The Kill (27 page)

Then she remembered.

Imprinted in her memory was the face of the man who’d stepped in front of her bike and made her crash.

She was turning the corner from Third to Harrison Drive, her street, when a man was suddenly there in front of her. She swerved to miss hitting him and rode into the bushes, falling from her bike.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he had said, rushing to her.

“I’m fine.” She tried to stand, but her ankle twisted between the bike pedal and frame and she stumbled.

He caught her and she sucked in her breath, staring into very pale eyes, eyes that almost didn’t look real. They didn’t show any feelings and they didn’t look sorry.

Something was wrong with this man, with the way he looked at her. As if he
knew
her. She drew in a breath to scream and his left hand covered her mouth while he turned her around so his right arm could pin her body against his.

It had happened so fast. One minute she was stumbling from her bike; the next he was moving with her across the sidewalk to a big truck she hadn’t even noticed was there.

“Nina!”

It was her friend Abby, who lived down the street.

She bit the man’s hand and he said a bad word in her ear, but didn’t let go. She kicked backward, trying to hit his private parts, which her mother told her would hurt a lot.

If anyone tries to touch you, scream and kick them in their privates. They’ll let go and you run and run fast.

But she couldn’t connect her foot with him, and suddenly her feet were no longer on the ground as he pulled her up, half carrying her, half shoving her toward the big, white truck. Her arms were pinned to her sides and she wildly kicked her legs in the air.

“Let her go! Help! Someone, help! Help!” Abby started screaming and Nina prayed someone, anyone, was around to help her.

The man pushed her through the door of the truck and slammed her head on the dashboard. Tears streamed down her face from the sharp sting, but she still struggled to free herself.

“Stop!” It was a man’s voice and sounded far away. “You! Stop! I’ve already called the police.”

Nina recognized the man—Mr. Jorge, her next-door neighbor, the one who always complained when Scrappy her orange tabby slept in his daisy bushes. He was going to help her!

Then something hit her hard on the head and she remembered nothing until now, when she woke up to the awful smell of car fumes.

How long had she been sleeping? Where was she? She couldn’t see. She squirmed and found that she could move a little. Though her hands were tied, her feet were free. She wiggled around and realized she could sit up.

The awful stench of exhaust. The bouncing, the low hum of the engine . . . she was in the back of the truck. The man with the light eyes had taken her, and Mr. Jorge and Abby hadn’t been able to stop him. He was going to do something bad to her. Her mom said if a man took her he’d hurt her, and so she had to run. But she hadn’t run, she hadn’t been able to, and nothing she’d been taught had worked.

She sucked back tears, her fear growing with each ping of rocks on the undercarriage. The pings were coming more frequently. Where was he taking her? What was he going to do? Was he . . . was he going to kill her like those other girls she’d heard her mother talking to Mrs. Vail about?

This was so bad. All the stuff her mother told her, her teachers told her, didn’t seem important at the time. Her mother worried all the time. “Yes, Mom,” she’d say after listening to another lecture about being careful and to watch out for strange men.

And she’d run her bike right into one.

She stifled a cry. She wanted her mommy so bad right now, but she didn’t want the man to hear her. She had to find a way to get out. She was all her mom had, ever since Daddy died. Nina didn’t even remember him, she’d only been two. Her mom was her only family.

Her mom did everything for her. They weren’t rich; in fact, they were always broke and they couldn’t do things like Abby’s family, like going to the movies or vacationing every summer at Disney World or some other fun place. Nina sometimes resented that Abby’s family had money to do things and Nina’s mom didn’t, but Nina knew her mom worked hard to make sure she had a college savings account and she took gymnastic lessons, which cost a lot of money. Nina loved gymnastics and she knew she was good. Her mom said she loved watching her, and her coach said she’d be able to try out for the state team next year.

The state team was one step closer to the Olympic team. Nina wanted that more than anything in the world.

Well, now she wanted something even more. She had to find a way to escape.

Nina stifled a sob. She tugged at the ropes that bound her hands. They were tight, and her fingers were numb. How—wait. She just might be able to—yes! It was just like the rings.

Though it hurt her wrists so much tears streamed down her face, Nina pushed herself up with the palms of her hands and pushed her body backward through the hole her arms made. She eased down, not wanting to make a sound, then worked her arms under her legs until they were now in front of her.

Yes!

She reached up and tore off the blindfold and blinked. She saw nothing. No light coming from streetlamps. No light from the cab of the truck. She was locked away in a camper shell, far from her mom, far from help. Her heart pounded. How would she get home? Even if she got away from the man, where was she? Where would she go?

Stop it, Nina
! She couldn’t think like that. Just get away. Get away. She could figure everything else out later.

Just run away.

She used her teeth on the ropes binding her wrists, the rough fiber making her lips and gums raw. But it was working. They were loosening.

Suddenly, the truck started driving up a steep hill and she toppled over and couldn’t stop herself from crying out when her sore head hit the back gate. She righted herself and felt around for a handle on the camper shell. She couldn’t find one. She was trapped.

She continued working on the ropes as the truck slowed, winding around sharply. The air became noticeably colder.

She had to get out. As soon as he opened the gate, she had to run. As fast as she could.

And not look back.

Assistant District Attorney Ross Perdue was working late Friday night. He had no wife, no children, and lived for his job. Everyone in the courthouse predicted he’d be appointed to fill Hamilton Craig’s remaining term as district attorney and could very well be the youngest elected D.A. in county history if he ran in the next election.

Most people thought Ross was a ladder-climber, but those who knew him well—which weren’t many—knew he was motivated by far more than a title. Eight years ago, when he was a law student, his young pregnant wife was gunned down on their first wedding anniversary.

The next semester he changed his focus from corporate law to criminal law and he’d never looked back.

The nature of Hamilton Craig’s death bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was the randomness of it, that it was too much like Becky’s. There seemed to be no
reason
, and random violence seemed so unfair, like a tornado falling out of the sky and obliterating only one house in a neighborhood of thousands.

The knock on his door came after six, long after most attorneys had left for the weekend.

“Come in.”

It was the Redwood City Chief of Police, Bill Tuttle. Ross stood and extended his hand. “Chief. What can I do for you?”

He didn’t sit. “Gary Porter was killed sometime last night in his house.”

“Gary Porter? Do I know him?”

“Probably not. He was a detective, retired a few years ago.”

“And?” Ross prompted.

“We checked out his house this morning when his wife called from her trip to Paris and said she couldn’t reach him. He’s been on heart medication for a few years, so she was worried about him. We found him in his kitchen, shot to death.

“From what we could see, Gary came home after Hamilton Craig’s funeral. Turned on the lights. Went to his den. Poured himself a Scotch. Drank about half before the power went out. He went to the kitchen—probably to get a flashlight to check the fuse box—and someone shot him in the chest. Then they shot him at close range when he was already down.”

“Shit.” Ross’s hands tensed. “Do you have a suspect? Do you need a warrant?”

Tuttle paused. “I cajoled the crime lab into working overtime to analyze the bullet. They just came back with their report. It matches the gun that killed Hamilton Craig.”

“No coincidence.You thinking maybe they worked on the same case? Vengeance murders? I can run released prisoners, see if they match up—”

“There’s one I want to check out right away.”

“Who?”

“Brian Harrison Hall.”

“Hall? I just met him this morning. He gave Seattle PD some valuable information on the murders up there. Why in the world would he kill Hamilton and a retired cop?”

“Because he went to prison for thirty-four years?” Tuttle leaned over Ross’s desk. “Ross, let me tell you straight. My twenty years of experience tells me that it’s no coincidence that Hall was released less than a month ago and now Hamilton and Gary are dead. He lives in town. He has a motive. I just want to talk to him. But I need a warrant to search his apartment.”

“Aw shit.” Ross weighed the pros and cons. If Hall was innocent, they’d be in for a rocky ride with the press. They’d had so much PR trouble since his overturned conviction. It would look like they were railroading him.

But if he was guilty . . . “Is there anyone else you think he would go after?”

“Hell if I know. The judge? That was Clive Dunn. He died years ago. Same with Porter’s partner. Maybe the parole board members? The arresting officer? That gal who testified against him? I don’t know.”

“I don’t know if we have probable cause,” Ross muttered. “But—” he looked at his blotter to see what judge was on duty tonight. “Okay, luck is on our side. Faith Hayes has the night docket. She’ll give us a warrant. Probably limited, but it’ll get us in his apartment. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

An hour later the two sketch artists had worked together to create a realistic picture of Chris Driscoll based on his Army photo and the descriptions of Henry Jorge and Abby Vail.

“I’ll get this out through federal channels,” Quinn said, taking a copy.

“Do we release it to the press?” Zack asked, almost to himself.

“I say yes,” Quinn said. “He’s been around Seattle for months, perhaps longer. Somebody will have seen him. If we can put it on the news stations—” He glanced at his watch. “—we can get it out to the ten o’clock and eleven o’clock news. Can we set up a hotline here to take calls?”

“Absolutely,” Zack said.

“We need to copy and distribute the picture to all car rental agencies, dealerships, anywhere he can pick up a car easily,” Olivia said. “And I think we should blanket Vashon Island.”

“Vashon?” Quinn asked.

“The first victim was kidnapped and killed on Vashon. We think it might have been spontaneous.” Olivia walked over to the map. “See how both Michelle and Jennifer were dumped more than twenty miles from where they were abducted? Not Jillian. Two miles. And we mapped out the other crimes—the first victim was always found in a secluded area within five miles of where she was last seen. The other bodies were dumped ten to fifty miles away, in a more public place.”

“He could live or work on the island,” Zack said.

“Exactly.”

“Let’s split this up,” Zack said. “Quinn, you handle the federal channels. I’ll have my chief deal with the media. Boyd and O’Neal can take the car dealerships. Liv, you and I will head out to Vashon as soon as we talk to Ms. Markow.” He glanced at his watch. “She should have been here by now.”

“Let me jump on this.” Quinn scribbled some numbers down and handed them to Zack. “Here are my contact numbers. Call me, day or night. I already have your info from Pierson.”

“Thanks.”

Quinn looked at Olivia. “Miranda says hello. You should call her.”

Olivia’s heart sank. “I will. I meant to.”

Quinn didn’t say anything to that, but walked out.

“What was that about?”

“Quinn’s wife is a good friend of mine. We were in the Academy together. I didn’t call her when I came to town. I should have.”

“We haven’t had much down time since you got here. She’ll understand.”

“Yeah. I’m sure she will.” Except that she’d lied to Miranda on the phone the other day.
I hope you understand, Miranda. I really do
.

Zack left the room to get enough copies of the sketch and send teams to different parts of the city. Olivia stared at the detailed drawing in front of her.

Chris Driscoll looked so normal. Almost kind. Perhaps it was because none of the witnesses had seen his eyes. They looked bland, almost blank. Emotionless. Hollow. His face was lean, with mildly chiseled features and a slight cleft chin.

She compared the sketch with the Army photo of Driscoll, taken when he enlisted at the age of nineteen. Except for the same general appearance—close-cropped hair, pale blue eyes, height—he didn’t really look like Hall. But when she was five, that was all she’d had—a general impression of the person. It was the tattoo that stuck out, and it was the tattoo that was identical.

And what did she really remember then? Ever since, she’d seen Hall as he appeared when she faced him at parole hearings. Photographs from the press. Not as the young man who’d killed Missy.

Chris Driscoll had had a miserable childhood. Mother murdered, her killer taking him and his half-sister all over the country to avoid detection. She could have some sympathy with the boy. She could see how he’d snap.

But she didn’t understand how he could hurt and kill so many innocent girls. Not all kids raised by abusive fathers turned into killing machines. She imagined that it was something in his internal makeup, something that turned him into a killer when exposed to the rage of another.

Whatever or whoever created this monster, he had to be stopped. Before Nina Markow died.