The 7th Victim kv-1

by Alan Jacobson

  eighty-three

  How could this be?

  The lighting was poor, her vision blurred by pain. But from what she was able to see, the offender’s hair was short, the face hard, the brow prominent, and the mouth drawn down into a scowl.

  Vail finally summoned the strength to speak. “Who are you?” But the name was unimportant, Vail realized. The physical appearance, the hair color, the face, the eyes. . . . There was no need to ask who it was. The answer was obvious. Vail hesitated a moment, then said: “I . . . I’m a twin? I have a twin sister?”

  “I’m not who you think I am,” the Dead Eyes killer said.

  “You have to be,” Vail insisted. It was all coming together. The nightmares . . . could it be possible they weren’t merely dreams, but some kind of “psychic connection,” the kind documented between twins? She’d always doubted such phenomena, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  Of course. “Nellie took me and left you with our father.”

  Another snap of the whip, this time across the legs. “Does it hurt? Do you feel the pain? It’s just like the pain you caused. You. You’re the one responsible. You and that dead queen bitch. The lying Eleanor Linwood. Or should I call her Nellie Irwin?”

  The bare bulb cast a harsh light on Dead Eyes’s head, causing deep shadows to fall across the remainder of her face.

  “I can help you,” Vail said.

  A laugh. A deep, guttural laugh. But no response. The killer moved out of the penumbra holding a Tupperware container. “Do you know what this is?”

  Vail strained her eyes downward.

  The killer removed the top and held the container up to Vail’s face. Inside was a left hand. A man’s hand.

  Vail immediately recognized the thick scar across the knuckles. “Deacon—”

  “An ugly SOB, if you don’t mind me saying. And mean—man, I tell you, it was a totally different experience. All those bitches were soft-talking sitting ducks. But your Deacon, he was a bit more challenging. I thought it would be fun to go to his house, make him think I was you. At first, it worked. He thought you’d come to fight, and he got nasty with me. Reminded me of father. So I gave him what he deserved.” Dead Eyes looked down at the hand and shrugged. “I took a little souvenir. A trophy, I think you called it in your profile.” She looked down at the container, tilted it in the dim light. “It turned out to be more satisfying than I thought it would be.”

  Vail stared at the hand, embarrassed by her momentary relief over the discovery of Deacon’s death. She pushed the thought aside, realizing she needed to find a way out of this, for she had no desire to join him. “The eyes,” Vail said. “Did you stab the eyes because of how you think mother looked at you? Because she left you and took me?”

  The killer forced a tight smile. “‘It’s in the blood,’ Karen. Do you get it now?”

  “I got it. I thought the genetic reference meant father. The letter to Singletary threw us off.”

  “Wasn’t that absolutely brilliant? I found some letters from Richard Ray in the house. He and the bastard were obviously good friends. But friendships only go so far. I knew if I sent Richard Ray a letter, he’d try to use it to save his sorry ass. Between that and the locket, I knew you’d end up here.”

  “You killed father for revenge.” It was more a statement than a question.

  “The bastard deserved it, for what he did. I wanted to do something special to him, but I knew his ‘suicide’ would be worth more. It gave me an opportunity. I had to control my desires so I could take advantage of the situation, use it for the greater good. It’s always about control, isn’t it?”

  Always about control. In many cases, it was.

  At the moment, Vail had to control the pain. Fight through it. Focus. “What was the greater good?”

  “Going after you, of course. Once I killed the queen bitch, you became the ultimate prize.”

  Vail leaned forward and locked eyes. “It didn’t work out, though, did it? I’m still here.”

  A growl, then Dead Eyes swiveled away from the light, toward the shelf, and returned with a small, black, rectangular object.

  Vail instantly knew what it was. A stun gun. And she now knew another thing: her earlier suspicions had been correct: Dead Eyes had used the device to get her here.

  But it was not going to be the way she would die.

  eighty-four

  Dead Eyes studied the stun gun as if teasing her, then looked up at Vail. “My guess is that you already know what this is. But don’t worry, I won’t kill you all at once. You’re different than the other bitches. I’m going to have some fun first, play with you for a little while.”

  If Vail was ever going to do something, this was the time. She had to override the pain and summon the strength to move.

  “The longer I hold the probes against your skin, the more scrambled your brain gets. So I’m going to start with a few quick jolts to make sure your mind is clear. I want you to know what’s happening to you. I want you to feel it.” She smiled. “In a few minutes you’re going to beg me to kill you. And I’ll be glad to accommodate your wishes.”

  Vail’s eyes were riveted to the stun gun. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Really! You read those emails, you know what the bastard did.” The killer jabbed her breast with the stun gun. Vail screamed.

  “Don’t you understand?” Dead Eyes yelled. “It should’ve been you!”

  Vail bit her lip, trying to contain her fear. She had to turn her thoughts inward, separate mind from body. She closed her eyes. There is no pain. I’m feeling no pain.

  “Don’t shut your eyes on me! I want you to watch!”

  Another jab, this one to the stomach. Her leg muscles twitched fiercely. She was starting to lose consciousness. No, fight. Think of Jonathan. Of Robby.

  Another jolt. She opened her eyes.

  On the shelf was a steak knife, the silver blade catching the orange incandescence of the bulb. Her eyes shifted to the stun gun as it again moved toward her—

  And she drew her legs up, thrusting them outward and catching Dead Eyes in the chest. The killer reeled backward, her head slamming against the wall.

  A growl. Blazing eyes. “Bitch!”

  She righted herself and came at Vail. This was it—perhaps her only window of opportunity. Her mind screamed Now! as she lifted and spread her legs as far as the chain allowed. She forced her thighs over the killer’s head and slammed them onto her shoulders.

  Dead Eyes writhed and pulled, grabbing at Vail’s legs, trying to loosen her hold. The weight of her body transferred from her wrists to the killer’s torso, relaxing the pull on Vail’s arms. Vail grabbed the overhead pipe with her right hand, giving her more control over the movement of her body. But Dead Eyes was putting up a valiant fight: Vail felt like a cowboy riding a bucking bronco, summoning every last ounce of strength to hold on.

  Remembering that the leg muscles were the strongest in the body, Vail tightened her stomach and brought her thighs together. But as she squeezed, she felt the killer’s hands pulling on her ankles, trying to pry the legs apart.

  It was a smart move, because gripping the legs down low gave her leverage, leverage that Vail found hard to overcome. Sharp knee pain shot up her thigh. Her muscles started to shake. And her legs slowly parted. “Damn it!” she screamed, desperate to keep her hold. “Ahhh!”

  It was all she had left. In the seconds that followed, all she could think about was how much she wanted to live. Jonathan and Robby. She filled her mind with those thoughts as her legs spread apart. Dead Eyes twisted free and fell to her knees. Coughed spasmodically. Then grabbed the stun gun from the floor, stood up, and swung hard, smashing the light bulb.

  Vail hung there, her leg strength spent, her stomach muscles cramping. Overriding pain just about everywhere.

  In total darkness.

  Awaiting the searing jolt of electricity.

  eighty-five

  With the chopper’s high-intensity spotlights swirlin
g over the Farwell ranch below, Robby spied an older model Audi parked perpendicular to the front porch.

  “This is it!” he yelled into Bledsoe’s ear. He thrust a finger into the helicopter’s window, indicating the vehicle below.

  Bledsoe craned his neck to have a look, then leaned over the pilot’s shoulder, pointing at the ground. “Set her down! Set her down!”

  The helicopter descended rapidly and touched down in the clearing, thirty feet away.

  “Air Unit Four,” Bledsoe shouted into the mike, “positive ID at Farwell ranch. Requesting backup.”

  “We’re not waiting till they get here,” Robby said.

  “Hell no. Let’s go!”

  They climbed out of the chopper, weapons drawn, and ran without cover toward the front door. Had someone been crouched anywhere nearby with a rifle—or even with a pistol and a steady hand and a good eye—Bledsoe and Robby would have been tin cartoon characters in an old fashioned arcade game.

  But they reached the door without drawing fire. They threw their backs up against the clapboard siding of the house and watched the helicopter lift up and away to search the immediate area in case the offender had attempted to flee.

  Robby motioned to Bledsoe that he would take the point. After receiving a confirmatory nod, he crouched low and stepped through the splintered doorway.

  Into pitch darkness.

  Bledsoe followed and tried a light switch. On-off, on-off. Shook his head. Nothing.

  They pulled their flashlights and swept the narrow beams across the path ahead of them. “You go up,” Robby whispered into Bledsoe’s ear. “Once you clear it, meet me back down here.”

  Pistol in hand, Bledsoe proceeded up the creaky stairs as Robby moved through the rooms slowly, relying on his ears as much as the tightly focused cylinder of light. After their initial analysis, the forensics crew had crated everything and moved it out for additional evidence collection at the lab, so clearing the house was efficient and quick. Less than a minute later, Bledsoe descended the stairs. Robby met him at the landing.

  They pivoted 360 degrees.

  “Any ideas?” Bledsoe whispered.

  Robby leaned down to Bledsoe’s ear and said, “I’ll take the closets. You look for crawl spaces.”

  Bledsoe trained his light on the worn wood flooring to search for an access point. A broken trail of caked mud littered the ground. He turned and tapped Robby’s arm. Nodded at the soil tracks. They both checked their shoes: no dirt.

  Robby followed the mud with his flashlight as it trailed from the house’s rear door through the downstairs hallway. It ended at the entryway coat closet, built into the back of the staircase. With everything having been removed, Robby knew it would be empty. He motioned to Bledsoe and they positioned themselves on either side of the door. Bledsoe yanked it open.

  Robby swept the area with his pistol and flashlight, then shook his head: nothing. Bledsoe started to close the door, but Robby stuck out his arm. His eyes caught a straight-cut line in the wood floorboard. He followed it to his right, where it met the wall . . . and another seam. He craned his neck up and around. They were beneath the staircase. He looked down again and followed the seams in the flooring. Then it hit him.

  A hidden room. His thoughts flashed back to the contents of the vanishing email Vail had received. The UNSUB mentioned “a hiding place . . . musty . . . small . . . dark.” Robby moved into the closet and knelt in front of the side wall. Putting the narrow flashlight into his mouth, he traced the seam up and around: it was approximately four feet high and nearly two and a half feet wide, the bottom of the rectangle being formed by the floorboards. He reached into his back pocket and removed a long, black handcuff key. He stuck it into the seam and pried outward. The section of wall moved.

  Robby traced the edges with his fingertips and noted a roughened area along the left side: whoever had built the hideaway had pried against the same spot numerous times while using it as an entry point. On close examination, based on its texture, Robby figured a section of the wall had been replaced with a rectangle of painted plywood.

  He looked up at Bledsoe and motioned him into the closet behind him. Robby extinguished his light and continued prying at the wall. When it was sufficiently loose and ready to be removed, he tapped Bledsoe twice on the leg. Bledsoe, nearly a foot shorter than Robby, would be the logical choice to enter first.

  Bledsoe crouched and waited as Robby tapped his leg once, then twice, then three times. Robby yanked back on the wall and the rectangle popped into his hands. A musty odor wafted toward them. Bledsoe, weapon out in front of him, remained by the opening and waited. Listened. Then he climbed in.

  ALTHOUGH ROBBY THOUGHT he had prepared himself for just about anything, he knew that whenever you crawled into a dark space in a house that belonged to a sexual offender, you could not possibly anticipate what you were going to encounter.

  But the pained scream that emerged from Bledsoe’s mouth caught Robby off-guard. He flicked on his flashlight and held it against the side of his handgun. Bledsoe was facedown, sprawled across what appeared to be two small steps leading down into the crawl space beneath the house. Bledsoe was moaning, his body convulsing. Robby shined his light up and around, his Glock moving with the beam. He saw something, something that made his racing heart skip a beat.

  A woman’s body, apparently hanging. But he could only see the dangling ankles and feet, as she was suspended below the staircase, and his view was blocked. Karen?

  Bledsoe’s convulsing had slowed to intermittent twitching. What the hell had happened to him? A stun gun. It was the only thing that could incapacitate someone so rapidly and leave telltale signs of transient nervous system disruption.

  Robby again ran his light around the small space. Was it safe to go in? Clearly not. To take out Bledsoe with a stun gun, the offender needed to touch him: he had to be nearby.

  But he couldn’t retreat and wait for backup, either. If that was Karen a few feet away from him, and if she was still alive, he had to get to her. Now.

  He reached forward and grabbed Bledsoe by his belt and yanked him back into the closet. He was heavy and he banged up Bledsoe’s face on the rough edge of the cutout, but Robby’s concern was getting to Vail.

  Glock firmly in hand, he squeezed through the opening feet first. If he was going to get zapped, this would be the time. But he made it in and quickly swung his light and pistol around the space. Nothing. Swiveled it toward the woman’s body.

  My God.

  He stood face to face with Vail. Shined his light: eyes at half-mast. He moved behind her to keep as much of the area in his view as possible, stuck the small flashlight in his mouth, then fumbled for his key. He unlocked the handcuffs and gently lowered her to the packed dirt ground in a sitting position against the side wall of the stairwell. A spasmodic tic rattled her body.

  A voice in the darkness: “So good of you to drop in.”

  Robby spun, swinging his Glock in the direction of the voice—but an electric shock jolted him, like a lightning bolt attacking his muscles. He convulsed.

  Pain shot through him. His arms spasmed, his body went numb, and his mind exploded into a mess of disorientation as he dropped to his knees.

  “Thanks for coming,” Dead Eyes said. “How nice it is to kill you.”

  eighty-six

  What happened? Where am I? Who’s talking?

  A voice, in the distance . . . and a feeling that something was terribly wrong.

  “I’m saving you from the evil this bitch would’ve brought upon you, Detective. It’s an evil that’s generational, an evil that must be purged. An evil that spreads, invades, and infects. You’re infected . . . you must be killed like a germ.”

  Robby’s muscular twitching and fatigue were still pervasive. The intense vertigo and numbness, however, were clearing and his senses were coming back to him: he smelled a rank odor . . . felt raw nerve pain flaring in his shoulder . . . saw a dark figure looming, leaning down toward him—


  And heard a woman’s scream: “No!”

  Robby instinctively threw up his arms to protect himself. But his movements were still slow and ineffective. The assailant brought his arm down—

  —and then crumpled to the ground, beside Robby, atop Vail’s lap.

  Standing there was Bledsoe, a thick two-by-four in his hands. “You okay?”

  Robby’s eyes shifted to Vail, who just sat there, apparently lacking the strength to move. His twitching ceased, the pain subsided, and normal vision returned. “Karen. . . .” He rolled onto his side and clumsily pulled the handcuffs from his belt. He got them around the wrists of Dead Eyes and ratcheted them down. Bledsoe grabbed the offender’s torso and dragged the unconscious body toward the opening.

  Robby removed his windbreaker, draped it around Vail’s shoulders, then drew her close. “I was afraid I was going to lose you.”

  She squeezed him softly, with all her remaining strength. “That’s never gonna happen.”

  eighty-seven

  Karen Vail stood behind a large one-way mirror in the Special Needs cell block of the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center. Chase Hancock had been found in New Jersey, laying low and looking for work. As for Vail, her wrists were wrapped in cock-up splints, and she was wearing a figure-eight support on her shoulders and a hinged metal brace on her left knee. High-dose Motrin floated in her bloodstream. The ER physician prescribed Vicodin, but she wanted to be lucid, in complete control of her surroundings.

  It’s always about control, isn’t it?

  Beside Vail stood Paul Bledsoe, along with Thomas Gifford and the rest of the task force squad. Vail was transfixed on the scene unfolding behind the glass, where Behavioral Science Unit criminologist Wayne Rudnick had begun questioning a shackled Dead Eyes killer. Normally, one or two task force members would be in the interview room with their quarry. That was just the way it was done: those who tracked and caught the killer were given the opportunity to interrogate. It was like the reward, the dessert for eating your vegetables. But due to the complexity of the offender’s psychological condition, Bledsoe had reluctantly deferred to the BSU specialist.