by Mike Omer
“Please,” she said through gritted teeth. “I—”
“Quiet,” he whispered. “I’ve heard your voice enough for a lifetime. Now walk.”
Three more small steps, Glover pushing her onward. She nearly lost her balance, her head spinning and pounding. Glover pulled her up by her arm, twisting it further. A small scream emerged from her, and the blade flashed, cutting deep through her shoulder this time.
“Three strikes and you’re out,” he said.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
“I want you to move,” he said and shoved again.
Step after step, he pushed her out of the shadows of the trees. She couldn’t let him take her, had to fight. It was better to die now, throat cut, than to let him get her far enough away to do whatever he wanted. And yet her muscles refused to obey, her heart and head pounding together as she walked another step. And another. And another.
He began talking, his tone mocking. “Fancy meeting you again, Zoe, after so many years. We have so much to talk about, so much catching up to do, right? How is your sister? And your parents?”
As she nearly stumbled again, the cogs in her brain spun, analyzing him, assessing him. His confidence was building. He was getting cocky. Perhaps getting away from safety was the way to beat him. Cocky, strong men often made mistakes. He remembered her as a small, weak fourteen-year-old girl. But twenty years had passed. She’d grown; she’d learned. All she had to do was lean on his self-confidence, wait for one little slip.
“Didn’t see me following you, bitch? I’ve been on your tail all day. An FBI agent would have noticed. But you aren’t an agent, are you, Dr. Bentley?”
She didn’t answer, kept walking, her mind sharpening. That was what had triggered the warning bells in her brain earlier. He had been following her cab.
“Got my envelopes? I left them for you as soon as I found out you were in town. I thought it would be a nice way of saying hello to an old friend.”
“You could’ve just called.”
He laughed, a strained, twisting laugh, familiar and chilling at once. He then shoved her forcefully onward.
The ringing in her ears faded away. Her stumbles were more for show now than actual missteps, the weakness in her limbs an act. She took in a deep breath, inhaling the clear evening air, waiting for that blade to move an inch away, for that hand to let go, for anything to change.
He leaned close to her ear, his hot breath on her cheek. “It wasn’t here, you know, where I took her. It was a bit farther.”
“Who, Pamela?” she asked.
“Don’t play dumb, bitch. You were never dumb. I still remember her whimpering under me. Struggling. She was strong, Zoe. She worked out. It didn’t help her. Not one bit.”
“Are you taking me to the same place?” she asked. Buy time. More time.
“No need,” he said, his voice lower, hungrier. “Here is far enough. Get down.”
“What?”
“On your knees.”
“Glover, you’re making a—”
“Now, damn it!”
Slowly and carefully she got down on her knees, her body tensing up. There was no more time. She had to act now.
The blade disappeared from her neck. She began to twist, her fist clenching, preparing to smash into his flabby, fat stomach.
And then something looped around her neck and tightened hard. The effect was instantaneous, her next breath of air out of reach. Something made strange sounds. It was her; she was wheezing, coughing, trying to get some air into her system. Her sight dimmed as her fingernails clutched at the thing around her neck, trying to pull it free, desperate for that one thing: air.
She didn’t see her life flashing in front of her eyes. Instead, she saw the pictures she had looked through when she’d managed to get the case files from the Maynard Police Department. Of Beth and Clara and Jackie, their naked bodies submerged in water, a tie wrapped around their throats. This was what had happened to them.
Blood pounded in her ears, and beyond it, she could hear the heavy breathing of the man behind her, his fingers already pawing at her zipper, trying to pull her pants down, his throat making angry growls. She knew that if she could only focus, she might get out of this alive. She was sharp; he was consumed by lust. But she had no air, and all she wanted was to breathe. Her mouth opened and closed now, gasping desperately, trying to inhale. She tried grabbing the hand on her pants, the only part of him within reach, but she could do nothing. Everything faded, her fingers slack, hands dropping.
And the noose loosened. She could take a small, impossibly tiny breath. The world swam into focus. His fingers were in her pants, scraping her left thigh. He laughed to himself, the same high-pitched, maddened giggle that she had heard all those years ago. He was giving her air on purpose. He wanted her alive for this.
Too self-confident. Too cocky.
She threw her head back as far as she could. She had hoped to hit him in the stomach, but instead she heard a crunch and a roar of pain. He had crouched behind her to get her pants off, and she had just smashed his nose. The noose loosened completely as he stumbled back, and she drew in a wheezing breath, already moving. She leaped forward, not really able to stand yet but strong enough to crawl away and roll onto her back, see what Glover was doing.
He stood above her, blood streaming down his face, rage in his eyes, his mouth twisted in an animal snarl. He lunged at her, roaring, and she lifted one knee, kicked as hard as she could, hitting him . . . somewhere. Chest, stomach, she couldn’t really tell. It didn’t stop him. He was on her, flexing his fingers into a fist and punching her, pain bursting as his fist hit her cheek.
Her hand clutched at something hard—a rock; she swung up, the rock hitting him in his face, his broken nose. He fell back, howling. This time she wouldn’t crawl away. She pushed herself forward onto him, swinging her free hand, fingernails raking at his bloody face, searching for his eyes.
He screamed and shook her off. She rolled and felt a hot, sharp pain in her hip. Her hand flew down to the searing flesh, feeling blood pulsing between her fingers. Something had cut her.
The knife. He had dropped the knife when he’d choked her, and she’d just rolled onto the blade.
Her eyes searched frantically on the ground, noticing a glint. There.
She leaped at it, her fingers tightening in a hard grip around the knife’s handle. Glover turned his eyes on her, looking more like a beast than a man.
Almost like an actual monster.
Her hand tensed. The hand clutching the knife was on the ground, hidden in the grass. She hoped he couldn’t see it beyond the blood and the rage. She feigned weakness, stumbling, letting out a cry of pain that was hardly fake. She followed his eyes, knew how he’d move, where he’d strike. All she had to do was push her hand forward.
He lunged, and she thrust the knife, not realizing how weak she was, how dizzy. Instead of plunging it into his stomach like she had intended, she slashed his thigh.
He roared in pain, but there was something else there. Her mind processed the sound, years of training kicking into focus. Fear.
Her reflexes told her to turn and run again. She had the knife now; his leg was hurt. She had the advantage. She could get away.
Instead, she forced herself to get up, her body screaming in agony. Her slashed shoulder was numb with pain. She stood straight, holding the knife in front of her, and grimaced, her fingers tightening on the handle. Their eyes locked, and her grimace widened. Not a smile. The face of an animal baring its teeth.
Glover hesitated, then turned and ran.
She almost laughed as she lunged after him, but her adrenaline began to fade. Her head throbbed painfully, her shoulder burned, her neck prickled where he had cut her, and she realized she was still wheezing. Her throat still hurt. She could hardly walk, couldn’t even chase Glover, limping as fast as he could on his one good leg. She forced herself to remain standing. He glanced back, and whatever he saw made him keep run
ning. She hid her weakness well.
Once he was out of sight, her knees buckled, her fingers dropping the knife, and she fell to the ground. A sob that was also a groan emerged from her throat.
She half crawled, half limped back. A hundred feet from the shore, she stumbled again and lay down in the grass, thinking she’d just close her eyes and rest for a second.
CHAPTER 55
Tatum counted his steps as he paced the waiting room in the hospital. One . . . two . . . three . . . he reached thirteen. Last time he had done it in twelve, and the time before it had been fifteen because someone had gotten in his way.
He wasn’t sure how many times he’d paced the same path, though. He had lost count of that. A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand?
The linoleum floor was scratched in numerous places. He guessed he wasn’t the only one who had paced it back and forth over the years. This room had already seen more anxiety and worry than most rooms saw in a lifetime. If the waiting room were to meet a classroom in a bar, it would say, “You think you know what apprehension is? Let me tell you . . .”
He lost his train of thought, the comical spiral of associations that usually swam through his mind fading into nothingness.
He had seen one glimpse of Zoe before a nurse had shoved him out of the emergency room. Her neck and torso had been drenched in blood, her face bruised and pale. Just that one glimpse had sent his heart into a flurry. The nurse had promised they’d let him know what her situation was as soon as possible.
And yet he had paced this room over and over, and no one had called him.
Martinez had been with him for about ten minutes before leaving. He said he’d come back later. He wanted to get the taxi driver’s statement and to see what the forensic technician had recovered from the crime scene.
The small, intense woman had seemed so helpless on that table. Unable to shout at him or contradict him in any way. His fists clenched, the desire to punch something overwhelming. Back in LA, he’d had a punching bag at home and would use it to relieve his work stress almost every evening. But he hadn’t had the time to hang one in his new apartment. How he missed that punching bag right now.
Not knowing what had happened was terrible. He had seen that with people over the years, begging him for a shred of information, asking a flood of questions that could easily be summarized into one word—why? What had she been doing in the Saganashkee Slough? Who had attacked her? Where was her attacker now?
Why?
She had seemed so subdued and worried earlier. At the time, he had thought it was only tiredness. But now he wasn’t sure.
He sat down and tried to empty his mind of the questions. He wasn’t much for praying, but whenever someone close to him was in danger, he found himself trying to cut deals with God. That was why he had stopped smoking three years before, when his partner had been shot—he had promised God he would if his partner lived through it. That was also why he hadn’t sold his brand-new Toyota Camry and given the money to the church: God hadn’t helped his mother overcome her kidney failure.
And now it was time to cut another deal with God. He tried to think what he could give God in return for Zoe’s life.
God, if Zoe—
“Tatum Gray?”
He whirled, looking intently at the nurse approaching him. Was there a comforting look in her eye? Worry? Motherly affection?
No. Just calm. He didn’t know what that meant.
“She’s in recovery, and she’ll be fine,” the nurse said.
Tatum let out a shuddering breath. “Can I see her?”
“Are you related?”
“No,” Tatum said, and as an afterthought, he pulled out his badge and flipped it. “FBI. She has some crucial information we need as soon as possible.”
The nurse pursed her lips. She wasn’t buying it. “Fine,” she finally said, her voice a tad colder. “You’ll be able to see her for a few minutes. I’ll come and get you once she’s ready.”
Tatum nodded, full of relief.
The nurse left, and Tatum sat down on an empty chair, pressing his palms together. He let out a long breath. And another one.
There was a rustle as someone sat by his side and offered him a paper cup.
“Here,” Martinez said. “Coffee.”
Tatum gratefully took the warm cup. “Thanks. The nurse just told me Zoe’s fine.”
“Oh, good,” Martinez said, relief in his voice.
“What did the cab driver say?”
“She asked him to take her to Saganashkee Slough, told him where to stop,” Martinez said. “Got out, told him she’d be back in half an hour, and went for a stroll on the shore. A few minutes later, a car stopped ahead of him, and a man stepped out of it.”
“Did he say what the man looked like?”
“Very vague description. They’re working with him in the station right now. He actually tried not to look too hard; he figured Zoe was there to meet the guy for a fling.”
Tatum nodded. Of course.
“Anyway, he waited there. After a while he saw the man coming back. Limping. The cab driver called to him, but the man didn’t answer. Got in his car and drove off. The driver got worried, went to look for Zoe, and found her unconscious a few hundred yards from the road. Which is when he called the ambulance and the police.”
“Did he give a description of the car?”
“A white Toyota Prius,” Martinez said. “Didn’t see the license plate number.”
“Anything from the crime scene?”
“We found the knife and some blood. There was a trail of blood to where the guy’s car was parked, so looks like Zoe cut him as well.”
Tatum nodded.
“Listen, Agent . . . I’ve asked you this before. Why did she go there?”
“I don’t know,” Tatum said tiredly. “I swear I don’t.”
“She didn’t talk to you about it before?”
“No.”
“Didn’t mention the Saganashkee Slough?”
“No.”
“Tatum Gray?” The nurse approached him again. “Please follow me.”
Tatum got up, and Martinez followed suit.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said to Martinez. “Only—”
He flipped his badge. “Chicago PD,” he said. “I need to speak to—”
The nurse rolled her eyes. “Fine. Follow me.”
She led them down a small hallway and into a small white room. Zoe was lying on a hospital bed, looking groggy. Tatum’s fingers clenched as he took in the bandage on her neck, the black eye and purple bruise on her forehead.
“Agent Gray,” she said, her voice sluggish. “Lieutenant Martinez . . .”
For a second, Tatum thought she was going to say thanks for visiting her. Or reassure them that she was okay.
“Rod Glover,” she said. “That’s his name.”
He blinked. It took his brain a moment to process it.
“That’s the name of the man who attacked you?” Martinez asked, his voice sharp.
“Yes. He followed me from the station.”
Her voice was raspy, as if it was hard for her to talk. There were bruises alongside her neck, where the bandage didn’t hide them. She had been strangled.
“Who is Rod Glover?” Martinez asked.
“He’s a serial killer. I think he’s the man who is embalming those women.”
“How do you know him?”
She remained silent for a moment, her eyes shutting slowly. “He killed three women in Maynard. Long ago.”
“In 1997,” Tatum said, feeling sick.
“That’s right.”
Martinez looked at him. “So you did know?”
“I . . .” Tatum hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he knew. “I think she tried to tell me about it.”
“Why did you go to Saganashkee Slough?” Martinez asked.
“Because I wanted to see where Pamela Vance had been killed.”
“Who is Pamela Vance?” Martinez and Tatum asked
, almost in sync.
“Another victim.” She was clearly losing focus, her eyelids fluttering.
“Okay.” The nurse barged in. “That’s enough. You can talk to her again tomorrow morning.”
Tatum shuffled out of the room, dragging his feet as if they were attached to cartloads of rocks. She had told him about Glover, and he had brushed it off. He had discounted her one time too many, and she had gone to check it out by herself. And it had nearly gotten her killed. His fault.
“Agent Gray,” Martinez said behind him, his voice sharp, cold.
He stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”
“You said you knew nothing about this.”
“I didn’t know . . . she started telling me about it. A serial killer who murdered three young women in the town where she grew up. And I wouldn’t listen.”
“And she didn’t tell us,” Martinez said. “And she got hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
Tatum told him what he remembered of his discussion with Zoe, back at the restaurant. It wasn’t much.
“Okay,” Martinez said. “I’ll come back tomorrow to question her more thoroughly. And as of right now, you two are no longer part of this case.”
“What?” Tatum asked in shock. “But we—”
“You’re running an investigation on your own. Like I thought you would. Dr. Bentley endangered herself, and it was partly because you didn’t share all the information earlier.”
“Hang on—”
“We’re done here, Agent. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 56
Quantico, Virginia, Monday, July 25, 2016
Zoe couldn’t remember Mancuso ever looking as furious as she did when they walked into her office on Monday morning. The unit chief breathed steadily, inhaling through her nose and exhaling slowly, while looking at them both, saying nothing. Zoe was almost sure Mancuso was silently counting, and she wondered up to what number.
They both sat in front of Mancuso’s desk. Tatum sat on the right-hand chair of the condemned, his face a mask of atonement mixed with defiance, a neat trick. Zoe sat to his left, wincing as the stitches in her hip flared in pain. She had a slight concussion and stitches on her neck as well, the wound on her shoulder glued. She also had a huge black eye. Whenever she made a sudden movement, everything would start hurting at once. Last night, just before their flight back from Chicago, a woman had approached her in the airport and handed her a flyer: a shelter for abused women. She had also given Tatum a dirty look, probably assuming he was Zoe’s spouse.
