Last Breath (25 page)

The ladder had been fully extended and stretched horizontally between the roof of this building and the one behind it—another apartment complex, as Tanner recalled from his briefing.

Treat must have scrambled across like a monkey on a branch. The other roof was empty. He was already gone.

Tanner used his radio again, telling the deputies on the ground that Treat had escaped via the building to the rear. Garcia’s voice came back to him over his earphone. “We’re sending two units to reconnoiter. He won’t get away that easily.”

He already has, Tanner thought.

Then another voice, which Tanner didn’t recognize, said, “Jesus, what the hell happened in here?”

Backup had reached the apartment, found the four SWAT commandos. Even over his headset Tanner could hear moans of pain. He pictured his men writhing.

“They need antivenin,” Tanner said. “They’ve been bitten by spiders.”

“What kind of spiders?” Garcia snapped.

“All kinds.”

It was true. They had come in every shape and size, even in different hues—some lithe and small like puffballs with threadlike legs, others large and hairy, some jet-black, others brown or reddish.

Tanner took a moment to inspect himself. He found a spider entangled in the laces of his boot and smashed it with his fist. Another one was making its way slowly up his sleeve like a determined climber attacking Everest. He wiped off that one on the stairwell door, leaving a brown smudge.

No others. And none—he patted himself, front and back—none under his clothes, against his skin.

He’d been lucky. As team leader he was supposed to be in front of his men, in a position of maximum exposure, but in this case it had been the safest position to occupy. The rain of spiders had been concentrated in the middle of the hall.

Another minute passed while the units on the ground reconnoitered the second building. Then Garcia reported, “There’s a fire escape from the roof to the ground. Grass near the fire escape has been trampled.”

Tanner sighed. “He’s booked.”

“Roger that. We’re calling in other units to sweep the streets.”

“They won’t find him.”

Garcia’s voice was a dry crackle. “I know.”

“Any sign of the victim?”

“No. Maybe he never had her.”

“Of course he had her,” Tanner snapped.

Walsh had said she had four hours to live. He’d been wrong. It was only 10:15, and she was dead already. Had to be.

C.J. was dead.

“We aren’t friends,” C.J. said softly. “We never were.”

“Ouch.” Adam grimaced. “That stings.”

“Quit grandstanding. This cold-blooded killer act isn’t working. I can see right through it.”

“Can you?”

“You’re more scared than I am right now.” Which is saying something, she added silently. “You know you won’t get away with it.”

“I know I will. It’s all set up, right down to the e-mail I sent you.”

“The Four-H Club—I still don’t get it.”

“Private joke. But Detective Walsh will figure it out when he checks the contents of your computer.”

“I deleted the message.” This was a lie. She remembered saving it, but she wanted to rattle him.

She failed. “No problem,” he said nonchalantly. “It’ll still be in the Web cache. Probably still on the ISP’s server, as well. Someone will find it.”

“And trace it to you.”

“It was scrubbed. Sent through a mixmaster—that’s tech talk for a service that renders e-mail anonymous. It can’t be traced. I’ve been very careful, C.J. I just spent a half hour with the great Detective Walsh himself, and by the end of the interview he was ready to hold my hand and comfort me in my distress. That’s how convincing I was.”

“You’re not that good an actor.”

“I fooled you, didn’t I? All those months when I was banging Ashley, you never suspected a thing. She was a lot better than you, by the way. Fucking you was more like a domestic chore than an erotic adventure.”

This was so transparent, she actually laughed. “You’re pathetic. God, how did I ever fall for a loser like you?”

She saw his mouth twist in anger, then smooth into a smile. “A loser who’s holding all the cards in this particular game.”

“You’re not holding any cards. You can’t shoot me. It’s not the right MO. The method of murder is the most distinctive thing about a serial killer. You fire a gun at me, and you might as well turn yourself in to Walsh right now.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“To kill me, you’ve got to disarm me. Want to try? Come within reach, and I’ll slice your carotid artery. Severing that artery causes death within seconds. No blood to the brain.”

He looked uneasily at the shard. “You can’t hold me off all night.”

“You can’t afford to be here all night. Walsh will want to talk to you again. You know he will. Even if you’re not a suspect, you’re still my ex-husband. And if you gave as good a performance as you claim, he’ll be sure to keep you posted on developments in the case—just for your own peace of mind.”

“You going somewhere with this?” He sounded irritated, and she knew she was finally breaking down his facade of composure.

“No, I’m not, Adam. That’s the point. Neither of us is going anywhere with this. It’s a stalemate. You’ve played this game to a draw.”

“Maybe so, C.J. Maybe this particular strategy is a dead end.” He pocketed the gun. “But you know what that means? It means I have to improvise a new approach.”

He bent and picked up the overturned crate. With one downward swing he battered it to pieces against the floor. What was left in his hands was a single plank, ragged at one end, with two or three nails still imbedded in the wood.

“See that, C.J.? See how well I can think on my feet?”

He whipped the plank back and forth like a batter warming up at the plate. C.J. retreated, feeling the breeze on her face.

“The Hourglass Killer doesn’t club his victims either,” she said.

“First time for everything. They say these guys get more savage as time goes on. Just killing doesn’t get it up for them anymore, so they start getting ... creative. Maybe I’ll get creative with you, babe.”

The plank flashed at her, cutting an arc through the air, and she withdrew another step.

“No,” he said. “On second thought, I really don’t have time. Got to do this quick and dirty. So here’s the plan. I’ll whack you good, you’ll go down, and I’ll get you all duct-taped again. Then slap you awake so you can be there when you die.”

He swung the plank at her head. She ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow, and backed up still farther.

“Wouldn’t want you to miss the grand finale, after all. That’s when I wrap my hands—my gloved hands, naturally—around your throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, all the time looking into your wide-open green eyes.”

She didn’t dare glance behind her, couldn’t risk taking her gaze off the plank in Adam’s hands, but she knew—sensed—that she was running out of room. He was backing her into a tight spot where she would be unable to maneuver, and there was nothing she could do about it. The glass shard was useless now. She couldn’t slash at him without bringing herself within range of the plank.

“The tattoo,” he went on, his voice toneless and almost calm, “will be applied postmortem. I understand that’s how
he
does it. Which is a shame, really—I’d like to carve it into your flesh while you’re still around to feel the pain.”

“You really need to get out more,” she said.

“I intend to. I’ll have a lot of celebrating to do. It’s not everyone who can pull off the perfect murder. Of course a large part of it is selectivity. You have to choose the perfect victim. That’s you, C.J.”

He feinted with the plank, and she drew back, her shoulder blades thumping against concrete.

A wall.

But there are no walls in here, she wanted to protest. After she removed the blindfold, she’d looked around and seen only open space at the perimeter of the garage.

Hadn’t looked behind her, though, had she? The rear of the garage did have a wall, and she was up against it now—up against it in more ways than one.

“Gotta tell you, C.J., I am thoroughly enjoying this.”

The plank again, circling toward her face. She dropped to one knee and sliced at his leg with the shard, hoping to cut the hamstring, cripple him, but he sidestepped the attack and brought the plank down.

She flung herself clear, scrambling along the wall into a doorway that opened on a new space—a stairwell, heading up—but before she could take the stairs, Adam was there, his foot on the first step, cutting off her exit.

“No way, babe. This is as far as you go.”

She was trapped on the landing, and all she could do was retreat on hands and knees into the far corner while Adam advanced.

Deep darkness here. The light from outside barely penetrated this niche. She could see Adam only as a vague silhouette against the dim glow in the doorway.

She was stuck in the corner now. Nowhere to go. The shard was her only weapon, and it was no good to her.

She groped for some new tool to use against him, and behind her, in a recess in the wall, her fingers touched a tangle of wires.

Electrical wires, rubber-insulated. The plate that would cover them had not yet been installed.

Live wires? Was the power on?

Could be. The workmen needed power tools.

And she was due for a little luck.

Adam had paused a few feet away. Couldn’t see her in the dimness. Knew she was close by, so he was waiting for his vision to adjust to the minimal light.

It wouldn’t take long. She had seconds, no more.

She pocketed the shard and reached into the nest of wires. She knew that wires came in three varieties—hot, neutral, and ground. The hot wire and either of the other two would complete a circuit.

Adam took the final steps, closing on his prey.

She grabbed two of the wires, holding them by their rubber sheaths, praying that one of them was the hot wire and that the current was on.

Without sight, somehow she knew that Adam had raised the plank for the knockout blow. Lunging forward, she jammed the wires against his body.

And there was light.

A sudden spark, dazzling in the gloom—there
was
current in the wires, 120 volts that had raced from the hot wire to the other one via the intermediary of Adam’s body—and with a howl of pain, he staggered backward, falling, the plank gone from his grasp as he clutched himself and rolled.

Without meaning to, she had zapped him in his most vulnerable spot. She’d gotten him in the balls.

“Well, fuck you, mister,” she breathed. He deserved it.

He had been saved from unconsciousness or worse only by his reflexive retreat from the shock. He’d broken the circuit before it could seriously fry him.

If she could shock him again, she would put him down for the count. But he was too far away for the wires to reach.

She dropped the wires and darted around the spot where he lay. Even stunned, he wasn’t helpless. His hand caught her by the ankle. She stumbled, kicking free, but already he was struggling to rise.

The plank.

She grabbed it and batted him, deliberately aiming for his crotch this time, but he drew up a knee to ward off the strike and she heard the crack of the plank against the side of his thigh.

“
God
damn
it!” Adam gasped, jerking the plank away from her before she could use it again.

She couldn’t get past him, out the doorway, not when he had the plank in his hands, so she took the stairs, heading up to the second level of the garage.

Already he was following. Whatever damage she’d inflicted had barely slowed him down. Adrenaline could do miraculous things for the human body, enabling a person to absorb punishment and summon reserves of stamina unknown in ordinary circumstances.

“You can’t get away from me, you bitch!” His shout echoed up the stairwell

We’ll see, she thought.

The stairs were barricaded after the second landing. She couldn’t go all the way to the roof. Just as well—the roof would be a dead end anyway.

She ran onto the second level, identical to the first except that no stripes had been painted on the floor.

Adam burst out of the doorway, limping on his injured knee, but seemingly oblivious to the pain.

At the far end of the garage was a concrete ramp that must lead to the ground floor, but she didn’t think she could reach it in time.

Instead she veered to her right, toward a low guardrail. Got there, looked down. A twenty-foot drop onto asphalt. Not good.

Adam was closing in. She ran along the guardrail. For a crazy moment the image entered her mind of a mechanical rabbit at a dog track, speeding along an electrified rail while the hounds pursued.

Still no place to jump. And he was nearly on top of her now.

Again she glanced down. This time she saw something other than black asphalt below.

Dirt. A huge pile of excavated dirt.

Her best chance.

Adam reached for her—she felt the plank whisper an inch above her head—as she vaulted the rail and plummeted into space.

A cry escaped her, a long involuntary shriek, and then she landed atop the hill of dirt, all the breath shocked out of her by the impact.

She looked up. Adam had discarded the plank. He was drawing his gun.

Shit.

She dived down the slope, rolling onto the asphalt, then sprinted for the nearest cover, a trash bin ten feet away. Reached it and hunkered down, her breath explosive, heart hammering.

Adam hadn’t fired. Either he still didn’t want to alter the MO, or he simply hadn’t had a decent shot.

One thing was certain. He hadn’t given up. He would be after her.

She had to get the hell out of this place, wherever it was, and she had to do it fast.

Rawls had his hands full dealing with Steven Gader, whose mindset in the past two hours had changed from reluctant cooperation to indignant defensiveness and finally to outright hysteria. “I didn’t know about the women,” he kept saying. “Jesus, I didn’t
know
.”