Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology

12:01 AM Alan Jacobson

Phelps Correctional Center

Culpeper County, Virginia

Stephen Raye Vaughn — no relation to the famed musician — sat on the edge of his death row cot. His “music” was a tune of a different sort, his cauldron of creativity emanating from death and mayhem — and finding new ways to wreak havoc on a city.

With his time remaining on this Earth melting away like a glacier in the throes of climate change, he was now reduced to digging out the dirt from under his fingernails. Why? He had no goddamn idea. He was due to die in 120 minutes and nothing really mattered anymore, did it?

Did it ever really matter?

Yeah, it did. Back when he was hunting for his prey, he had to present himself as an upstanding, clean cut individual. He had to play the part. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to sit undisturbed in his van in parking lots while selecting the 16 women he would eventually murder.

His van. He missed that thing. He didn’t know exactly where it was at this moment, but he knew who had it. Fortunately, he had disposed of it before the police caught him, so it could not be used as evidence against him. And man, was there a lot of evidence in it that could be used against him.

As it turned out, the one victim who got away went to the police and turned him in. It was very difficult to commit the perfect crime, although it did happen on occasion. People did get away with murder sometimes, but there was usually at least one major mistake a guy made that proved to be his undoing.

Stephen Raye Vaughn was no exception. For him it would be the mistake of a lifetime, one he could not take back.

But so be it. He was like a star in the nighttime sky, burning very brightly before going supernova. He had made peace with that. Not that he didn’t want to continue living, but sometimes you just had to accept your fortune. It took him a dozen years, but he had finally reached that point.

Time was short, and his lifespan was now shorter, but at least he had lived a helluva ride. And unlike 99 % of the individuals populating this planet, he had made plans to ensure his legacy continued on, at least for the near future. If all played out the way he figured it would, he would be forever immortalized in movies, television, books, Internet memes, and American history.

Stevie Ray Vaughn may be famous, but Stephen Raye Vaughn... he was infamous.

Vaughn glanced over at the sterile black and white clock across the way and wondered: Was that enough?

With so little time left to live, it would have to be.

Three Hours Earlier

Debra Mead gathered her reusable grocery sack against her chest and trudged toward her Subaru. Taylor, her twelve-year-old son, sat waiting in the car playing a game on his iPad, not wanting to be seen with his mother shopping for groceries.

As she walked through an aisle of vehicles in the parking lot, a van door slowly opened. She heard it, rather than saw it, the sliding scrape of metal rolling on its track. As she turned her head in the direction of her car, something grabbed her shoulders and yanked her backwards. She felt her body falling through space, but before she knew what was happening, her head struck something hard and everything went black.

Debra awoke slowly, at first only vaguely aware that something was wrong. She was lying on her side, rocking to and fro as the vehicle she was in moved down the bumpy road.

With her vision and foggy thoughts clearing, she realized that her arms were drawn back behind her and her wrists were bound tightly with tape.

She tried to speak but a dry wad of cloth was shoved into the back of her jaw and a muffler was wrapped around her lips.

Debra forced some words from the deeper reaches of her throat. She meant to say, “Why are you doing this to me?”

It probably came out sounding more like a groan or even a poor attempt to hum a tune.

But the man turned around and glanced over his right shoulder. His right eye sat at half-mast and the brow was missing its hair, replaced by a thick pink scar. It gave his face an evil, tortured look.

“Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“Fine?” she tried to say, the disbelief no doubt registering in her furrowed expression.

“I just need your help with a few things. Then I’ll drive you back home. You’ll be on your way and I’ll be on mine.”

Debra looked in his expressionless eyes and knew she was in trouble. She did not think she was going to make it out alive.

Her thoughts turned to Taylor. His father had passed two years ago from a freak brain aneurysm. Now the boy was on the verge of losing his mother, too.

No, she told herself. I can’t let that happen. Somehow, I have to find a way out of this.

Fairfax County Police Department

Fairfax, Virginia

Stalwart homicide detective Paul Bledsoe had just finished a call with the medical examiner when he noticed a shadow engulf his desk. He looked up to see James Kearney, about six foot five with an afro that was picked and puffed out, making him appear even taller. At five-eight, Bledsoe always felt like he was talking to Kearney’s collarbone.

“Sir, a question.”

“James, call me Paul. I know you’re a brand spanking new detective, but we’re colleagues.”

“Yes, sir. Paul.”

“Let me see your badge.”

“My—”

“Just let me see it.”

Kearney dug into his deep pants pocket and held up the metal.

“Whoa, buddy. That’s too friggin’ bright. You need to tarnish it a bit. People’ll think you just got it.”

“I did just get it.”

“You and I know that, but better if others don’t.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Yes, James. I’m joking. What’d you want?”

“Caught this case. Not sure what to make of it. I mean — I know what to make of it, but I think it sounds like a case Detective Argus handled.”

“And?”

“He’s retired, so I can’t ask him.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

“Well, we got a 911 call that a woman went missing. It’s only been a few hours, but the lieutenant said I should look into it instead of waiting the forty-eight hours.”

“I don’t deal with missing persons cases, so if that’s what the lew wants—”

“No, I mean I don’t think it’s just a missing persons case.”

“Argus didn’t work missing persons either. So you’re thinking this is a homicide? That the woman has been murdered?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything to back that up?”

“Nothing except, well, a feeling.”

Bledsoe nodded slowly. “Sometimes that’s all we’ve got.” Bledsoe’s neck was killing him from craning it back so far to see Kearney’s face. He gestured to the chair at the adjacent desk. “Grab that seat. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“So if I remember Argus’s case, it was that serial killer, Stephen Raye Vaughn.”

Bledsoe nodded. “I know a fair amount about that one.”

“I was told you were friends with Detective Argus.”

“Still am. But yeah, we tossed shit out about our cases all the time. Ran stuff off each other. Theories, that kind of thing. Like we’re doing now.”

Kearney scratched the back of his head. “So I’m thinking, what if this missing persons case is really a Vaughn case?”

“Vaughn is in a max security facility. Death Row. Ain’t him.”

“No, no. I realize it’s not him, but—”

“Let’s take a step back. Is there any proof at all that a murder’s been committed?”

“No. It’s just—”

“A feeling. Right. Okay, go on.” Bledsoe normally would have blown the guy off, told him he’s wishing too hard for a big case to cut his teeth on, that this is probably just a garden variety missing persons case — and the woman will show up in a couple of days. But he did not want to shake the new detective’s confidence.

He was not going to give him a free ride, either.

“Yeah, so the woman left her kid in their car and went to get some groceries at the SmartLots center in Bethesda.”

“SmartLots. That’s where Vaughn shopped for his vics. Uh — no pun intended.”

“Happened around the same time of day as Vaughn abducted his vics, too.”

Bledsoe squinted in thought. “Go on.”

“Woman was around the same age. I mean she’s brunette and most of Vaughn’s were blonde, but let’s put that aside for a moment.”

“Consider it on the side.”

Kearney hesitated, then realized Bledsoe was making a joke. “Right,” he said with a quick nod. “Okay, so that’s a lot of coincidence.”

Bledsoe waited, but Kearney sat there, then shrugged. “That’s it? Same age woman, goes missing from the same kind of parking lot—”

“No, the same SmartLots center that Vaughn got his second victim.”

“Same one?”

“Yes, sir. Paul.”

Bledsoe pursed his lips and bobbed his head left and right. “Could mean nothing. I already told you, can’t be Vaughn.”

“What if it’s a copycat?”

Bledsoe leaned forward in his creaky desk chair. “Can’t rule it out — except we don’t even know if anyone’s abducted her. She just went missing. Right?”

“Yeah, but... her kid was left in the car. Alone.”

“How old’s the kid?”

“Twelve.”

“Did they have a good relationship?”

“Just starting to work up the case, but according to Taylor, yeah. He said they were starting to argue a little more the last few months. But she’s a good mom. He’s a good student. Doesn’t do drugs. Not a problem kid.”

“So it doesn’t make sense she’d just disappear on him. Willingly.”

“My point.”

“What about other stresses in her life? Husband?”

“Deceased. Some kind of medical issue. Died suddenly. Unexpectedly.”

“Suspicious?”

“No, nothing like that. Something with his brain.”

“The mom. On medication? Psychiatric issues?”

“She’s young. Thirty-seven. Healthy. There’s no reason for her to walk off on her own and disappear.”

“That you know of.”

“Right. So far. It’s just that, in Vaughn’s case, he didn’t keep the women around very long before killing them.”

Bledsoe grunted. “Less than 24 hours.”

“Which is why I don’t want to wait.”

“You know how to work a homicide case?” Bledsoe held out a hand, stopping Kearney’s mouth half-opened. “That was rhetorical. Tell you what, let me talk with the lew, see if he’ll let me spend a few days on it with you, see where it takes us.”

“I’d like that.”

“Caught yourself a good first case, James.”

“Guess so.” He clapped his hands on his knees. “So now what?”

“You’re gonna try to get hold of all security footage in the area of that SmartLots parking lot. I’m gonna call someone who knows more about the Vaughn case than I do.”

“Detective Argus?”

“Nope. He’s on vacation in Greece. The FBI profiler who consulted on the case with him.”

Karen Vail was staring out the passenger window, thinking about Stephen Raye Vaughn, when her phone rang. Since she and her fiancé, Roberto Umberto Enrique Hernandez, were driving in her car, the Bluetooth speaker automatically took the call.

“Bledsoe. What’s up?”

“Missed your voice.”

“Oh yeah? You’re on speaker. Robby’s driving.”

“Hey big guy. How’s DEA treating you?”

“Treating me great. It’s the cartels I seem to have problems with.”

Bledsoe chuckled. “How’s your knee, Karen?”

“Healing. Itches. Pain’s almost gone, except when I run.”

“This soon after surgery? You’re allowed to run?”

“Of course not.”

“I guess I missed more than your voice. You crack me up.”

“She cracks herself up, too,” Robby said. “She’s a terrible patient, you know that.”

Bledsoe laughed. “Terrible profiler, terrible patient. Nothing surprises me.”

Vail frowned. “You realize I’m still on the call?”

“I do.”

“It was minor arthroscopic surgery to clean things up from my last operation. Scar tissue, some frayed cartilage. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. ’Cause I got a case here. Not mine, exactly. I’m helping out on it for a few days. Rookie detective caught the case. He’s convinced his missing woman is the victim of an abduction, possibly a copycat.”

“Who’s he copying?”

“Stephen Raye Vaughn.”

“No shit.”

“Well, too soon to say. I mean, really too soon.” Bledsoe briefed her on Kearney’s theory.

“And yet,” Vail said, “you called me.”

“I didn’t want to shut him down. Kearney’s got promise and — well, you and I have had ‘feelings’ about things in the past. Sometimes they turn out to be right.”

“One thing that’s not right is we’re now finding that ‘copycat’ is a misleading term. They’re not copying per se but looking to successful killers for inspiration and guidance. Some serials — Dennis Rader was one — research other killers who’ve been caught. They don’t duplicate everything because they don’t want to go to prison. So they pattern themselves after a particular killer — but modify certain things to avoid the same fate.”

“Improve on the crime?”

“Yes — and making it their own to stand out. Some admit they were inspired by others. Some deny it, even though it’s clear they chose a specific offender as a role model. Keyes read true crime books about Bundy and avoided the mistakes Bundy made that led to his capture.”

“Okay, so Debra Mead’s kidnapper. He may be patterning himself after Vaughn. We should crack open his file in case there’re some details we don’t remember. Go through the media reports. Talk to Vaughn. Before he bites the dust.”

“He’s being executed in less than two hours.”

“You kidding me? I knew it was soon, like sometime in the next month or so, but... shit. Two hours?”

“I’m on my way over there right now with Robby to witness it. I’ll see if I can get in to talk with him.”

Bledsoe groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

“Hey, at least there’s a shot. He hasn’t been euthanized yet.”

“Euthanized?”

“He’s being put out of our misery.”

There was silence.

Robby gave Vail a scrunched face look — conveying something like, “Probably don’t want to repeat that again. Ever. To anyone.”

“Uh, Karen?” Bledsoe asked. “You sure you’re up to questioning him? I mean, you’re not still on narcotics, are you?”

“Never was. Motrin first day, then gutted it out. Go do your thing. Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you.”

“You mean you always worry about me screwing up your case.”

Bledsoe laughed — as did Robby — but neither refuted her assertion.

“You want me to find out if he has any connection to a potential copycat killer,” Vail finally said. “Whether or not he was grooming someone else.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Let’s hope you can make him talk before he fries like an egg on an iron skillet.”

“He’s being lethally injected,” Vail said, “not electrocuted. I thought we just covered that. Get your metaphors straight, will ya?”

“He does paint a picture,” Robby said.

“That he does.” She scrunched her nose. “I don’t think I’m going to eat a fried egg ever again. Thanks so much, Bledsoe.”

“Any time.”

“So while we cozy up to Vaughn,” Robby said, “what are you doing tonight?”

Bledsoe snorted. “I’m grabbing a beer, frying up an egg, then getting some sleep.”

Vail rolled her eyes and shook her head dismissively. Robby chuckled.

“Hey Paul,” Robby said, “you want to meet us at Phelps Correctional?”

“Nope.”

Vail slumped in her seat. “Really?”

“Really. I’m tired. It’s late.”

“What if I can get something out of Vaughn? He didn’t keep his vics around very long.”

“I remember.”

“So if we get some actionable intel, it would be a time saver if you’re there, coordinate—”

“Shit, Karen. Robby, she did it to me again.”

Robby glanced at Vail. “Did what?”

“Guilted me into changing my mind. Not easy to do.”

“Maybe because she’s right,” Robby said.

“You both suck,” Bledsoe said. “I’ll text Robby when I get there, in case you’re in with Vaughn. Meantime, I’ve gotta see if there’s a chopper that can take me over to Phelps.”

After hanging up, Vail turned to Robby. “You better step on it. If I’m going to talk with him, we’re gonna need more time.”

Robby accelerated slowly but steadily. Because it was so late, traffic was light.

“Crap,” Vail said. “I forgot the popcorn.”

“Popcorn?”

“For the show.”

“Not funny.”

“To be clear, I do take the death penalty very seriously. But when it comes to scum like Vaughn — who’s guilty way beyond a reasonable doubt — I feel like justice is being served. That we got this one right. We caught him and he’s not out killing others.”

“I’ll never forget the look of profound sadness and pain on the faces of the victims’ families.”

“The ones with the deer-in-headlights look get to me more,” Vail said. “They know what’s going to happen but they can’t process the emotions. Should they be happy that the scum who took their loved one from them is finally going to get what he deserves? Or should they feel sad that we’re forced to take the life of a person to exact justice?”

“No matter what happens, their loved ones aren’t coming back.”

“But it does help them sleep a bit easier knowing there was a tangible price to pay. Not closure per se, because I don’t think there’s really ever closure, but the daily pain of knowing the killer is still alive and breathing, getting three meals a day, that pain eases and eventually goes away. It restores some degree of faith in humanity, that you pay a heavy price for taking a life.”

“I get it,” Robby said. “But do you enjoy seeing one of these heinous individuals put to death?”

Vail chewed on that a bit.

Do I enjoy it?

“Before I answer, I should call Phelps, see if I can get the warden to squeeze me in.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Especially since Doheny hates my guts.”

Robby laughed. “Then maybe I should slow down to the speed limit. Fat chance you’re gonna get in to see Vaughn.”

“You’re my fiancé and you don’t know me by now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Never count me out.”

Five minutes later, Vail hung up.

“I’m impressed,” Robby said.

“Because I got him to agree to let me talk with Vaughn?”

“No, because you were pleasant and conciliatory and tactful.”

“Ouch. That hurts. My own fiancé thinks I’m usually unpleasant, antagonistic, and indiscreet.”

“Well,” Robby said, no doubt realizing he had better choose his words carefully. “Not usually.”

Vail shook her head. “Wrong answer.”

“So to get back to my original question...”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m going back to the original subject.”

“Which was?”

“Do you enjoy seeing a serial killer executed?”

Vail leaned her head against the chilled passenger window. “Not sure I’d say enjoy. I’m not a masochist. But I do get satisfaction in seeing one die. I feel... well, relief, when they pronounce him dead. I mean, I know how these guys are wired. They can’t be rehabilitated. We can’t ever release them and expect they’re going to refrain from committing murder again. They’ll never be a contributing member to society.

“So yeah, when their hearts stop, I feel like I’ve made a difference in helping get them off the street — and ridding the human race of such deep evil, of cleansing the gene pool of that abhorrent — and aberrant — behavior. And that’s how I’ll feel when Vaughn’s heart stops.”

“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 was 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.

Kearney replied immediately.

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

Kearney didn’t waste any time:

Bledsoe groaned — eliciting a glance from X-ray.

“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:

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 constructed 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 199 °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.

Vail turned to Vaughn. “Stephen, it’s now or never. Tell me who has your van.”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Because you groomed someone to take over for you. It took him some time, but he’s now killing.”

“So why should I give you his name?”

“Because he’s stealing your thunder. They’re gonna forget you. He’s doing it better than you did. He’s the one they’re gonna remember, not you. But if we find your van, it goes in the museum. It’ll be you who’s memorialized. And your protégé will be nothing more than a footnote. At best.”

“Okay, that’s it,” the officer said.

She had reached the end. She had to take a flyer. “Is the protégé — is it Harrison, your son?”

Poker face. “Don’t know what he’s up to. He visits but he don’t say much. I know one thing — doesn’t seem to be interested in women.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. You know that.”

Vaughn shrugged. “He’s not your guy.”

“Agent Vail, it’s time. The death warrant has to be read to him and Mr. Vaughn’s attorney and spiritual advisor are waiting for him. Follow Jack here. He’ll escort you out.”

He knows who it is, I can feel it.

“Stephen,” Vail said. “If it’s not Harrison, who is it? I need the name.”

Vaughn closed his eyes. The officers walked to his side and pulled him up.

“Agent Vail.” Jack gestured with his chin. “This way.”

Vail accompanied Jack up to the locked gate. Buzzers sounded, metal clanked, and all Vail could think about was that she had failed. She wanted to smash her fist against the nearby bars.

As she walked down the corridor, she glanced back over her shoulder at Vaughn, who was being led through a door in the opposite direction.

Vail joined Bledsoe in a small administrative area.

“Well?”

“Close. No cigar.”

“Shit.” He looked away. “How close?”

“I needed another few minutes.”

“You kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“They wouldn’t give it to you?”

“Already gave me extra time,” Vail said. “This thing... it’s a highly orchestrated event.”

“It is, but still. Lives are on the line. A young woman—”

“I know, Bledsoe. I know.” She turned to the guard behind the glass. “Can you have someone take us to the witness gallery?”

The man radioed for assistance.

“Let’s have Kearney check on Vaughn’s son, Harrison.”

Bledsoe nodded. “Yeah. He’d be, what, early thirties now?”

“Could be our offender. Vaughn denied it, but let’s find him and put him in a room, get an alibi. If he was anywhere near that SmartLots—”

“I’m on it,” Bledsoe said as he pulled out his phone.

Seconds later, an escort led them down a few short hallways walking in a three-sided square. Apparently, they had been relatively close to the execution chamber all along.

Vail figured the holding cell where she had met with Vaughn was purposely adjacent to the chamber to reduce the chances of anything going wrong in the last minutes. With things so tightly managed, there was no time to deal with unforeseen occurrences.

11:57 PM

They entered the semi-circular witness gallery, a few rows of stadium-style seats rimming a glass-enclosed theatre of death. White walls and sparse stainless steel stared back at them.

The room was small; although the theater had some width, it was only a few rows deep. All attendees were afforded a close-up view of what would transpire.

A gurney sat close to the window, no more than ten feet from where Vail and Bledsoe were sitting. A red wall-mounted telephone — a direct line to the governor — sat unused in its receiver.

Also unused — but soon to be deployed — was a trio of rubber surgical tubes protruding from a short divider and snaking up to the gurney. Virginia followed a three-drug execution procedure. The first rendered the inmate unconscious, the second caused paralysis, and the third stopped the heart. Two of them — midazolam and potassium chloride — were made by a nearby compounding pharmacy. Vaughn was the first prisoner to use this form of midazolam, so the weeks during the run-up to his date of reckoning were not without handwringing controversy.

A door opened on the left side of the execution chamber and two burly guards entered, followed by the star of the show, Stephen Raye Vaughn, and another two imposing corrections officers.

Vaughn’s face harbored a look of hatred and contempt as he gazed out at the glass that separated him from his witnesses. Vail knew it was a two-way pane that permitted them to see Vaughn, but the prisoner was merely staring at a reflected image of himself.

Vaughn was led to a gurney with crisp white linens. He sat down and laid back, two guards fastening thick leather straps to his limbs.

A curtain was drawn across the viewing window. Regardless, Vail knew that intravenous lines were being inserted into his heavily tattooed arms. She pictured Vaughn staring blankly at the ceiling, a feeling of helplessness enveloping his soul as reality struck him in the head like the mallet he had used on his victims’ skulls.

Vail looked at the wall-mounted clock. It was black and white, like justice is supposed to be. Good and bad. Truth and lies. She watched the hand jerk along the hashmarks painted on the clock face. One second at a time.

And one minute to go.

“You did the best you could,” Bledsoe said, settling himself into his seat.

Vail fell into hers. “For what that’s worth.”

“Déjà vu all over again.”

“How so?”

“Richard Singletary. Tried to get him to talk, give up info on the Dead Eyes killer. How could you forget?”

“Forget?” Vail snorted. “Never. I just try not to think about it.”

The curtain was pulled aside and the prisoner was once again visible.

“Stephen Raye Vaughn,” Warden Doheny said, his voice sounding loud, but tinny, through the speakers. “You’ve been sentenced to death for your crimes. Do you have any final words?”

Vail squeezed her eyelids shut tightly.

C’mon, asshole. Give us the name.

Vaughn was silent.

Just like Singletary. When am I gonna learn?

“I wanna kill him,” Bledsoe whispered.

“The state’s going to do that in less than a minute.”

“Too late, if you asked me.”

“Decades too late.”

“He’s gonna take the name to his grave, isn’t he?”

Vail sighed. “Looks that way.”

“Yeah,” Vaughn said. “I got something to say. Agent Vail out there?”

“I’m here,” Vail said, rising from her seat and waving her hands at the glass. She realized that was unnecessary. The warden knew she was present.

“She’s here,” Doheny said.

“Tell her the van’s license plates begin with a W T F. Don’t remember the rest of it.”

“That it?” Doheny asked.

“I want it in that museum,” Vaughn said. “Near the Unabomber.”

Fat chance of that happening. After forensics is done with it, it’s going straight to the scrap heap. And I’m driving it there.

“That right?” Bledsoe said, nudging Vail with his elbow and starting to type on his phone.

“No. He’s fucking with us. W T F, Bledsoe?”

He looked up from his screen. “Oh.”

“The killer’s name is,” Vaughn said through the speakers — “is Agent Vail listening?”

Doheny turned toward the viewing gallery, even though he could not see those in attendance. “She’s listening, Mr. Vaughn.”

There was a long moment of silence. The warden looked down at Vaughn and waited, then said, “Mr. Vaughn? What’s the name you want to give Agent Vail?”

Vaughn lay there a long moment.

“Mr. Vaughn,” Doheny said, “I’m gonna need you to finish that sentence. Time’s up.”

Vaughn chuckled sardonically. “Time is up warden. Not just for me. It’s up for the kidnapped woman, too. Tell Vail the name of the killer is John Q. Public.”

Doheny frowned and looked out at the glass, as if knowing Vail was thinking about putting her fist through the large pane — and hoping she waited until Vaughn’s heart had stopped beating.

Doheny shook his head and nodded to a guard five feet to his left. “Let’s do it.” He looked down at Vaughn, leaned in closer and said, “Have a good trip to hell, sir.”

A smile flitted across Vaughn’s lips.

Vail sat heavily and canted forward, leaning both elbows on her knees and burying her face in her palms.

Bledsoe placed a hand on her back. “I’m sorry, Karen. You tried.”

Vail sat up, tears filling the lower lids of her eyes. One spilled over its threshold and raced down her cheek.

The tubes protruding from the divider jiggled a bit, one more than the others, and Vaughn’s eyes began blinking rapidly. He took a few deep breaths, his eyes fluttered and slowly closed, as if he were falling asleep. In fact, he was. But this was one nap he would not wake up from.

His chest continued to rise and fall — and then it ceased to move.

Doheny summoned the doctor over. He put a stethoscope to Vaughn’s chest, nodded, and then backed away.

“Time of death,” Doheny said, looking at the wall clock, “12:01 AM.”

Vail leaned back in her chair, neck fully extended, eyes examining the plain ceiling.

As they exited the penitentiary, Vail was uncommonly quiet.

“You should be happy. I mean, I know he didn’t give it up, but—”

“He smiled, Bledsoe.”

“Smiled? What are you talkin’ about?”

“Vaughn,” Vail said. “Before they injected him. After he told us to fuck off with that John Q. Public bullshit, he grinned.”

“I didn’t see a grin.”

“I’m telling you, he smiled.” She stopped and heaved a mouthful of vapor into the night chill. “What the hell was it for? They were about to inject him. His life’s over. What’s so funny about that?”

Bledsoe shrugged. “He didn’t give up the name. We were there, waiting for something he was never gonna give up. Joke was on us.”

Vail considered that, replayed it in her mind. “No, it’s more than that. Like he knew something we don’t know.”

Bledsoe snorted. “Here we go again. You’re reading into it.”

“Maybe. But my intuition is usually semi-accurate.”

“This time it’s wrong.”

“Hey,” Robby called as he trotted over to them. “Get what you came for?”

“I got closure on my old case,” Vail said. “I didn’t get the name of the offender who kidnapped the kid. On balance, it was not a good evening.”

“Sorry.”

“And there’s something else. And it’s bugging me.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Bledsoe said. “She’s reading into things. Manufacturing something where there’s nothing.”

Robby looked at Vail. “Not so sure, Paul. You know Karen.”

Bledsoe’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and glanced at the device. “Got the roster of visitors who came to see Vaughn. There were a bunch.”

“Such a friggin’ celebrity,” Vail said. “And?”

“Kearney did his homework,” he said, scrolling down the document. “Backgrounds and bios on all of them. Wanna take a look? Maybe one will jump out at you.”

“He jumps out at me, he better be prepared for a swift kick in the balls.”

“Just texted it to you.”

Her phone rumbled and seconds later she began reading while Bledsoe and Robby huddled together to share Bledsoe’s screen.

Finally, Vail spoke up. “This one. Vincent Caruthers. Herndon.”

“You sure?”

Vail looked at Bledsoe. It was a look that spoke volumes.

“Okay, I get it. An educated guess.”

“An educated guess. Best I can do right now. No crime scenes, no behaviors to analyze.”

“Understood. Let’s roll.”

As they began walking, Bledsoe grabbed Vail’s arm. “I still got the chopper here. It’s hot. Much faster.”

Vail turned to Robby. Her face probably said all he needed to know.

“Meet you at home,” he said.

She nodded. “Don’t wait up.”

“Really, Karen? I’ve learned that’s a losing proposition.”

Vail and Bledsoe jogged toward the helipad.

“You shouldn’t be running,” Bledsoe shouted, the noise building as they neared the whipping rotors.

“Yeah, I know.”

They got into the chopper and put on their headsets. X-ray raised the collective and they lifted off into the midnight sky.

“Swat is en route,” Bledsoe said. “Detective Kearney’s gonna meet us there, too.”

“Looking forward to meeting him,” Vail said absentmindedly, her attention on her Samsung’s screen, going through the list of individuals who had visited Vaughn over the years.

She recognized a number of national journalists, which was not surprising. Vaughn liked the attention and the media loved running stories on depraved minds who killed gobs of people. It was a match made in Internet eyeball click-bait heaven.

But then a name caught her gaze.

“Hang on a second. Bledsoe, look at this.”

He leaned over and snatched a look at her phone. “Lots of names there. Can you be more specific?”

“Here.” She zoomed the screen on Harrison Vaughn.

“So? It’s his son. Besides, you asked Vaughn about him. Didn’t get anything.”

Vail replayed that exchange.

“You ever talk to him when you were doing your victimology on Vaughn?”

“Of course. Family history’s important. Never married, no girlfriends. Menial labor. Not as sharp as dad and didn’t seem to exhibit psychopathic tendencies. But I eliminated him as an accomplice with the few facts we had. Tenicia was a big part of that. She said it was just Vaughn. Which made sense because if he had help, no way she would’ve escaped alive.”

“So he visited Vaughn in prison. How many times?”

Vail scanned the document. “Pretty regularly.”

She looked up. “We need Harrison’s address.”

“But you said Caruthers—”

“SWAT’s en route. Let them handle Caruthers. Could be our offender. But Harrison... I’ve got a feeling about him.”

“Christ,” he said as he pulled out his phone. “Another one of your intuition things?” He tapped out a quick text and hit send as the helicopter banked slightly to the right.

“What if I was right about the smile?” Vail said. “What if Vaughn was laughing at us because he knew his son was carrying on in his footsteps?”

“He didn’t smile.”

Vail shook her head. “I know what I saw.”

“Why can’t it be a regular old copycat? Excuse me, a guy patterning him—”

“Copycat’s fine. Just wanted to make sure you knew it’s more like inspiration, rather than duplication, of what the killer did.”

“So why can’t it be a copycat?”

“They can only emulate those things the killer’s done that are written in a book or news article. No one’s written a book about Vaughn yet. And we withheld certain things from the media — including the white 70s Chevy panel van. So the only way he’d be able to ‘copy’ such things is if he—”

“Knows the killer.”

“Right. And I’m betting it’s more than that. It’s personal. Vaughn coached him. Personally mentored him.”

“But Harrison was only eighteen when Vaughn was arrested. You’re saying he taught his son how to kill when the kid was young. A minor. So Harrison knew what his dad was doing and how he was doing it.” Bledsoe shuddered. “That’s friggin’ awful.”

“Let’s assume Harrison hasn’t offended until now. If Vaughn desensitized his son when he was young and impressionable, maybe he reinforced it when meeting with him in prison over the years. When he felt Harrison was ready he egged him on, pumped him up.”

Bledsoe stared out the window a long moment, then nodded. “If true, that’d mean he hasn’t done this before. Makes sense. But why hasn’t he acted until now?”

“Maybe he’s been afraid to. The visits with his father could’ve served as encouragement, like you said.” Vail turned her attention back to the phone and scrolled to the far right of Harrison’s name. “He visited Vaughn several times recently. Last time was—” She looked at Bledsoe. “A week ago.”

“When you visited Vaughn and asked for his help, he knew his son had finally done it.”

Vail clenched her jaw. “I inadvertently told him junior had pulled the trigger. Made his day, I’m sure. That’s what the smile was about.” She looked out the side window, peering into the darkness of the Virginia countryside. They were over Caruthers’ home. The top of the parked assault vehicle was barely visible in the moonlight, but she did not see the deployed officers. “Hover here a minute.”

“Copy that,” X-ray said.

“What do you think?” Bledsoe asked.

“I think we let SWAT do their thing and we go check out Harrison.”

Bledsoe thought a moment, then his phone buzzed. He looked at the display, then nodded. “Let’s do it. X-ray, change of plans. Got a new address for you.”

They approached the home of Harrison Vaughn twenty minutes later, located in a dark, sparsely populated area of Charlottesville, Virginia.

Vail adjusted the headset mic in front of her mouth. “X-ray, sitrep from SWAT?”

“Negative. Stand by, I’ll check.” A moment passed. “Suspect Caruthers wasn’t home. In process of clearing house. No sign of Debra Mead or indications she, or any other woman, has been held there. Over.”

“Copy that,” Vail said.

“Could be he has another place where he’s planning to off her,” Bledsoe said.

“Or he’s not our guy.”

They were now within view of the house — which was more like a home-built cabin in the middle of an evergreen thicket.

“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-colored 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.

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:

“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:

“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.

And she couldn’t even find a single bulb to turn on.

Fumbling with her phone was not an option. She wanted both hands free for her Glock.

She figured there had to be a small, focused lamp of some kind by the technicians’ workstations. How else would they be able to see what they were doing during the performance?

Vail moved her left hand in a circle and her index finger brushed against something that telescoped vertically. She followed it down to a base — and flipped a rocker switch. It flooded the desktop with a small, but powerful halogen light.

Sitting ten feet to her right was Harrison Vaughn.

He yelled.

She yelled.

But they were saying different things.

Harrison: “Ahhh!”

Vail: “Don’t move. FBI!”

Harrison made like most criminals — and ignored Vail’s admonition.

He scrambled away on his knees to the right, around a bend and, as she learned, out the side door.

Vail followed — and heard Bledsoe calling out instructions to their fleeing suspect.

Man, the acoustics in here are great.

“Get down! The theater’s surrounded. There’s no place to run.”

Have the deputies arrived? Or is he bluffing?

Vail emerged behind Harrison. Bledsoe was advancing on him, coming up the left aisle, his SIG steady and menacing.

“Down on the ground,” Vail added, letting Harrison know she was there — and that he had no viable way out.

Rather than getting on his knees, he decided to protest. “What’s this about? I didn’t do anything.”

“Debra Mead may have something to say about that,” Vail said. “If you haven’t killed her yet.”

“Debra who?”

“The woman you kidnapped in the SmartLots parking lot.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’ve got you on security camera footage. Those cameras were installed after your dad started abducting women. Ironic, isn’t it, Detective?”

“How so?” Bledsoe asked.

“Vaughn taught his son how to kidnap and murder women, but one thing he didn’t teach him about was how not to get caught.”

Vail advanced on Harrison and handcuffed him.

“Where’s Debra Mead?” Bledsoe asked. “And don’t give me any bullshit like you don’t know what we’re talking about.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Vail twisted him to face her. “Look, asshole. If she’s still alive, you’d better tell us where she is. It’s cold out there. She’s diabetic and if she doesn’t get her medication” — she glanced at her watch — “in the next thirty minutes, she’s gonna die. Then it won’t just be reckless endangerment. You’ll be tried for murder. Unlike the feds, Virginia puts its convicted killers to death.”

More complicated than that, and Mead isn’t diabetic — but what the hell.

“Yeah,” Bledsoe said, getting in his face. “Like your daddy tonight. We were there. Saw him take his last breath.”

Harrison narrowed his crooked right eye.

“The way she’d been taken,” Bledsoe said, “we knew it was someone he’d coached. So we asked him who took her. Right before they injected him, that’s when he gave you up.” He paused to let that sink in. “We compared your DMV photo to our video clip in the parking lot, and bang. There you were. We put a name with a face.”

“And here we are,” Vail said. “Case is open and shut. You help us find Debra Mead, we’ll recommend that the prosecutor cut you a good deal.”

Harrison twisted his lips as he thought.

“Twenty-nine minutes left,” Vail said. “Then Debra dies. Her diabetes medication—”

“She’s in an abandoned shack in Hill County.”

“Address?”

“Don’t know. House is owned by a guy named Ed Malicki.”

Vail got on the phone to X-ray and told him to head toward Hill County and mobilize deputies to the property of Ed Malicki.

She flicked Harrison on his left cheek. “Ed help you out?”

“He don’t know anything. I just borrow his shack. Store stuff. He never asked what I put there.”

“You know what, Harrison?” Bledsoe yanked him back to face him. “You’re a piece of shit like your father.”

Harrison spit in Bledsoe’s face.

Vail stuck her hand on Bledsoe’s fist and stopped him before he brought it forward into Harrison’s nose. “He’ll get his time, just like Vaughn.”

Bledsoe groaned, then shrugged his jacket back into place. “I’m not good with delayed gratification.”

“Let’s get him outa here,” Vail said, grabbing Harrison’s left arm.

“You... you’re gonna recommend the deal, right? To the prosecutor?”

Vail feigned surprise. “Of course I’ll recommend the deal. Just like I said, Harrison. I’m a woman of my word. But the prosecutor, she hates my guts. Never takes my advice. Does the opposite, usually.”

They pushed through the doors to the outside, where the air was bone-chilling cold.

Bledsoe blew on his left fist. “Temperature dropped about ten degrees while we were in there.”

He sat Harrison on one of the metal chairs in the center of the breezeway in front of the theater, then double handcuffed him to the table while they waited.

Vail pulled out her phone.

“Who you calling?”

“With X-ray looking for Debra Mead, we don’t have a ride. I’m getting an Uber.”

Bledsoe gave her a look of consternation. “We can’t transport a prisoner in—”

“Relax. I’m calling a local deputy I know, see if he’ll come pick us up.”

Minutes after loading Harrison into the rear of one of the responding police cruisers, their phones buzzed simultaneously. A text from X-ray:

“Thank God,” Vail said.

“Your vic’s gonna be okay?” the deputy asked.

“Looks like it.”

“You lucked out,” Bledsoe said, elbowing the prisoner seated to his right. “Hear that, Harrison? You got lucky. Twenty-five to life instead of death row.”

Harrison did not respond. By now he probably figured he had been played.

Bledsoe turned to Vail. “Maybe it was us who lucked out. We got to Debra Mead just in time.”

“Luck? Skill? Who cares. Sometimes our job’s a mix of both. I’m just glad that Stephen Raye Vaughn is a footnote in American history. And his son’s gonna be behind bars before he could do too much damage.”

Bledsoe sighed heavily, then looked out the window at the pitch blackness, pinpricks of stars winking back at them. “Bastard was one bad dude.”

“Congrats. You win the award for understatement of the year.”

Bledsoe stole a look at his watch. “Damn, it’s friggin’ late. Why is it that the dregs of society come out when everyone else is asleep?”

Vail shrugged. “Better time to ply their trade.”

“Yeah, well, in my experience, nothing good happens after midnight.”

“And yet,” Vail said with a grunt, “tonight it did. Twice.”