Hancock. Info’s in the computer. There’s an active case open under my name.” He handed Robby the mike and put his other hand on the wheel just in time to swerve away from a pedestrian. “Shit. What the hell’s going on here?”

Robby chewed on his lower lip, holding his thoughts.

Bledsoe accelerated. “Who could’ve gotten hold of the profile?”

“We know who got hold of it,” Robby said. “Dead Eyes.”

“We got Dead Eyes. He’s deader than a doornail.” He glanced at Robby. “No.
Someone
broke into Karen’s house and stole it.
Someone
left a message on her wall. We just assumed it was Dead Eyes.”

“Who the hell else would it have been?”

“I don’t know, Hernandez, I don’t know. Her ex? Screwing with her head? Hancock? Same reason?”

Robby sighed. “Whoever broke in is whoever stole the profile. Same person rolled it up and shoved it into Laura Mackey.”

“So who are our suspects?”

“Hancock. Deacon Tucker. And an UNSUB.”

Bledsoe swerved onto the shoulder of the roadway and passed several cars waiting to make a left turn. He was on surface streets, headed to the Interstate, trying to make the best time possible.

“Try Karen again.”

Robby pressed redial. “No answer.” He shook his head. “The line must be cut.”

“Maybe she’s just not home.”

“She’s home. Her knee’s real bad. She’s got surgery tomorrow morning, she wasn’t going anywhere. Plus, she’s got a machine.”

Bledsoe gripped the wheel tighter.

Robby tried the line again, cursed under his breath, then slammed the phone shut. “Can’t this car go any faster?”

VAIL MOVED INTO HER BEDROOM and saw the holstered Glock sitting atop her dresser. She strapped the shoulder harness across her body then flipped on the overhead light. Everything was as it should have been. She left the light on and moved into Jonathan’s bedroom and glanced around. Nothing unusual.

Next she checked her study, where the message was still scrawled on the wall. She would have to get some paint and get rid of that, and soon. It gave her the creeps. It reminded her Dead Eyes had been here, had violated her space.

She moved back down the hallway, using the walls for support. As she stepped into the great room that contained the kitchen at one end and the family room at the other, she wondered if she was just being paranoid. Noises in the house. She hadn’t spent the night here in several days, ever since the profile had been stolen. She was unnerved, is all. A killer had been in her home, touched her things. Now she was back here at night and got spooked.

She hobbled through the living and dining rooms, turning on lights. Everything was in its place. There were no messages scrawled across the walls. She chuckled silently, amused at letting herself get so worked up over nothing.
Shame on you, Vail. You should know better.

She sat back down at the kitchen sink and continued washing the pots.

“WHAT’S OUR ETA?” Bledsoe asked.

Robby looked around at the dark landscape flashing by outside the car. “Man, I don’t know. I never go this way. If I had to guess, five minutes, maybe ten.”

“When are they going to invent flying cars, huh? Make our jobs so much easier.”

“Were there any available units in her area?”

“Different jurisdiction. Dispatch was putting out the word. Did you try her mobile?”

“I texted and called her three times. I was kicked right into voice mail.”

“Try the landline again.”

Robby hit redial and waited. A moment later, he closed the phone. He didn’t need to say anything. Bledsoe already knew there was no answer.

THE SMELL OF BURNT WAX and smoldering wicks irritated Vail’s nose.
A draft must have blown out some of the candles.
She hated that odor—she always tried to put a cup over the candle before it had a chance to burn out. Vail shut the water and reached for the dish towel to dry her hands.

But it was not where she always kept it.

A noise behind her, in the family room—and she grabbed for her Glock. Her wet hands fumbled with the leather strap, but she finally yanked the pistol from its holster. Three point stance, hands thrown out in front of her in a triangle. She slid down off the stool and immediately felt the pain of her body’s weight bearing down on her left knee. She swung around, keeping her hands fixed in front of her, moving in an arc. But she saw nothing.

“Who’s out there?” she yelled.

A flash of light to her extreme right caught her eye, and she spun and fired her gun in one movement—but suddenly the house went dark. There was no longer a doubt of
if
there was an intruder.

Someone had cut the lights. The only questions were who—and where—he was.

Then something else occurred to her. Vail knew she had pulled the trigger. But her pistol did not fire. In fact, it felt light. She pressed the release button with her thumb and the magazine dropped into her opposite hand. She stuck her index finger into the opening, feeling for the rounds. But there were none. Whoever was in her house had emptied her weapon.

Shit.

She shoved the magazine into the pistol and backed toward the sink to grab one of her large knives, but her foot caught the stool’s leg and she fell, the Glock flying from her hand. Her initial reaction was to feel for it in the dark, but she realized there was nothing to be gained. She pulled herself up, the pain in her knee now toothache-intense, and moved toward the counter where she kept her knife block.

She realized too late that if the intruder had been smart enough to empty her Glock, and stealthy enough to move her kitchen rag, he probably had also removed other weapons of opportunity. Her knives.

“Hancock, show yourself!” She shouted it into the dark air, hoping to elicit a response. Hoping for a chuckle if she were wrong, a voice if she were right. Something to give her a sense of direction.

But before she could plan her next move, she heard a shuffle of feet. She threw her hands up and bent away from the noise bracing for impact—and got what she expected.
Whack!
Across the hands. Then a swift kick to her left knee. Pain ignited, burst through her leg, like fireworks exploding in her brain. She let out a groan, in that instant knowing there were going to be more fierce, angry blows.

She crumpled in pain and was driven backwards to the floor, as a lineman would tackle a quarterback. And then she felt the weight of a body atop her.

Vail swung her arms hard and hit something, something metal, and heard the object clunk against the floor. She immediately threw her hands up and grabbed clothing—then pushed the man back, away from her. Her eyes were now accommodating to the darkness and could make out what looked like nylon pantyhose stretched across his face.

“Son of a bitch!” she shouted as he grabbed her neck with strong, vice-like hands.

She tried to maneuver her legs to kick him, but he was sitting on her abdomen. Pinning her pelvis to the floor. He had done this before, she was sure. Highly intelligent, excellent planner . . . thirty to forty years old . . . her profile flittered through her mind while she tried to pry his hands loose.

As the air left her lungs.