by Mike Omer
“I’ll take the back door in case he tries to bolt when they get here,” Tatum said. “You wait in the car. Watch the front door. Let me know if he leaves through it. And welcome the cavalry when it gets here.”
Zoe nodded. She was useless here, of course. She was untrained. She’d stay in the car.
Tatum drew a small gun from an ankle holster and handed it over to Zoe. “That’s a Glock 43. It has seven bullets. Use it only if there’s no other option.”
She nodded numbly, taking the metal object from his hand. It was cold and surprisingly light. She held it pointed away from them both, terrified.
Tatum opened the driver’s door and got out.
“Don’t be a hero,” Zoe said.
He smiled at her, more a grimace than a real smile, and shut the door.
Zoe watched him creeping alongside the house to the back. He was smooth, alert, and fast. Every movement was calculated to avoid the line of sight from the windows. She found herself fascinated with her partner’s skill as he edged his way, crouched, gun in his hand. As she spent days with Tatum and his silly jokes and antics, it was easy to forget he was also highly trained for hostile situations such as this one.
He disappeared behind the corner of the wall, and she was left alone. Almost instantly, she could taste bile in her mouth. Her throat constricted, and she breathed heavily, staring at the house. What was going on in there? Were Laura and her children dead already? Was Jeffrey pumping embalming fluid through Laura’s throat right now?
The hand holding the gun trembled. Scared it might accidentally fire, she placed it on the seat next to her, still warm from Tatum’s body heat. He had only left half a minute ago. It felt like hours. It felt like weeks.
She glanced at the road. How long until the cops showed up?
She thought of Lily Ramos, screaming through her gag, praying for the cops to show up before she died.
She clenched her fists and waited.
CHAPTER 74
Laura Summer’s backyard was strewn with children’s toys, a rusty tricycle, dry leaves from the neighbor’s tree. Moving silently in that mess was slow work. Halfway into the yard, Tatum stepped on a twig, hidden under the layer of leaves, and the sudden snap sounded to him like a gunshot, piercing the air. He froze, glancing at the back door, waiting.
It didn’t budge.
His target was the wall by the door, but a large window looking out to the yard prevented him from sidling up to it. Instead, he crouched low, moving slowly, hopefully out of sight, knowing well that if someone decided to walk to the window and look outside, he would be completely visible.
Perhaps the prudent thing to do would have been to position himself farther away, gun trained on the door, and wait for the approaching backup. But his mind was on Laura Summer and her two children.
He prayed they were still alive.
The door was still three steps away, but the windowsill was behind him, meaning he could stand up. He did so and glanced through the glass pane. From his new vantage point he could see the children.
They were alive.
Tied in the corner of the room, gags in their mouths, faces wet with tears, but undoubtedly alive, and Tatum let out a long breath of relief. Now he just had to—
A muffled scream drew his attention. Something crashed inside the house, and he saw the children crying harder, looking at something beyond his vantage point. Their mother, of course, and by the sound of it, she was struggling for her life.
Reflex took control as he rushed across the remaining distance to the door, took a step back, and kicked it open, swiveling his Glock to take a bead on the struggling two figures.
The man, whom Tatum pegged as Jeffrey Alston, held a woman whose mouth was taped shut. Her hands were twisted behind her back. She faced Tatum, and Jeffrey stood behind her, his body almost entirely hidden. His eyes widened as he saw what was going on, and he reflexively lowered his head, taking cover behind his human shield.
Laura’s face was purple, her eyes bulging, a nylon rope around her neck. She was thinner than Jeffrey, and his body was partly exposed. Almost good enough to take a shot.
But Laura buckled and moved, the lack of air driving her to struggle desperately, and it was a difficult shot. If he missed, he would hit Laura.
Both men were frozen in place, but Jeffrey reacted first, lunging sideways, grabbing a knife from the counter. He held the knife to the woman’s throat.
“Drop it!” he roared.
Laura’s eyes stared at the ceiling as she convulsed. She was seconds away from death.
Tatum aimed the gun desperately at Jeffrey’s protruding body. “Take that thing off her throat, or I shoot.”
“Drop the gun, or I kill her.”
“If she chokes to death, I’ll kill you, you bastard. Take that thing off.”
Apparently understanding he was losing his leverage, Jeffrey twisted something behind the woman’s neck, and the noose loosened. The woman let out a wheeze, trying to draw breath through her gagged mouth. Her nostrils widened and narrowed as she snorted air into her lungs.
“Drop the damn gun, or I cut her throat.”
The knife nicked Laura’s throat below the rope, and blood dripped down its blade. Tatum hesitated, knowing that there was no right answer to this desperate situation. But the police were on their way. He could try to buy some time.
He lowered the gun, heart beating fast, trying to take in his surroundings. The two children were bundled in the corner, their eyes wide. They were shrieking incomprehensibly, rags taped to their mouths as well. A small coffee table lay on the floor. Laura must have kicked it as Jeffrey was strangling her. That was the crash Tatum had heard before.
“Put the gun on the floor.”
Tatum very slowly crouched and put the Glock on the floor, his eyes not moving from Jeffrey and the knife on Laura’s throat.
“Kick it over.”
Tatum hesitated, calculating. If Jeffrey had the gun, nothing would stop him from shooting Tatum and then finishing off Laura and her children.
“Do it!”
Tatum gave the gun a small kick, and it spun on the floor. It stopped midway between them. Jeffrey stared at him, his eyes furious.
“Don’t do anything you might regret,” Tatum said. “If you kill that woman, you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars.”
He hoped that Jeffrey wouldn’t figure out what was going on. The man didn’t know that Tatum was with the FBI or that the police now knew who he was. All Jeffrey knew for sure was that an armed man had barged into the house to try to help Laura.
“You could still walk away,” Tatum continued softly. “No one was harmed here, right? No one needs to know.”
“Shut up. Go sit over there.” Jeffrey motioned with his head to the corner where the kids were crying.
Tatum nodded and began to move, his first step taking him closer to Jeffrey and Laura.
“Stay away!” Jeffrey’s voice was hysterical. “I will cut her—do you hear me? I will cut her throat.”
Blood was still trickling from Laura’s throat, and Tatum froze. Nodding very slowly and raising his hands, he walked sideways alongside the wall until he reached the crying children.
“Sit down. On the floor.”
“Okay.” Tatum sat, crouching slowly.
“Sit. On your ass.”
Where were the damned police? Tatum sat down and watched Jeffrey, who seemed to be frozen by indecision.
“Just walk away—”
“Be quiet! All of you, be quiet.”
Tatum closed his mouth, but the kids were sobbing uncontrollably. Their crying seemed to be making Jeffrey even angrier. He looked at them, then at the gun on the floor. He took a step toward the gun.
Sitting as he was, Tatum could never make a lunge for the gun and get to it in time. Jeffrey would reach the gun, but he would have to remove the knife from Laura’s throat and crouch to pick the gun up. That would be the only moment that Tatum would be able to ac
t. He tensed, preparing himself for an impossible lunge.
Then the front door opened slowly. And to Tatum’s horror and disbelief, Zoe stood framed in the doorway, raising her empty hands high above her head.
CHAPTER 75
Zoe had seen fragments of the struggle in the house through the window and realized that they had just run out of time. She was out of the car, running to the front door, when she saw Tatum lowering the gun. He had no choice, she knew. He probably planned to stall, hoping for the police to arrive. And perhaps it was the best course of action . . . but Zoe wasn’t sure.
Jeffrey Alston was erratic under pressure. He didn’t think clearly. He might decide to shoot Tatum, Laura, and the kids, then make a run for it. He might cut Laura’s throat just to remove her from the picture. He might even kill Laura by accident.
She forced herself to calm down, to think. She’d spent the last two weeks profiling this man. She knew what made him tick, what he wanted, what he yearned for.
She formed a plan.
She was relieved to find the front door unlocked. When it opened, Jeffrey turned his eyes to her, then back at Tatum, who sat frozen on the floor, then back at her.
“I’m unarmed,” she quickly said, stepping into the house, keeping her hands held up. “I’m closing the door.”
She had to make him feel in control. Had to make him calm down. Right now, he was unpredictable, dangerous, a ticking bomb. She carefully lowered her right hand and pushed the door closed.
“I’ll cut her,” Jeffrey warned, his eyes shifting back and forth. “Put down your gun.”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Like hell you don’t. You’re both police detectives.” His eyes flickered to Tatum, who seemed to shift slightly. “Don’t move.”
“I’m not a police detective,” Zoe said. “I’m a psychologist.”
He snorted. “Like hell you are.”
What he wanted was control. It was always about control and loneliness with him. Especially when it came to women. That was the fuel to his fantasies, and those fantasies dictated his actions. He dreamed about a dead woman, her body never decaying, keeping him company. That’s what spurred him to kill over and over. She had to maneuver herself into his fantasy to take control from him.
“I’m unarmed,” she said again. “I’ll show you.”
Slowly, she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, then the second.
“You should let the woman go,” she said. “You don’t want to go to jail.”
“I’m going to jail anyway. Maybe I should cut her throat just for the hell of it, huh?”
“If you kill her, you won’t be able to take her with you. The cops are on their way. You won’t have time to get her to your car.” She unbuttoned the bottom button and opened the blouse, letting it drop to the floor. She looked at his eyes, searching for excitement, but there was none. She didn’t interest him. She was talking, opinionated, alive. He preferred them dead and silent.
“You won’t even have five minutes of fun with her,” she said, unzipping her skirt, pulling it down slowly and very carefully. He remained standing, watching her as if he were watching a piece of furniture.
This was a man whose imagination ran rampant. She had to give his imagination something to work with.
“I have a better idea for you,” she said.
“Stop talking.”
“Take me instead. I won’t struggle. You won’t need to carry me to get me to your car. I’ll go willingly.” She straightened. She stood in her bra and underwear in front of him, and she knew it was enough for him to believe she was unarmed, that she could stop.
She didn’t stop. Instead, she reached for the clasp of her bra.
“That man over there,” she said, motioning with her head at Tatum, “has a pair of handcuffs. He can handcuff my hands behind my back to make sure I won’t try anything.”
She made a small movement toward Tatum, and Jeffrey’s hand tightened around the knife; his teeth clenched. She stopped.
“When you get me somewhere safe, you can put that strap around my neck and tighten it.”
She removed her left bra strap. Shivers ran up her arms, but she wasn’t sure if it was the cold or pure fear. The right strap followed.
“Once I stop struggling, you’ll be able to have some fun with me. Not just once. Maybe even twice. It’s been so long, hasn’t it?”
His eyes flickered, his mouth slightly open. The hand holding the knife was still rigid against Laura’s neck. She shrugged the bra off, hearing it rustle as it hit the floor.
“And then you can do what you need to do for this to last. For us to last. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Someone to lie against you at night? To sit by your side when you eat breakfast in the morning?”
She took a step toward Tatum. And another.
“Someone to love you unconditionally? Can you really do better than me? Is she better than me?”
The knife hand wavered.
“Can you see it, Jeffrey? This mouth, frozen forever, my skin cold, my arms and legs posed however you want them to? Can you picture it in your mind?”
Another step—and another. Always facing him, her eyes locked with him, her movements slow and calculated. She hoped fervently that Jeffrey would keep still. And that the Glock tucked into the waistband of her underwear behind her back wouldn’t tumble down to the floor.
“Every day together. Dressing me. Caressing me. Kissing me. There will finally be someone in your life. Someone who’ll never leave.”
She took another step, and the gun shifted, lowering slightly. Her heart skipped a beat, but it didn’t fall; the underwear band held. She took another step. And another.
“The rest of them were mistakes. I am the real deal.”
She reached Tatum and the kids.
Jeffrey swallowed. “You!” he barked at Tatum. “Handcuff her hands. Slowly.”
Zoe waited, hearing Tatum move behind her. She felt the cold touch of one of the handcuffs tightening around her left wrist. Then she felt the shift of the gun in her underwear. The second cuff tightened around her right wrist.
She took one step forward, carefully hiding Tatum with her body.
“Finally we’ll both have someone to love. Come on, Jeffrey. Let’s leave before the cops get here.”
There was a slight nod, the blade lowering. She took another step forward.
And then she dove to the floor.
There were three consecutive blasts as she hit the hard floor tiles with her shoulder, her cuffed hands unable to stop her fall. There was a jolt of pain, and she felt the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. She had bitten her tongue.
She felt someone grab her hands, and there was a click. The pressure of the cuffs was removed from her right hand, and she pulled it out, turning around.
Tatum handed her the key, and she tried to unlock the second cuff. It was hard. Her fingers were trembling.
Sirens screamed close by, and she wanted to sob. Instead, she finally unlocked the cuff, removed it, got up, and hurried to the woman, removing the gag from her mouth in one fast rip. The woman took in a wheezing breath and a sob.
“My children,” she said.
“They’re fine,” Zoe said. “Don’t worry. They’re fine.” She inspected Laura’s throat. It was bleeding, but it was a shallow scratch, no more.
Tatum was crouching by Jeffrey’s body. For a moment Zoe was about to shout at him angrily. They had to untie the family. Then she saw that Jeffrey was coughing blood. He was still alive. Tatum tore the killer’s shirt open. He found a bit of cloth and shoved it against Jeffrey’s bleeding belly.
Zoe blinked and looked at Tatum. He focused on Jeffrey, not looking at her. “You should get dressed. Half the Chicago PD is about to barge in.”
“I can’t,” Zoe said, her voice tight, covering her chest with one arm. “You just turned my blouse into a bandage.”
Tatum blinked at the shirt pressed against the blood. “Oh. Sorry.”
He cleared his throat. “It was a nice blouse.”
CHAPTER 76
Quantico, Virginia, Monday, August 1, 2016
Zoe frowned, tapping her capped pen on her desk as she read her notes from Clifford Sorenson’s interview for the third time. It was a shoddy job, and she was disappointed with herself. The interview had transpired only two days after Jeffrey had been arrested. Clifford was still in shock, the truth acidic and destructive. His own brother had killed his fiancée. Had kept her body in his home and molested it over and over while Clifford had been looking for her. Then he had used Clifford’s business to find other victims. Used the van Clifford had provided to assist him in those murders.
He had been unfocused during the interview. Zoe wasn’t sure if he had been drunk, stoned, or just overwhelmed. Her own questions had been basic, shallow.
She’d had an amazing opportunity here. Two men, sharing the same childhood. One had grown up to be a functioning member of society, with his own business and a meaningful relationship with a woman. The other, a serial killer. This could answer so many conundrums and questions about serial killers.
But Jeffrey was refusing to talk at the moment, and the only reason Clifford had talked to her was because he was still struggling to get a grip on reality.
This was about to slip from her fingers. She’d have to talk to Mancuso, get her to approve an extended trip back to Chicago. Or maybe they could transfer Jeffrey closer and interview Clifford on the phone? Would she be able to promise Jeffrey something in return for his cooperation? He seemed to have no interest in fame, unlike many other serial killers. What would make him talk?
She sighed, put her pen down, and leaned back. It probably wasn’t a good time to ask Mancuso for anything, really.
There was a knock on the door to her office.
“Yeah?” she said.
The door opened, and Tatum stood in the doorway. “Hey,” he said, smiling. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” she said, her fingers brushing against her hip. Two of the stitches had popped during her charge into Laura Summer’s home, and she’d had to get the wound resutured immediately after. They would remove the stitches in a few days, but Zoe insisted she was already healthy enough to go to work.
