by Trisha Wolfe
I stand behind a tree, camouflaged by the dark, as he flicks the cherry off the cigarette and pockets the butt. Very considerate of him.
When I fear he’s about to give up the chase, I make myself known. I walk right up behind him and, as he’s invested in lighting another cigarette, wrap my sculpting wire around his neck.
His folds of fat prevent me from getting a good hold. I choke up on the wire, muscles straining. A couple shocked seconds, then he lashes out, fighting as he tries to pry the wire loose. He backs into me, struggling, before I’m able to lower him to the ground.
During the scuffle, he dropped his gun. When he’s close to blacking out, I relax the wire and allow him to pull in a wheezing breath. I pick up the gun and slip it into my waistband.
“You must be the bravest cop, or the stupidest,” I say, moving into a blade of moonlight so he can see my face.
Detective Foster coughs, his eyes bulging against the pressure. It’s a few more seconds before he’s able to talk. “Sullivan…” He sputters, inhales a rattling breath.
“Smoking is a killer.” I kneel beside him and flick my switchblade out.
Hand to his throat, Foster eyes the blade. “Fuck you.”
Foster is a surprise. One of those rare gifts. I wasn’t expecting this kind of boldness from the cumbersome detective. The pressure of his job must be getting to him to make such a rash move.
“I knew you couldn’t keep away from her,” he says, finally catching his breath. “And I knew she was in on it. Just had to keep watching and waiting. I knew you’d show.”
He gets points for persistence. I’ve been focused on Nelson as more of a threat over Foster. But there’s something to be said for his shear obstinacy. I rotate the knife, catching the light. “There’s a flaw in your plan, detective. Where’s your backup?”
His jaw sets, gaze narrowed. Stubborn.
I nod once. Then I flip open his trench coat. “I noticed that you’re missing your badge. Did you lose it? Aren’t cops reprimanded for that?”
“Are you going to kill me?” he says, evading my question.
I look him over. “Answer me, and I’ll make it quick and painless.”
The hard dip of his Adam’s apple dispels some of his bravado. “I lost it,” he says. “Mandatory suspension disguised as vacation without pay.”
That’s how Foster’s been able to follow me around the country. There was no mention of his suspension in the news, but then, the headlines have been fixated on the worthy stories. London and the dead girls. The manhunt for a serial killer. FBI investigations. No one particularly cares for an aging, overweight detective from New Castle.
Pursuing me—the one that got away right in his own city—has cost Detective Foster his career. For an obstinate man like him, that’s a giant stressor.
Is it enough to make a cop of twenty-plus years snap and start torturing and killing?
I’m not sure, but he has been stalking London. Camped out near her building, and probably close to her home. If he believes London is my accomplice, he’s a danger to her. An unhinged cop who feels vindicated in breaking the law to get to me.
“I can’t let you go, Foster. I’ve taken too many risks lately.” I raise the blade to his chin. “You’ve proven that tonight.”
I give him a few seconds to absorb the reality of his situation. What will he do? He’s surprised me once—maybe he’s capable of more.
He lunges for the weapon.
His beefy grip on the knife results in a slash to his palm. Red spreads to the cuff of his coat. He manages to knock me off balance, taking me to the dewy earth. Spittle flies from his mouth as he grunts from above, still trying to wrangle the knife from my grasp.
“You cost me everything, you fucker.” Enraged, Foster throws a blow toward my head. He strikes my ear, and I release my grip on the weapon.
I’m able to nudge my booted foot under his ample stomach and shove him off. He lands on his back, knife in hand. I get to my feet and stand over him. “Dr. Noble is above you. Skulking around her like a prick with a hard-on reveals your incompetency.”
He wheezes in a breath. “I’m not the only one with a hard-on for the doc,” he says. His hand shoots out quicker than I predict. The razor-sharp edge of the blade slices into my shin. The pain is delayed; my adrenaline too ramped. I stomp on Foster’s wrist, pinning his hand, and extract the switchblade from his meaty digits.
“Besides,” I say as I wipe the blade clean on his collar. “You’re wrong about her. Your preoccupation with the good doctor is giving you tunnel vision. You need to cast your net wider.” Hands on knees, I get close to his face. “Unless that’s your plan. To frame London.”
Debilitating fear clouds his expression, hindering my assessment. I’m unable to get a clear read on him. Foster trembles with a combination of rage and anxiety, masking any hint of shock on his part.
“What are you talking about, you psycho?”
His response is disappointing. Since I can’t have him getting in the way any further…
“We should make this look good,” I say. “It would be too much of an embarrassment on your part if I got away too easy, don’t you think?” I plant my foot on his forearm and grab his wrist.
Confusion draws his eyebrows together, until the sickening crunch of bone snapping reverberates off the tombstones. Finally, real emotion displays on his face. I feel the crack of Foster’s radial bone beneath my boot.
A litany of foul words imbue the night as Foster moves through the stages of shock, pain, fear. And finally, rage.
“You motherfucker—” His tirade persists, spittle flying, as he draws his broken arm to his chest. Sprawled on his back, the detective resembles a flipped turtle, limbs striking the ground with no ability to right himself.
“A broken wing won’t stop you for long.” I prod beneath his waist and unclip the set of handcuffs. Then I drag Foster toward the staked headstone where I kicked up the stone. It’s not an open grave, but it will do. Besides, I can’t have the detective traumatized. We still need him.
His feet kick out at me, but he’s too preoccupied with his pain to put up much of a fight. I fasten one cuff to his chubby ankle, the other to the exposed rebar of the cheap headstone. He cries out as the steel cuff bites into his flesh.
“You should think about a diet, old man.” I pocket the handcuff keys, thinking they’d look beautiful strung around London’s neck.
After a useless attempt to work the cuff free of the rebar, Foster relents. Breathless, he glares up at me. “I don’t care what the media says, you’re a killer. Just a fucking killer like any other homicidal criminal locked up in prison.”
I squat next to him and—I give him credit—he doesn’t flinch. “Do you really think now is the time to have me come to God?” My tone is brutally serious.
Real fear flashes in his eyes. For the first time, the detective who’s looked death in the eyes every day of his career realizes that today might be his last.
I reach into the inseam of his coat and take out his phone. “You have two choices,” I say, setting the cell next to his head. “Get yourself out of the handcuffs, or call for help.”
His gaze narrows. “You’re giving me options?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Not much of an option. You can chew through your ankle rather than face the degradation of your department and every other official…not to mention the media you so loathe. But I just don’t think you have the stomach for it.”
Cradling his wounded arm, Foster glances between me and the phone. I stand. “Good luck.”
As I start off, he says, “Just tell me she’s in on it.”
My eyes close. “You just can’t leave it alone. Even for your own good.”
“I’m a detective,” he says around a grunt. “If the doc was a conspirator in your escape, I’ll figure it out.”
No, he won’t.
I turn around and collect Foster’s phone. Scrolling through the messages and recent calls, I shake my h
ead. “You haven’t contacted anyone since yesterday.” I push the phone into my pocket. “That’s unfortunate. No one knows where you are, and you’re the only one who can place me inside London’s office building. You’re the only one who can warn her.”
Through the haze of pain, it takes a moment for him to decipher my meaning. “What do you want with her?”
I untuck the Glock from my pants. “You wasted my mercy. I’m not an endless well of sympathy.” I release the magazine and, one by one, spit the bullets to the ground with a flick of my thumb.
“What are you doing?” Foster asks.
I insert the empty mag and pull the slide back. Tilting the gun toward Foster, I show him the chamber. “Pick a bullet,” I say.
Still gripping his broken arm to his chest, Foster glances at the bronze bullets splayed around his head, refusing to play the game.
“Stubborn as ever,” I mutter, and select one myself. I hold it up, then chamber the round and drop the slide. The resounding click makes Foster squeeze his eyes closed.
“Ever play Russian Roulette, Foster?”
His eyes snap open. “You’re crazy. You can’t play Roulette with a fucking Glock—”
“Sure you can.” I cock the gun and press the muzzle to his temple. “Rules are real simple. Answer the question honestly, and I don’t shoot you.”
He tries to squirm away and releases a strangled cry as the cuff jerks his leg back.
I reposition the gun to his head. “Done?” He sends me a lethal glare but doesn’t move this time.
“What the fuck do you want to know?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
“Have you ever harmed an animal?” I ask.
“The fuck—?”
“Honesty, Foster. It’s very important right now. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
He blows out a harsh breath, pain mounting despite his adrenaline. “No. Never.”
I tilt my head, studying him. Deciding he’s telling the truth, I pull back the gun and yank the slide open, popping out the bullet. “One down,” I say, and toss the bullet over my shoulder.
Foster’s head smacks the ground as he relaxes, breathing hard. “Is this some sick psych evaluation?”
“Something like that.” I load another round into the chamber and cock the gun. “Thirteen bullets to go. Bet you wish you didn’t load a full mag today.”
“Christ.”
“Have you ever fired your gun on the job?”
Foster doesn’t blink. “No.”
We go on like this, working our way through bullets, him giving me the answers I want to know. Until we’re down to the final round.
At this point, Foster has stopped sweating. He’s slipping into shock. I still haven’t gotten the answer I need, however. Whether or not it’s his signature on the vics.
I load the bullet.
“It’s not Russian Roulette unless you point the damn thing at yourself once in a while,” he says between wheezes. His eyes fluttered closed.
I nudge his head with the barrel, rousing him. “Fair enough. Now pay attention.” I stretch his arm out and he bites off a scream. I place the Glock in his shaky hand, helping him secure his finger to the trigger. “Don’t break the rules.”
His gaze holds me in a disbelieving stare. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sting of dried sweat from his eyes, then maneuvers himself onto his elbow and aims at my head. I lower myself to make it easier for him. I put my forehead right up to the muzzle.
Unsteady, he can barely keep the gun raised. I give Foster credit, though, his sheer stubborn determination won’t let him drop that gun.
“Ask,” I say.
The cool steel trembles against my forehead. Foster smiles. “Fuck you.” His finger twitches, he pulls the trigger, and the slide jams home with a resounding click. Foster’s eyes widen. He tries to pull the trigger again, and I pry the gun away.
I show him the bullet in my hand. “No one ever passes their test,” I say as I chamber the bullet, this time without first dropping it into my hand. “Sorry. That’s not right. London passed hers.”
“Is that why you left her alive?”
I check the gun, making sure it’s ready, and get to my feet. “You’re the detective,” I say, pointing the weapon at him. “Figure it out.”
“Wait!” Foster holds up his hand, as if he’ll stop the bullet. “You can’t do this…”
I really can. “I don’t like guns. Unimaginative. But our game has inspired me.” I slip my finger around the trigger and take aim.
The passing cars are too far away to hear the gunshot.
14
Nuance
London
The entrance to the hospital is teeming with reporters and news crews. Agent Nelson swears and steers his SUV toward the backside of the building.
“I still say you shouldn’t be here,” he says.
When the announcement aired that Detective Foster was hospitalized early this morning, Nelson and a team of agents showed up at my apartment shortly afterward.
Foster gave a brief statement to the press that cited Grayson Sullivan as his attacker. Authorities are still awaiting DNA analysis from his person to confirm this, but it’s already become an accepted truth by the media. And when Foster publicly stated that he spotted Grayson inside my building, chaos ensued. The alarms went off across the city, the nationwide manhunt now zeroing in on Bangor.
A protective detail was assigned to me immediately. I underwent questioning from the FBI, touting repeatedly that I had not had any interaction with the escaped convict. Once I was cleared, I had to contact my lawyer to prevent the FBI from searching my office floor. Allen Young won’t prevail—all he can do is postpone the search. Until the search warrant is presented, he’s working to get my patient files protected.
I had to persistently rant to leave my own home in order to visit Foster in the hospital.
I haven’t yet processed what this means, or if it’s a part of Grayson’s overall scheme.
I’ll handle Foster.
Grayson’s words before he left me, but this level of impulsiveness is extremely out of character for him. I cannot believe that, after last night, Grayson intended for this madness to happen. Rather, we allowed Foster to interfere, and this is the fallout from our colossal neglect.
Foster has been a thorn in my side since before the trial. And now his amateur detecting and brash, tactless behavior for the media has turned my life into a circus once again.
Agent Nelson makes a call to another agent already inside the ER unit, and then swivels to address me. “Ten minutes. Then I have to get you out of here.”
Stunned, I stare back at him. “Am I a suspect?”
His features crease in confusion. “No,” he says hesitantly.
“Am I under arrest?” I press.
“Of course not. London—”
“Then I’m a free citizen, agent. And while I appreciate everything the FBI has done to protect me, quite frankly, I’m tired of taking orders. I’m going to speak to Foster now.”
Nelson drives a hand through his hair, releasing a terse breath. “I haven’t protected you.” He glances away, and I open my mouth to reassure him, but he continues. “I was wrong to remove your detail. Foster is a disgrace, but he was there when I wasn’t. You could’ve been harmed…or worse. Sullivan was inside your building while you were there.” He looks at me then. “It frightens me…what his motive was. What could’ve happened.”
I hold his gaze, stricken at how believable his guilt appears. “If Sullivan wanted me dead, then he would’ve killed me before.”
His stare intensifies. “There are things worse than death.”
The air of the SUV thickens, the silence stretching between us. Nelson believes, as he has since he first discovered me at the crime scene, that Grayson’s unhealthy obsession with his psychologist is what’s kept me alive, and also puts me in the greatest danger.
Yes. There are things worse than death. Grayson tortured me
and left me alive. To Nelson, that has been the most confounding part of all.
This time, we leave that argument unstated, and I clasp the door handle. “Dangerous serial offenders are my specialty, Agent Nelson.” I open the door. “Thank you for your efforts, but I can look after myself from now on.”
I hop out of the SUV and shut the door before he can reiterate his feelings. Right now, I’m not able to deal with my level of anxiousness over the search of my office and the possibility that he has been masquerading as the serial killer he’s hunting.
Both Foster and Nelson have been in my presence for months, and I didn’t suspect either of them. Doubt in my abilities festers deeply—but I have to regain the upper hand.
I have to be Dr. London Noble.
I rush toward the side entrance of the hospital, dodging a couple stray reporters. I’m too volatile; I can’t face the media. The automatic doors whoosh open, and the distinct antiseptic scent of the hospital overpowers me as the cool air fans my face. The sterile chill prickles my skin as I make my way to reception.
I have no doubt that I’ll have to throw my clout around to get visiting rights. I’m working myself up for the battle when the receptionist looks directly at me, her bright green eyes widening.
“I’m Dr. London Noble and—”
“Dr. Noble?” she repeats.
“Yes?” I say, cautiously.
She turns to her monitor and types. “You’re on Marshall Foster’s approved visitor’s list.” She looks up at me. “Actually, you’re the only name listed.”
Surprise gathers my features tight. “Is he receiving visitors?”
“He is,” she says, clicking a button on her keyboard. The door to my right buzzes open. “Turn left and he’s the second room on the right.”
“Thank you.”
Before I enter the ER wing, I notice Agent Nelson coming in. There’s a brief moment where we lock eyes, then I go through the door.
I know the fact that Grayson used me to escape custody in a hospital is at the top of his thoughts. I pass a number of agents in the hallway, their gazes trained on me. Maybe Nelson’s protective rant was a ruse. Maybe he’s counting on Grayson making an appearance.
