Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology

by Jeffery Deaver

  “What was his MO? How’d he select his vics?”

  Vail sat back in her seat and absentmindedly scratched her knee with a fingernail, encircling the surgical site. “He wasn’t a planner. He had his hunting places and waited for the right woman to enter his sphere. He’s a very patient guy. He’d park in a shopping center lot and sit in his van and watch in the side-view mirror. When a young woman that interested him would cut down the aisle alongside his vehicle, he’d slide the door open. Grab her as she passed, slam her in the head with a mallet to knock her out, then slide the door closed. We figure it took no more than five seconds from the time he opened it to the moment it clicked closed.”

  “The women never had a chance.”

  “Then he’d bind their wrists and ankles with duct tape and tie a rag around their necks so they couldn’t close their jaws. When they woke up, they couldn’t talk, couldn’t even scream. But by then they’d be on their way to his killing place, an old barn in the boonies of the Virginia countryside. When they got there, he’d tell them he wasn’t going to hurt them, he just needed their help with something. That he’d take them back home when they were done.”

  “Buying their cooperation. How long would he keep them alive?”

  “He never told us, but we estimated at most twenty-four hours.”

  “So how do we know so much about his MO? He admitted to the murders?”

  Vail chuckled. “He admitted to one. But he wouldn’t even tell us how he did that one. And he only admitted to that one because we had his DNA on the body. We didn’t need his account, though. One of his vics escaped. Tenicia Jones. She told us everything.”

  “How’d she escape?”

  “One part luck. One part ‘never say die’ personality. One part intelligence. And one part sheer determination to get back to her young son and husband. When Vaughn got her to his killing barn, he left her alone while he went to pee. She feigned unconsciousness, hoping she’d have a better opportunity to escape if he thought she was asleep.”

  “Smart.”

  “That was the one part intelligence.”

  “Yeah,” Robby said with a chuckle. “I got that.”

  “So he figured she wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “But she was still tied up.”

  “There were rusty tools and tractor parts against a wall. She squirmed over and cut through the duct tape on her ankles. And ran.”

  “He didn’t go after her?”

  “Sure did. Tenicia had no idea where she was, so she just kept running. About an hour later, it was pitch black out. She didn’t stop. And neither did Vaughn.”

  “That’s the ‘never say die’ part.”

  “Yep. That, and the fact he kept after her for two days. She didn’t even stop to pee, just wet her pants. But no way was she going to relinquish any ground.”

  “And?”

  Vail stared out the windshield at the headlight-illuminated countryside for a moment. “Fighting exhaustion and thirst, she finally found a road the next night. She knew Vaughn wasn’t far off because she’d occasionally hear a twig break.”

  “Could’ve been a deer or some kind of large animal.”

  “She saw him. Once. She slowed to catch her breath and looked over her shoulder. Caught a glimpse of his jeans and blue sweatshirt.”

  “Can’t believe she was able to keep at it for two days.”

  “When she found that road, she ran along it until a car showed up. Then she waited as long as she could before jumping out in front of it.”

  “Suicide? After all that?”

  “No. She didn’t want to give the driver a chance to drive past her. Some people are afraid and won’t stop for anything—or anyone. She forced him to slam on his brakes. She could barely speak, her throat was so dry. All she said was, ‘Help. Need police. Hurry. He’s after me.’”

  Robby glanced at Vail. “He let her in?”

  “Yep. She jumped into the backseat and the guy peeled away, took her to the nearest PD. New Kent County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “So Vaughn went hunting in suburbia and he killed them in rural Virginia?”

  “Probably wanted to keep the dirty work far away from his house in case we caught on to who he was, keep us from amassing evidence that would lead law enforcement to his doorstep.”

  “I thought you had DNA.”

  Vail looked at Robby and let a smile thin her lips. “But he didn’t know that. No one did. We kept it out of the press.”

  “Did you ever find his barn?”

  “We did. But we couldn’t connect him to it. He didn’t own the property. And his murders were bloodless. Strangulation. So his DNA wasn’t anywhere in the shack. Then he dumped the bodies in one of four nearby counties. And we never found his van.”

  “So where’d you get the DNA?”

  “Under three of Tenicia’s fingernails. She didn’t go down right away after he got her in the van and smashed her in the head. Clawed him a bit on the forearm. Just enough to get some skin cells. And that DNA is what connected him to the other victim, the one he went to death row for. She also took a piece of him with her.” Vail yawned loudly.

  Robby held up his watch and caught the headlights of a car behind them. “You need to wake yourself up. Take a swig of coffee.”

  He didn’t need to tell her twice.

  Bledsoe dialed Vail’s number. It connected on the second ring.

  “Miss me already?” Vail asked. “It’s only been ten minutes.”

  “I’m on the helipad. The chopper will be here in five.”

  “Awesome. Also, I was talking with Robby, telling him about the Vaughn case. Thought of something to look into. We never found his white panel van that Argus theorized was used in a lot of the murders. An old Chevy. It was seen in the vicinity in around half the cases. When I asked him about it during interrogation, I could tell he was holding back. There was something about it. Like he had some secret he wasn’t telling me.”

  “We got the security footage from the parking lot, but I didn’t see anything unusual other than Debra Mead starting to walk toward her car. Then we lose her. No van.”

  “Check again. For an old white panel van.”

  “You think it’s related in some way to this kidnapping? I mean, what’s Vaughn got to do with this knucklehead?”

  “Don’t know. But unless you have an abundance of leads to track down, I’ve just given you something that could bear fruit. Check the footage of area cams, not just the ones in the parking lot, for an old Chevy van approaching, entering or exiting.”

  “How long till you get to the prison?”

  She checked the GPS. “Half hour, maybe less. You?”

  “Probably around the same. X-ray—the pilot—told me twenty minutes, depending on how fast he flies.”

  “X-ray?”

  “Got the name flying Black Hawks in Iraq. Sees real good at night.”

  “You gonna be able to check the footage while en route?” Robby asked.

  “I’m not flying the bird,” Bledsoe said. “Hell yes.”

  Debra awoke in stages. She was aware of a darkness around her, of a musty odor that irritated her nose. Then the hard ground. Moist dirt. Pain in her wrists, shoulders, ankles. Her knees burned. And—

  The van.

  Oh my God.

  She tried to sit up and realized her arms and legs were bound and something was shoved in her mouth, preventing her jaw from closing—or opening.

  I’m in trouble.

  She wanted to scream. But then she felt her tongue, drawn back against the cloth, which was pulled tight across her dry palate. No, not dry. Parched. She moaned.

  “Oh—Debra. Hello there. Sorry, I’ve been an awful host. Let me introduce myself.”

  Debra’s gaze darted left and right, up and down. She could not make out where the voice was coming from. And then a face appeared, lit from below with a flashlight.

  It made her startle.

  “Who are you?” she managed to say. It wa
s formed as words in her mind but sounded like gibberish when it escaped her mouth.

  “I’m Harrison.” He clenched his jaw, then forced a smile. “Good to meet you.”

  She responded with a garbled, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  That was apparently too difficult for him to guess at, so he leaned closer and pulled out a knife. The polished stainless blade glinted in the light.

  Debra moaned—more like a freaked-out scream, though it didn’t come out as intended—and he pushed the blunt end against her cheek and pulled. The cotton parted like a shaft of asparagus and she felt instant relief in her jaw. She spit out the cloth fragments and repeated her question.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Harrison laughed. “Because I can. Because I want to.”

  “Those aren’t reasons.”

  Harrison studied her face. “Absolutely they are. Just not what you wanted to hear.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “I understand. We’ll head back in two hours. Okay? Can you wait that long?”

  She nodded, studying his eyes, which were mirror-black with deep brown, cocoa colored swirls. Was he telling her the truth?

  He looked at his watch.

  “Then why are we here? Why’d you kidnap me?”

  “I need help with something. Didn’t think you’d do it unless I, well, forced you. Will you? Help me?”

  She nodded animatedly. “Yes, yes. Whatever. Just take me home.”

  “Of course,” Harrison said.

  And then the flashlight went off. She was left in darkness.

  Bledsoe squinted at his iPhone screen and replayed the SmartLots video…for the sixth time.

  He watched the cars driving into and out of their spots. He moved the device away from his face to get some perspective.

  It ended and he played it a seventh time. He used his finger to speed up the recording and then slow it down. “There.”

  “There what?” X-ray asked over their headsets.

  “Sorry,” Bledsoe said. “Wasn’t talking to you.” He used his fingers to zoom in and found what he was looking for—off to the right and only half visible.

  An old, white Chevy van.

  He watched as the vehicle sat there in the lot. Finally, it rocked from side to side and the side door appeared to open. Because of the angle of the camera, he could not make anything out, but the top of the Chevy noticeably shifted—probably indicating something heavy moving within. “Damnit,” he said under his breath.

  He kept with that camera until, fifteen point three seconds later, the van pulled from its spot. He had no view of the driver as it turned right, out of the frame.

  “Where’s the angle that shows me the exit?”

  “Not talking to me again, are you?” X-ray said.

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  Bledsoe opened another file Kearney had sent. “Hmm. The exit closest to where that van was.” He slowed the playback speed again, zoomed, and moved it around. This distorted the image, making it less clear and more pixelated in the fading light.

  “C’mon, you bastard. Where are you?”

  He saw something at the right bottom edge of the screen. He dragged the image left and found the van, then followed it another few seconds.

  “Crap. We lose it on Jefferson.”

  He pulled out his phone and texted Kearney.

  i need all available footage

  include traffic cams

  for jefferson and mansen

  covering all exits of smartlots center

  headed east looking for a 1970s

  white chevy panel van

  Kearney replied immediately.

  you think thats the killers ride

  old white chevy van

  Bledsoe told him that’s exactly what he thought, then related what he had seen on the traffic footage.

  and tell lenny to get the dmv

  registration history for sr vaughn

  see if he owned a chevy van

  and who owns it now

  Kearney didn’t waste any time:

  so you think i was right

  vaughns involved

  Bledsoe groaned—eliciting a glance from X-ray.

  told you

  aint vaughn

  now hurry and get that info

  “Detective,” X-ray said over his headset, “we’ll be landing in six minutes.”

  “Ten-four.” Bledsoe checked his watch and began viewing the video footage yet again.

  With sixty seconds to go before touchdown, Bledsoe felt his phone vibrate. He swiped away from the video and read the text from Kearney:

  case reports say multiple witnesses

  saw a 77 chevy van but

  no dmv record of vaughn ownership

  disposition unknown

  whereabouts unknown

  Bledsoe texted Vail, then called Kearney, despite the difficulty of speaking over the rotor noise.

  “So looks like our kidnapper—and Vaughn—used a 70s era white van.”

  “Coincidence?” Kearney asked.

  “Definitely not. Get the Phelps visitor logs for Vaughn. Go back a couple of years. Email it to me and Agent Vail. Vaughn could’ve passed a message to someone.”

  “Even if that happened, the visitor may not even know who it was that they passed the location to.”

  “Worry about that later. Right now, get us the logs.”

  “Copy that.”

  Bledsoe felt the rapid descent of the bird and then saw the approaching prison yard lights.

  PHELPS CORRECTIONAL CENTER

  Vail did not win any points with the corrections staff, showing up in the eleventh hour to meet with a man due to be put to death.

  She read their faces but decided to rise above their dirty looks. She owed them no explanations and expected them to do as the warden instructed.

  Six minutes later—three of which she figured were unnecessary other than making them feel good because they had made her job more difficult—she was led to Stephen Raye Vaughn’s cell.

  He was haggard, a great deal thinner than when she had last seen him. Perhaps depression finally got to him…the stress of waiting, trying to remain hopeful during a hopeless time.

  Or perhaps she was reading into it.

  The officer opened the door. She gave Vaughn a terse nod but was not interested in exchanging pleasantries. Besides, what could she possibly say? How’ve you been, Steve? Looking forward to Christmas? How ’bout them Nats?

  Vaughn was not a pleasant guy, and Vail certainly was not in a pleasant mood. She wanted to get right to business. Time was short.

  For her. For Debra Mead. And, obviously, for Vaughn.

  She cut right to the heart of the matter: the one thing that likely connected him to the unknown subject who had taken Debra Mead.

  Vaughn was not biting. He denied knowing what she was talking about.

  Internally, the seconds were ticking by in her head…an annoying metronome reminding her of the most valuable commodity humans could own, the one thing that money could not buy.

  “Stephen. Think about what the news reports would be like if the cops find that van. Your van.”

  Vaughn snickered. “So what?”

  Vail leaned forward and harrumphed, a mocking laugh that said, “You dimwit. You’re smarter than that.” She waited, but he did not bite. “Think about what would happen to it.”

  “No idea,” Vaughn said with a shrug. “Stored in evidence? Sent to a junkyard?” He chuckled. “Sold to China for scrap?”

  “C’mon, Stephen. You used that brain of yours to outwit and murder sixteen women. Now use it creatively.”

  He sat there staring at her. Blank eyes. “Still got nothing.”

  Vail glanced behind him, at the clock…where the second hand ratcheted around the dial. “You remember Ted Kaczynski?”

  “That Unabomber dude.”

  “Yep. He didn’t use a car to kill. But he lived in the middle of bumfuck nowhere in a cabin. That’s where he constru
cted his bombs. Know what happened to that cabin?”

  “Demolished. No, wait. Somebody charges admission to see it.”

  Vail nodded slowly. “Now you’re getting it. They trucked it out to a museum. It’s on display in a goddamn museum in Washington, DC. Part of American history.”

  Vaughn’s face was stoic. “Uh huh.”

  “That car the DC Sniper used. The 1990 Caprice. You know about the DC Sniper, right?”

  “’Course.”

  “John Allen Muhammad and his buddy hid in the back seat and shot their rifle out of a hole in the back of the trunk. Know where that car is now?”

  “In a museum.”

  “Right. A floor directly above the cabin. Muhammad’s car and Kaczynski’s cabin, both immortalized forever. Hundreds of thousands of people reading big plaques telling their story.” She considered Vaughn’s expression. He was getting it. “Once they find your van, where do you think it’ll go?”

  “In that museum.”

  “If you want, I’ll make sure it goes on the same floor as the DC Sniper’s car.”

  “No. I want Kaczynski. The Unabomber’s cabin. That floor.”

  Vail feigned frustration—as if this were a real negotiation—then said, “Fine. Same floor as Kaczynski. I’ll make it happen.”

  Vaughn looked at her. “Now why would you do that for me?”

  “Because you’re going to do something for me.”

  “I’m in a fuckin’ prison cell on death row, Vail. About to die. What can I possibly do for you?”

  “Excuse me,” the corrections officer said. “Agent Vail, it’s time.”

  “Five minutes. I need five more minutes.”

  The man shook his head. “No can do. Already gave you more time than I was s’posed to.”

  “But—”

  “Not my decision. These things are timed. It’s all set up. State law. No one wants to be responsible for prolonging this, if you get my drift.”

  Yeah, give anyone a chance for second thoughts, another appeal to the governor.