“I’ll approach slowly, give you a 360 sweep of the perimeter so you can get a lay of the land.”
“Copy that,” Bledsoe said.
Vail nudged Bledsoe. “If he’s not already awake, we’re gonna announce ourselves.”
“If he tries to leave, we should see him from up here. In fact, that might be the better call. We don’t know what structures are down there. We’re going in blind.”
“I’m trying to remedy that,” X-ray said. “Coming in from the north, then we’ll go clockwise in a circle. You want, there are IR monocles in that kit by your feet.”
“I want,” Vail said, leaning forward to rummage in the bag. “Got it.” She pulled it over her face, removing the headset first to seat it properly. Bledsoe did the same, and then they began scanning the countryside.
“Not seeing anything,” X-ray said as he completed the second sweep. “Taking you down. Any preference? North, south, e—”
“Hang on a second,” Bledsoe said. “Nine o’clock. That cloud of dust.”
X-ray craned his neck and nodded. “10-4.”
“Where?” Vail asked, looking past Bledsoe’s left shoulder.
“Someone heading away from the property. In a big hurry, kickin’ up a dirt storm.”
X-ray pushed the cyclic forward to give them a better look. “It’s a van, headed south.”
“Got it,” Vail said. “Can you head him off?”
“Working on it,” X-ray said, swinging the chopper starboard and swooping toward the treetops. “How aggressive you want me to be?”
“What do you think?” Bledsoe asked. “Is Harrison the kind of guy who’d be armed or unarmed?”
“If he’s our guy, we’re assuming he kills with the same MO as his father—choking them and then carving them up—but we don’t even know if he’s murdered anyone yet. We don’t even know if this is our guy.”
“He’s driving pretty damn fast from his shack after seeing a chopper doing a flyover.”
“You’re making some assumptions here, Bledsoe.”
Bledsoe kept his eyes on the fleeing van. “He’s running from the police. Looks guilty to me.”
“Guilty—of what? Maybe he’s got a warrant out on him for unpaid child support and he freaked out. Or it could be overdue parking tickets. Or he’s a survivalist who thinks jack-booted government agents are coming to get him. Who the hell knows?”
“He’s driving an old van.”
“So do a lot of people in Virginia. I’m not saying he isn’t our offender. But we could be wrong about this. Do we really want to go in hot and heavy without knowing for sure what we’re doing?”
“What is this, role reversal? You’re the one usually advocating a balls-to-the-wall approach.”
“So you’re saying I’m usually the one with the balls.”
“Well, not in so—”
“That’s okay. I’ll accept that characterization. I’m trying to be a little more reserved. By the book.”
Bledsoe chuckled. “Now’s as good as any time to start, I guess. But in my book, a guy running from the cops because of late alimony or overdue parking tickets will surrender when confronted. If he doesn’t surrender, whatever he’s done is more serious.” He tapped X-ray on the left shoulder. “Close on him.”
2:03 AM
Bledsoe radioed his dispatcher and asked for them to coordinate with the local sheriff to get a car to Harrison Vaughn’s cabin ASAP. If he was their killer, and if he did have Debra Mead inside, they needed to ascertain her status and render emergency medical care if necessary.
“Can we get a heat signature on the van?” Vail asked.
“Tried,” X-ray said. “Not getting anything.”
She snorted. “Well I’m pretty sure that old clunker isn’t an autonomous vehicle. And it’s not being driven by an android.”
X-ray peered forward into the dark landscape ahead. “He’s a cold-blooded killer, right? Maybe my infrared cam can’t pick him up.”
Yeah, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Where the hell’s he going?” Vail asked.
Bledsoe leaned his head against the window, careful not to strike his monocle on the glass. “Somewhere that we’re not.” He leaned back and pulled out his phone. “Text from Kearney.”
“And?”
“A lot here. Gimme a minute. Gotta take the monocle off or I’ll blow out my night vision.”
“Tree cover makes it impossible for us to get any lower,” X-ray said.
“So follow him until we can get lower,” Vail said.
“Except that we have limited fuel.”
Of course we do.
“I’ll let you know when we’ve got ten minutes left. So far we’re okay, but we should get some cars on the ground to intercept up ahead.”
Bledsoe looked up from his screen. “We can have them lay down a spike strip.”
Vail nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Do it.”
While Bledsoe made the request, Harrison emerged from the tree cover and entered a freeway.
“He’s picking up speed,” X-ray said.
Bledsoe grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat as X-ray matched the van’s acceleration. “Stay with him. I’m radioing our position.”
At the moment Bledsoe finished, the van slowed and he made a sharp exit into downtown Charlottesville.
“What’s his endgame?” X-ray asked.
“Maybe he’s running out of gas,” Bledsoe said. “Like us. Those tin cans got horrible mileage. He probably wasn’t prepared to engage in a high-speed pursuit.”
“At best a dozen miles per gallon when new,” X-ray said. “At fifty years? Who knows. Ten? You could be right.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
Vail fought off a smile. “Stay sharp. He may be getting ready to ditch the van, try to lose us somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Bledsoe said, “but where?”
“Someplace he knows well.”
“And that is?”
Vail snorted into the mic, which came across as loud crackling. “I’ll let you know the minute we find out.”
605 E MAIN STREET
CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA
They found out moments later, as the Chevy van drew to a stop at the end of the road—in the middle of it, actually. Perhaps Bledsoe’s low fuel theory was right.
“Getting a heat signature,” X-ray said. “Only one.”
Vail sat forward to look at the screen. “So Debra Mead isn’t with him.”
“Let’s just say, if she’s alive, she’s not with him.”
Wiseguy.
“What street is that?” Bledsoe asked.
X-ray thought a second. “Looks like, um, Market. No—he was on Market, he stopped on Seventh. Right near that big tented structure, the pavilion next to the visitors center.”
“I know the area.” Bledsoe keyed his radio and relayed their location to local law enforcement. “By that freedom of speech blackboard.”
“Did he get out of the van?” Vail asked. “Haven’t seen any movement.”
Bledsoe cupped the window to get a better view. “Door’s opening. He’s on foot.”
“X-ray, can you get us down there?”
“You serious? It’s a downtown, where do you suggest—wait, the top level of that parking structure. You’ll have to run down a few flights of stairs, but—”
“Fine, just put us on the ground. Keep an eye on him from the air.”
“Copy that.”
“He’s headed down the mall,” Vail said, “east.”
Seconds later, X-ray was setting the chopper atop a large, multistory cement monstrosity. “I’ll circle overhead and relay his position. Won’t be easy without a radio.”
“Twenty-first century,” Bledsoe said. “You’ll figure it out, buddy.”
They climbed out of the helicopter and ran toward the exit to street level, coming out near a historical landmark-style sign that read, THREE NOTCH’D ROAD. Behind it, a small multi-col
ored children’s Merry-Go-Round was gated off by wrought iron fencing.
“I’m turned around,” Vail said. “Which way?”
Bledsoe, SIG Sauer pistol in hand, headed past the storefronts on both sides of the open-air brick-paver mall, which featured restaurant dining tables sectioned off in the center of the breezeway.
“C’mon, X-ray,” Vail said. “Give us some idea of where he is.”
“You know he can’t hear you.”
“I’m sending the message telepathically.”
Their phones buzzed. Vail checked hers.
passing atlantic union bank
coming up on urban outfitters
Bledsoe harrumphed. “Your message was obviously received.”
“Harrison doesn’t strike me as the type to shop at Urban Outfitters.”
“You see him?”
Vail peered into the darkness. The mall area was lit by low wattage four-bulb ornamental light fixtures every few dozen feet. “I see some homeless guys down the cross-streets. But not Harrison.”
Another text:
coming up on the escape room
“Is that a joke?”
Bledsoe gestured at the storefront’s sign, a good distance away. “Nope. But like everything else, I’m sure it’s closed.” Bledsoe elbowed her to the right, closer to the Lynne Goldman shop. “I think I see him.”
She squinted into the darkness. “Uh, yeah. Got him.”
“Why come here? Everything’s closed.”
“Did you finish reading the background Kearney sent?”
“Shit, no.”
“Give me your phone. Keep an eye on Harrison.” Vail scanned the notes, which looked to be a copy/paste conglomeration of disembodied facts in different fonts. She figured Kearney had someone drive him to the Caruthers residence while he worked on the dossier.
She instinctively followed Bledsoe, who was slowly heading toward Harrison, taking care to keep out of his sightline.
“I know where he’s going.”
Bledsoe stopped. “Where?”
“Up ahead. The Paramount Theater.”
“That’s good because I lost him.”
Another text:
no eyes on
hope you see him
“Probably went into the theater,” Vail said, reading the background document. “Vaughn worked there after it reopened about fifteen years ago.”
She snapped her fingers. “That’s right. That’s where he was employed before changing careers.”
“Changing careers?”
“From veteran light board operator to professional serial killer.”
“Why would his son be going there now?”
“I never got to ask Vaughn about his work at the theater,” Vail said. “When I interviewed him, I focused on his childhood and teen years. And then one day he decided to stop meeting with me.”
“Not even an educated guess?”
“Vaughn probably took Harrison there when he was young. Could be the only place they got to spend time together. Probably helped his dad with the lights during rehearsals or shows.”
“So it’s a safe place.”
“Maybe in more ways than one. If we didn’t have this info from Kearney, we might not have found him.” She handed Bledsoe back his phone.
“So now what? Hang here until we can get some deputies onsite?”
“Yeah—call in the cavalry,” Vail said. “But no. I’m not waiting to go in.”
“Of course you’re not. Because you have a death wish.”
“Semantics. You call it a death wish, I call it a deep commitment to my job.”
“You can’t see me in the darkness, Karen, but I’m rolling my eyes.”
“Laugh all you want.”
“What happened to the more reserved, by-the-book approach?”
“That was then,” Vail said. “This is now.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t live in the past. Only look forward.”
“I’m looking forward to working with a normal partner again.”
Vail led the way toward the theater. Its Greek Revival portico was lit up brightly, the vertical art-deco PARAMOUNT blade sign drawing attention to the false brick façade, which provided the illusion of height and importance.
Harkening back to its roots as a 1930s movie venue, an elaborate landmark marquis extended out from the building, rows of light bulbs hanging from its belly and illuminating the grand entrance—where Vail and Bledsoe now stood.
“What do you think?” Bledsoe asked.
Vail advanced on the six French doors ahead of them. “He probably forced one open. We go in the way he did.”
“There are other ways in. Box office. Or the ‘blacks-only’ doors on the Third Street side used back when segregation was still a thing in the south.”
“I’m not gonna try every freakin’ door. None of these are open, I’m breaking the glass and going in.”
“Quietly.”
Vail looked at him. “How do you break glass quietly?”
They pulled on the various handles—until one gave way.
“No need.” Bledsoe gestured at the lock. “Looks jimmied. Let’s go.”
Only a few accent lights were on in the dark theater, so Vail used her phone for illumination. But its carrying distance was limited. “Split up?”
“Works for me.”
“Hang on. Let’s be smart about this. He’s come here for a reason—other than to hide or hopefully escape. He knows the place. And my guess is he had a good relationship with his father.”
“Who just happened to be executed tonight.”
“Exactly,” Vail said. “That could’ve been a trigger. I overlooked that earlier. My bad.”
“But now that we thought of it, what does it mean?”
“Comfort. He came here to remember him. In fact, if Debra Mead is his first kill—or hopefully attempted kill—it might be because it’s the day his father was going to be executed.”
“Shit or get off the pot?”
Vail scrunched her face. “Not the way I’d put it, but yeah.”
“Makes sense. So…where to?”
“They control stage lighting from specific rooms in theaters, right?”
“Do I look like a guy who goes to the theater? Other than the movie theater, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant,” Vail said. “I’ve never gone behind the scenes, but there are always lights mounted above the stage and also in the back, above the balcony. I know there are sound boards for sound engineers, so I’m guessing there’s something like that for lighting engineers. Or technicians. Or operators. Whatever they’re called.”
“Again, makes sense.”
“Head to the stage, give me a global view. In case I flush him out, you’ll be able to see where he goes.”
“What about you?”
“I’m betting there’s a room above the balcony, dead central, where both the sound and lighting techs work during the show. That’s where Harrison will be. I’m gonna find my way there.”
“How sure are you that’s where Harrison will be?”
“Not sure at all. Why?”
“How about I go find the lighting room and you go to the stage?”
“Because I’m a woman?”
Bledsoe hesitated. “Because of your knee.”
“Nice save. But I can handle myself.”
Someday I’ll have to tell him about my badass work with OPSIG Team Black. But then I’d have to kill him.
“Still. Be careful, Karen. Robby’ll be real pissed at me if you get killed.”
Moments later, Bledsoe stood behind the orchestra pit, in the center of the stage, looking out at the empty, octagonal theater. Dim lights demarcated the end of each row of seats. Best he could tell in the near darkness the audience chamber was grand, with gold leaf moldings, ornate woodwork carved into the ceiling, and two humongous near floor-to-ceiling paintings on each side.
Bledsoe strained to see across the room, above the
balcony level, where there were four large windows and a rig of hefty spotlight-style fixtures trained on the stage.
He canted his head ceiling-ward, and—as Vail had surmised—an array of luminaires hung there, too.
He continued moving his gaze left to right, looking for Vail…or better yet, Harrison Vaughn.
Vail climbed a few steps and came to a closed door. It was dark and she wanted her eyes to acclimate, so she was no longer using her phone light.
Glock in hand, she cautiously turned the knob, then pushed slowly. Fortunately, the hinges did not creak.
She slipped inside, careful not to trip on a box of unseen equipment. The room was about twenty-five feet wide but only eight or so deep.
Power flowed through what she surmised were control boards. Small lights poked out from the blackness, along with cabling, sliding dimmers, instrumentation, and controllers of various types.
The hum and white noise of electrical gear and their fans droned in the background, serving as a buffer to any noise she might make.
I hope.
A wall of equipment switches and sliders stood to her left, two Duracell PROCELL batteries serving as some sort of backup.
Directly ahead of her were four large panes of windows, which she figured looked out onto the seating and stage. Somewhere beyond that stood Bledsoe, though it was too dark to make him out—which meant Harrison could not see him, either.
The faint glow from the instrumentation provided too little illumination for Vail to see well. If Harrison was like his father, he was a hefty guy—so going toe to toe with him was likely not to her advantage.
Right now, brains—and her 9mm pistol—will have to beat brawn.
She could have pulled back and waited, but she did not relish the thought of being so close—and having to retreat. She wanted Harrison Vaughn in handcuffs, on the way to the Adult Detention Center for booking. Tonight. Or—rather, this morning.
Enough groping around in the dark. Vail had no idea where the wall switch was—ironic, given that she was in the room that controlled thousands? Hundreds of thousands? of watts of lighting.
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology Page 5
