Killing Fear

Had Will Hooper told the chief not to call on her?

Finally, Causey pointed at her. Trinity asked, “Chief Causey, who is in charge of the task force and what are they planning on doing to protect the citizens of San Diego?”

Causey turned to Will. “Detective William Hooper, a twenty-year veteran of San Diego PD, is heading up the task force. He was involved in the original investigation and was instrumental in capturing Glenn seven years ago.”

Before Causey could call on anyone else, Trinity spoke up. “Do you have any actual indication that Glenn is headed for San Diego?”

“None,” Causey said emphatically, but glanced at Will. Why?

Will took the microphone and said, “The smart thing for Glenn to do would be to attempt to leave the country. Every cop in San Diego County-every cop in the state-is looking for him. He killed an injured guard in cold blood during his escape.

“But Glenn is not that smart,” Will continued. “Glenn only sees one thing, and that is he was convicted. Now he wants revenge. And that’s why he’ll come to San Diego. Watch for him. He may alter his appearance. But if everyone in San Diego is looking, we can catch him before he hurts anyone else, and put him back on death row.”

Theodore despised Will Hooper. And listening to the press conference on the news, sitting safe in an old, worn La-Z-Boy, and having that asshole cop call him stupid pained him.

Hooper knew damn well he was a genius. It was only bad luck that a witness caught sight of him coming out of Brandi’s duplex. He should have gone in and killed that old biddy when he saw the curtains move. But he honestly hadn’t believed she could see that far away. How was he to know she regularly used binoculars to watch the comings and goings from all her neighbors’ houses?

He’d seen the sketch on the news. It didn’t look enough like him to have him concerned. It could have been anybody.

Then to have that high-and-mighty hypocrite Robin McKenna tell the cops that he was the man in the sketch. Bad luck. It should never have happened. How that slut was able to make the connection unnerved him, and pissed him off. It was a guess on her part, simply because she didn’t like him. She’d made that perfectly clear right from the beginning.

Robin. He closed his eyes and saw her perfect form take shape. The way she moved onstage. Liquid energy. Smooth, perfect, music in motion. He’d wanted her something fierce. He saw in her eyes something he’d never seen before. An intelligence and knowledge that mirrored his. She was better than this, better than a stripper, and she knew it. Her self-confidence rivaled his. Her poise and elegance. Everything about Robin McKenna was a dream dance, an act, an image she wanted to show. Just like him. All he wanted was for her to touch him. Why didn’t she see that they were the same?

But instead of joining him, she’d turned against him. Long before she identified his sketch for the police, she turned on him. Told Bethany he was dangerous. A year before he killed the girl, Robin was warning her.

Smart, cold bitch.

He’d been set up. He hadn’t killed Robin’s pathetic roommate, yet he’d been convicted for that murder as well.

How did he know the bitch herself hadn’t knocked off her roommate to frame him? She’d wanted him out of the picture so badly. And she was cold and heartless enough to kill, of that Theodore was certain. They were two of a kind, and before he was done with Robin McKenna, she would recognize that fact.

He had his list, and he would take care of each person on it in due time. Blood was thicker than water, and he had a score to settle.

His sister should never have testified against him. She would suffer for her betrayal. Robin could wait. Watch him take his revenge on others first. She’d know he was coming for her. She’d know and that fear would fester deliciously under her flawless skin.

He smiled at the thought of Robin cowering in the corner. Waiting for him to come and put her out of her misery. Because he would. And he would not be merciful.

Jenny Olsen slouched into the living room with a tray of food. She was a fat bitch, might have been pretty if she didn’t look like a cow. But she’d been faithfully writing to him in prison these last seven years and she’d told him she’d do anything for him.

He’d called her on it when he showed up on her porch early Sunday morning.

“I hope you like it,” Jenny said, beaming.

Stupid wench.

He tasted the meal. Chicken, rice, carrots, and broccoli. The best meal he’d had in years. Simple, flavorful, home-cooked.

“Delicious,” he said honestly, favoring her with a smile.

She beamed brighter, rubbing her chubby hands together. “Can I get you anything else? A beer maybe?”

“Do you have red wine?” Theodore detested beer, and he dreaded what sort of wine this white-trash female would have on hand, but he hadn’t had a drink in seven years.

Jenny looked worried. “N-no. But I have some Scotch, I think. It was my father’s, before he died.”

“Let’s see it.”

She walked over to the hutch in the dining room. Her small fifties cinderblock house was clean but full of clutter. Knickknacks. Glass figures. Her life, on show for everyone who walked through the door.

Pathetic.

She bent down, fumbled through bottles. She came up with something that actually looked good. “Is this okay?”

“Pour it,” he said.

She did, he sipped. “Not bad.”

He ate and drank, not caring that Jenny watched his every move. She adored him. He could see it in her doe eyes, in her obsequious manner. Wasn’t she the least bit scared? Wasn’t she the least bit concerned that he might kill her?

Theodore wasn’t surprised he’d gotten away yesterday. The only truly hazardous part of the escape was the hour he’d spent in the frigid water of the San Francisco Bay. He’d been victorious partly from luck, partly from intelligence. He’d immediately slipped away from the pack because those other fools were going to get themselves killed or captured. When he finally made it to shore, he’d lucked out that he emerged only yards from a convenience store. Before going to prison, he’d never known how to hot-wire a vehicle, but he’d learned a lot behind bars and it only took him two tries before he successfully stole a truck. He once again felt that familiar jolt of adrenaline, the high from being smart and on the edge.

More good luck was that there was a suitcase in the stolen truck. He pulled out a white T-shirt and wind- breaker. Enough to get rid of his prison duds and look like ordinary Joe Citizen.

Glenn had headed north, then east around the bay, then south down highway 99, because there were more places to stop and hide off the road if necessary. He swapped cars in Fresno, suspecting that the owner of this pickup he had stolen would have reported it missing by that time. Three hours later, he merged onto I-5 near the Grapevine and went over the hill toward L.A. There was no abnormal police presence that he noticed. He stayed just a few miles over the speed limit, drove through the night, and was now only an hour away from his hometown, in the home of Jenny Olsen, one of the many women who had written him in prison. Jenny had said she would do anything for him.

So far, she wasn’t lying.

FOUR

Monday morning Robin arrived at the gun range she’d frequented twice a week for nearly six years. Ten minutes before they opened, she sat in the parking lot, unloaded her weapon, and secured the ammo and gun in a carrying case. For so long, the range had practically been a second home to her. The owner, an ex-cop named Hank Solano, had taught her everything she now knew about guns.