The 7th Victim

She rooted around her pocket for the keys, opened the door, and drove away. Her mind was still a blur, and she was more or less driving on autopilot. She knew the way to her office without thinking—which was good, because at the moment thinking was more than her shaken brain could handle.

As she headed back toward the interstate, she struggled to recall what had transpired after arriving at Deacon’s. The dashboard clock read 10:36. Ten-thirty-six . . . she had been there an hour and a half. Whatever she had done, whatever had happened, had taken a considerable amount of time.

She remembered going there to discuss a change in Jonathan’s custody—and Deacon had been less than cooperative. Things were coming back to her, but she was still drawing blanks.

Ten-thirty. There was something she was supposed to have done at ten. What was it?

She stopped at a light and looked around. Was it something for work? Was she supposed to meet the task force somewhere? She yawned and her jaw hurt. She looked in the mirror and fought back dizziness to see half- mast eyes and frazzled hair. What the hell had happened?

Come on, Karen, think! The light turned green—and her thoughts cleared a bit. She took what she knew and mixed in a little inference . . . and figured she and Deacon had gotten into it over Jonathan’s custody. The end result she knew—an unexpected nap on Deacon’s floor, some dizziness, and one hell of a headache. He must’ve clocked her good, because she still didn’t remember it. But there was no bruising on her face.

However it went down, she only hoped she’d gotten him good, too. But judging by the fact that the TV was on and a smoke was burning in the ashtray, she probably did not get the best of the encounter.

A sprinkling drizzle began dotting her windshield. As she reached to turn on the wipers, her forearm brushed up against her holster, and oh, shit—

She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the rain-slick roadway, a portfolio of papers and files stacked in the backseat flying to the floor.

Though she didn’t remember what had happened at Deacon’s, her weapon was missing, and that was something she did not want to have to explain—to anyone, let alone Gifford or the policy freaks at OPR.

seventeen

Vail swung the car around and headed back to Deacon’s, taking care to obey the traffic ordinances of the local jurisdiction—actually, she was doing about eighty and swerving all over the road on the wet asphalt. Jesus Christ . . . she had to get there before he left with her Glock. Knowing him, he’d make sure the sidearm was found somewhere embarrassing . . . or he’d put it in the hands of a junkie in the bad part of DC so it would be used in a crime. That wouldn’t go over well with the Bureau. It’d be in all the papers, make national news. She’d be disgraced. And if it was used in a murder . . . how could she live with that?

Vail made it back to his house in a little over five minutes. His car was still in the driveway. She ran to the front door, yanked it open. Deacon was somewhere in the house, singing. Singing? Why the hell is he singing?

Her eyes scanned the room. Didn’t see her Glock anywhere. Knelt down, searched beneath the couch and coffee table when suddenly she heard—

“Looking for this?”

She spun, still on her knees. Deacon was standing there, ten feet away, her Glock in his hand, holding it up as if showing it to her.

“Give it—”

He lowered the pistol and pointed it at her. “Now just a minute, Karen. I don’t think I like your tone. See, I’m holding the goddamn gun here. Understand what that means?”

Oh, she understood all right. She understood that she hated this man. She hated him so much that she envisioned taking her own serrated knife and ramming it through his eyes.

“Stay where you are. On your knees.” He raised his eyebrows in mock excitement. “Hmm. How appropriate.”

No, how infuriating. What to do? Rush him? Too risky. Not yet. She’d give it a bit longer to unfold before acting. It couldn’t get any worse than it was right now, so she had nothing to lose by waiting for, perhaps, a better opportunity.

He unzipped his pants with his left hand and extended his right elbow, the one holding the weapon.

She forced a laugh. “Keep dreaming, Deacon. No fucking way.”

“Funny you should use that vulgar term. You know those pink slips they use in offices that say, ‘While You Were Out’?” He chuckled. “Well, while you were out, I mean, ‘out cold,’ I had some fun.”

He raped me? No—couldn’t be. Could it? She wanted to put her hand on her crotch, feel to see if she was wet. But she wouldn’t give him that. From what she could tell, she didn’t feel any soreness or irritation. “Nice try, asshole. I’d know if you raped me.”

“Rape? Such a strong word, don’t you think? We are married—”

“Only in your warped mind. Divorce is just about done.”

“So maybe I did rape you. And maybe I didn’t.”

She shook her head in disgust. “When did you become such a vile human being?”

“You’re being kind of harsh, Karen. I mean, don’t you deal with a lot worse?”

“It’s just a matter of degree. And believe me, the dividing line between you and those scumbags isn’t that wide. You’re a lot closer to those monsters than you think.”

He stepped closer, wiggled the handgun at her. “How’s your head feel? I hit you pretty hard.”

Is that how I ended up on the floor? He hit me? But she hadn’t seen a bruise on her face—which she would have by now if he’d punched her. Still, her jaw did hurt. She looked up at him. “I’m getting up now, Deacon, and you’re going to hand over my gun.”

“Well, you can get up. Let’s start with that.”

She rose—and in one motion, pivoted on her back heel and swung her leg wide, her left foot side-slamming the Glock and sending it across the room.

She scrambled after it—but so did Deacon—and they both dove forward onto the hardwood like linebackers pursuing a fumble, their bodies colliding and Vail scooping up the weapon with her right hand. She swung it around, and, while on her side, slammed the barrel up against Deacon’s nose. “You goddamn son of a bitch. Were you going to pull the trigger? Huh?”

His eyes crossed as he focused on the Glock.

“I should blow your goddamn brains out, you useless piece of shit!”

“Go ahead, Karen,” he said, unfazed. “Pull the trigger.” He shifted his gaze back to her face. “Throw away your career. Leave Jonathan without parents. Come on, I dare you.”

Her breath was coming in spasms, her heart pounding so forcefully she felt it in her ears. Calm down. Think. She looked into his eyes, seeing the malevolence she often saw in the killers she interviewed in prison. She wasn’t sure what it was, only that she knew it when she saw it: a cold depth, an emotional void.

Vail got to her feet but kept the weapon pointed at Deacon. Her hand was shaking—not out of fear but out of concern she’d lose her nerve and pull the trigger. He was right—she had more at stake than he did. Given his shambles of a life, he would probably embrace suicide if he had the guts to do it.

Vail backed out of the house and didn’t holster the Glock until she sat down in her car. She pulled away from the house and stopped at a light. She felt dirty, poisoned. He didn’t rape me, she told herself. He was just screwing with my head.

Overwhelming unease pulled at her thoughts. The light turned green and she drove on, in the direction of the task force headquarters. She needed to get her head back into the Dead Eyes investigation, to do something useful and productive. To get her mind off Deacon, off what had happened.

When she arrived at the house, a Verizon Communications van was parked out front, no doubt installing the phone lines Bledsoe ordered. Still in a semifog, Vail nearly ran into the technician, who was on his way back to his truck.

As soon as Bledsoe caught sight of her, he opened his mouth to ask the obvious question. She had been so