by Ellie Marney
“Simon, I could drink Lambrusco and chat with you all day, but I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of time.”
“They want me to reply.”
“Of course they want you to reply. They want you to reply today. Now.”
He makes a put-upon sigh. “Do they need an entire missive, or will a properly addressed envelope suffice?”
Emma had not thought of this. She has to turn it over quickly. “An envelope and a short note. Something congratulatory.”
Simon rolls his eyes but moves to his desk and seats himself on the bolted chair like a concert pianist before a baby grand. He selects a scrap of butcher paper and a felt pen.
“This would sound more natural if I had actually read the contents of the letter.”
“Oh, I have a copy—here.”
Emma fishes the folded photocopy out of the pocket of her jacket. They have to go through the tiresome process of calling Pradeep and transferring the paper into Simon’s cell. Once it’s in his possession, Simon scans the paper, even sniffs it.
“That last line is quite something,” he notes.
Emma bears down on her reaction. “Remember, I’ll be reading your reply. It’ll be really tedious if I have to make you reword it.” She thinks of something else. “And say that you’re considering his offer, about donating.”
The look Simon gives her is withering.
“What did he call it? A professional exchange between friends.”
“Do you know how the reply will be collected?” He writes while he speaks.
“We’re about to find out.”
“How lovely for you.” Letter completed, Simon lifts the edge of his papers to find an envelope. “Will you stake out the collection point? Will you shoot the Butcher with your gun? Or is that Agent Cooper’s prerogative?”
Emma ignores that. “Don’t stick down the flap on the envelope. I want to read it.”
He makes a production out of folding and inserting the letter, addressing the envelope, then turns in his chair. “Catch.”
The envelope spins along its narrow edge as he tosses it through the bars. Emma surprises herself by snatching the envelope out of the air before it hits her in the chest. It is direct contact: the first time something has passed between Simon and herself without any intermediary. The spark in his eyes tells her the significance isn’t lost on him. Do not take anything he offers you. She imagines she can still feel the warmth of his hand on the paper in hers.
She opens the flap and reads the letter. Refolds it and tucks it back into the envelope.
“Satisfied?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He makes a little sneer when he says it. “Does this mean you’ll bring a celebratory picnic lunch next time you visit? I request croissants. I do remember croissants very fondly.”
Emma stands, gathering the bottle and the envelope, feeling almost formal. “If we catch the Butcher, then this might be my last visit, Simon. But thank you for your help. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure Kristin is taken care of.”
“You don’t have any power. You’re not even an agent.”
She straightens. “Then I’ll do everything I can, as a human being.”
“You’ve been a fascinating subject, Emma.” He cocks his head. “You hate the feeling that Huxton might have been integral to your development as a person, don’t you?”
Emma senses the truth of that knocking around hollowly inside her ribs. “Yes.”
“A girl created by a serial killer who hunts serial killers.” Simon’s lips curve in a quiet smile. “Farewell, dear Emma. Thou wert lovely to the last.”
He turns back to his desk then, picks up a felt pen, and begins writing, suddenly as distant to her as some far-off mountain peak, all covered in ice.
Emma’s knees are wooden from being held at tension. She walks toward Pradeep, where he stands waiting, and sets the bottle on his desk.
“This is for Simon, if he wants it. Thank you for everything.”
Pradeep gives her a solemn nod. He opens the door, and she exits, feeling oddly incomplete. She doesn’t look back, keeps moving forward, clutching the letter. Part of her realizes she should feel triumphant, but she gets a sense as if she is aging decades with each step away.
By the time she emerges into the light outside, she feels ancient. The sun is a shock. When she puts her shading hand down, she sees that the Washington bureau car has gone, and Bell and Cooper are standing by the Fairmont in the parking area. Their figures resolve from dark shapes in the glare, to defined outlines, and then to real people as she walks toward them.
“You got it,” Cooper says simply.
“Yes.” She attempts to smile.
“We got an address,” Bell says, looking as victorious as she should feel. “Jump in, I’ll tell you what’s happening on the way. We’re going to Annandale.”
He opens the car door for her. She’s been trying to remember the origin of Simon’s parting line—Thou wert lovely to the last. As she slides into the back seat of the Fairmont, the source finally comes.
It’s by Byron, of course. Composed in 1812, and taken from one of the great examples of elegiac poetry, entitled “And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Butcher’s collecting his mail from a dead man’s address,” Bell says.
“What?” Emma is in the rear seat, with Bell turned sideways in the front to conduct a three-way conversation, and Cooper behind the wheel. It feels strange being in the back seat on her own. “Sorry, what does that mean?”
“It means we got lucky at Georgetown.” Cooper’s driving at faster-than-normal speed, watching his handling. “Bell asked about finding ‘Dr. Lord’ and they dug up the staff rep who handles the mail. She gave him an address.”
“Dr. Lord is listed as an associate emeritus professor,” Bell explains. “Like he’s retired. Mail that comes in for him is forwarded to a postal address in Annandale. That address turned out to be the residence of a Frederick John Delaney, an old-age pensioner who lived near the Fairfax hospital. Delaney died about eight months ago.”
“Fairfax hospital,” Emma says.
“That’s what we’re thinking.” Bell’s excitement is pressed down firmly, but she can still see it burning behind his eyes.
Cooper continues. “Delaney’s estate is tied up in probate, so his apartment can’t be rented or sold.”
“The Butcher must live or work somewhere nearby,” Bell says. “He can just stroll up and check the mail whenever he pleases.”
Cooper looks at her in the rearview. “This is it, Lewis. We’ve got SWAT scrambling—they’re meeting us at the Fairfax County sheriff’s office. The sheriff’s emergency response team is assisting. DEA is providing undercover vehicle support. And you’re holding the letter that this whole operation is focused on.”
She is still holding the letter, and suddenly she doesn’t want to be. She hands it across the seat to Bell, who passes it to Cooper. Cooper puts it into his inside jacket pocket without glancing at it.
“So where do me and Bell fit into all this?”
“You’ll be in the sheriff’s office in Annandale during the stakeout.”
“But can’t we—”
“Lewis, I can’t take you—there’s gonna be a lot of guys with guns on-site, and you’re both civilians. Don’t go getting all sore on me, this might just turn into a long wait. The Butcher might not expect a reply from Gutmunsson within forty-eight hours of having sent the original letter.”
“Okay.” Emma chews a thumbnail.
“Nothing might happen today. But we’ve got to assume that if the Butcher’s waiting on a reply, he’ll drop by every day until Gutmunsson’s letter arrives. There’s a good chance we might scoop him up today or tomorrow.”
Cooper’s energy crackles in the car interior. When he steers around a corner, Emma notices that his gun holster prints against his jacket—he’s wearing his sidearm. Whil
e she was in the timeless zone with Simon Gutmunsson, Cooper and Bell have been out in the world tracking prey. It seems as if the prey might finally be turning in their direction.
Cooper looks up. “One last thing, for both of you. Operations like this, we’re talking lots of officers from multiple departments, lots of competing egos. Keep your eyes open and your questions for a suitable time. If you’re confused, wait for direction and I’ll give it.”
Trees whip by on the Beltway before the river, and now the car is over the water. The cirrus clouds Emma noticed earlier have lowered and thickened. It’s dizzying to realize it’s not even ten in the morning.
Saplings along the side of the 236, then the tidy main street and the tough red brick of the old Fairfax courthouse building. Cooper turns left onto West Street, finds a parking space near a sixties-style high-rise. They enter the sheriff’s office through a service door, and when Emma sees the typical dropped ceilings and tile light fixtures, she knows where she is.
A bustle of people inside the hallways, uniforms in various shades of fawn and brown and SWAT black. Cooper goes through the processes of check-in and introductions with a rapidity that reminds everyone they’re short on time.
A man in a postal uniform is waiting for them in a deputy’s office. Emma assumes he’s an undercover cop before realizing he’s an actual mail carrier. Cooper shakes the guy’s hand while Simon’s reply—the envelope and the letter itself—is being photocopied, then the original is folded back up. A stamp is applied, and also a redirect label that Bell got from Georgetown U. The mail carrier won’t add an official postmark, though. Cooper chews his lip, then borrows an ink pad at the station’s duty desk to add a blue smudge that makes the letter look more official while satisfying USPS propriety. The mail carrier nods and departs.
They go down a hall to the base of operations, which is in some kind of teaching area. More officers in various groupings around the room, drinking coffee and hanging tough. A planning table in the center of the room is strewn with maps and paperwork—the men around it part to allow Cooper access. Emma and Bell find a place nearer the wall.
The room is too warm and smells strongly of carpet cleaner and gun oil. Emma is not the only female in the room: A female junior officer is setting up coffee mugs on a table at the rear. Emma is, however, the only one dressed like a teenage girl, in blue jeans and a pale pink T-shirt. Of all the days to wear pink. The weight of many pairs of male eyes skimming over her makes her feel heavy. She hasn’t brought her scarf. She stands awkwardly beside Bell, not wanting to touch her head, avoiding drawing attention to herself.
Cooper is in discussion with a short, barrel-chested man in black combat gear, other men pointing to areas on the big location map. Before the buzz of talk gets too loud, Cooper shucks his jacket and glances around.
“It’s real hot in here. Officer, can we get the air-conditioning turned up a little? Thank you.” He looks over to Emma and Bell. “Do you want to hear this?”
Cooper waves them closer, indicates a place to stand, near but a little behind him. Now the eyes are assessing them by a different scale. She arrived with Cooper; she has a soldier’s haircut. These people are paramilitary—they know what a buzz cut means. Bell is standing feet planted, arms crossed, dressed in black; he already looks half Marshal.
She’s aware that Cooper has included them in order to make a point. He understands politics, and she knows he was once military. She sees it in him now: this team-building, the gathering of assets, the focus and clipped professionalism.
He indicates areas on the map. “This apartment block here is the location, yes? Lieutenant Paziewski, this is a little confusing with the road names.”
“Yeah, you got Woodburn Road proper, then this whole stretch is also Woodburn Road.” Paziewski is tall, thick-necked, big hands on his duty belt. He indicates an upside-down U shape on the map. “Suggest we call Woodburn One, Woodburn Two, Woodburn Three, for clarity on comms.”
“Agreed,” Cooper says.
“Woodburn Two is the focus.” Paziewski pokes a spot on the right side of the U. “It’s low, semi-connected apartment buildings. Sidewalk through to the hospital grounds here. Lots of foliage cover, shrubs and tree trunks all over.”
Cooper points. “Here’s the target building. We’ve got Agent Martino in a surveillance van here—that’s our command post. SWAT has a second van here. What did the drive-by show?”
“Not much action yet, but the nursing shift change is due about now, so you’ll have pedestrians soon.”
“Mail area is in the front foyer. But you can enter from the back of the building, yes? Sergeant, what are our options with that?”
The barrel-chested man has no name identification and a windburned face. Emma thinks he’s probably SWAT. He has a midwestern drawl and farmer’s hands, square-nailed and callused with work.
“We’re sending out a point man to the back.” He touches the map with the blunt tip of a finger. “We need guys here and here in front, but I don’t think we can position them before we make contact. The buildings are real spread out, the trees aren’t bunched, and it’s just too risky.”
“Not enough cover?”
“Correct. My guys are gonna stick out like the proverbial, and you don’t want to scare off your target.”
Cooper nods. “No use baiting him out if we give the game away by leaving your guys exposed. Send one man out jogging or something to reconnoiter, then deploy with first contact.”
“I’ve got a long-range man I can put on the roof.”
“Do that. Have we got someone in the building yet? We need to see when the target collects the letter.”
Paziewski nods. “We can get someone dressed in civvies, high up on the internal steps.”
“Civilian dress, okay, but I want that officer kitted out underneath,” Cooper says. “This guy has killed seven people we know of and I don’t want to get into a hostage rescue situation.”
“Copy that.”
Cooper straightens, checks his watch. “All right, let’s see how it plays. Mail delivery is scheduled in twenty-five minutes. Mr. Paziewski, Mr. Dewey, move your people out.”
Nods all around, men milling in the background head for the exit. Cooper looks like he’s making to leave as well, and Emma still has no idea what she and Bell are supposed to be doing.
“Agent Cooper—”
“Communications station.” Cooper shrugs back into his jacket, already moving. “Officer Medhurst is on comms—ask someone to show you both the way. Take the map with you so you can decipher locations, we’ve got spares.”
“Stay with Medhurst?” Bell asks.
“Yes, and you’ll hear everything that’s going on.” Cooper accepts a radio handset from an agent. “I’ll broadcast when it’s over. Like I said, this could be a waiting game—be patient.”
“Good luck,” Bell says.
“I like to say ‘good hunting.’” Cooper gives them an almost-grin.
“Catch him,” Emma blurts.
Cooper’s eyes are solemn. “I will.”
He nods before walking out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She knows she should fight it, but Emma has a hopeful feeling.
She and Bell are set up in a dark cupboard of a room with Medhurst, a young, corn-fed-looking guy who handles the switches and dials fluidly. He’s been a good sport about them cramming in here, so long as they stay quiet and don’t touch anything.
There’s a speaker on the desk that relays all the comms traffic. Listening to comms has been like following a radio play. A piece of paper in front of her lists all the actors in this drama: Cooper as CP1, Martino as CP2, all the S-tags for Dewey’s SWAT group, the P-tags for police. She’s paying particular attention to P2, a young guy named Closse on the inside stairwell of the target building, as well as S2, the SWAT jogger wearing a headset that looks like a Walkman. She heard the tension in the officers’ voices when the mail carrier dropped off the letter in Delaney’s ol
d mailbox, felt the same tension.
Since then they’ve had nearly three hours of pedestrian logs and the occasional report when SWAT changes their jogging guy over, or when somebody needs a bathroom break or notes they’re bugging for a cigarette. Bell holds the fort while Emma dashes to the bathroom herself, then she keeps an ear out while Bell fetches water and coffee and cookies. Medhurst is appreciative. The cookies don’t look as good as her mother’s and Emma ignores them.
Now Bell is sitting on a swivel chair beside her, his arms crossed and his chin low as he concentrates. He tilts a fraction, until their warm shoulders meet. “It’s going okay.”
Emma has the edge of a fingernail between her teeth. “I want this to work.”
“I know.”
“More than anything.”
“I know.”
Bell’s eyes hold hers, and Emma feels her own wants rising inside. She wants the Butcher to fall into the net. To see him dangle the way he made his victims dangle. She wants this constant fizz of dread and anxiety inside herself gone.
But she’s been on hunts with her dad and she knows what it’s like to wait in the blind, to sight and fire and still miss.
This time, she doesn’t want to miss.
Just after 1400 hours, Cooper rubs his eyes. The body is a funny thing kept under tension, and he knows to stretch and hydrate and give himself a minute every now and then. He’s familiar with surveillance’s weird combination of boredom and strain, and he’s spent plenty of hours in Dodge Ram surveillance vans just like this one, learning patience.
There are swivel chairs in the cramped interior of the van, plus a tiny desk and low-wattage lamps. Mike Martino has turned on the little internal fan, and the oscillating breeze lifts papers at the desk.
“P4 says we’ve got pedestrian traffic coming through from the hospital.” Martino adjusts his headset to speak to Cooper. “The kids are okay back at the Fairfax County office?”
