And Greenwich held out a hand. “No, no. That’s okay, just tell me where it is.”
“In my shoulder holster.”
“Any other weapons on your person?”
“No, that’s it.”
“Protocol, ma’am. Have to follow protocol,” he said as if she would immediately understand.
In fact, she did understand. But it didn’t make it any easier.
Greenwich removed her Glock from its holster, then handed it to his partner. “Ma’am, according to eighteen- two-fifty-seven point two of the Virginia Code, in a domestic violence case I’m compelled by law to make an arrest.”
“The bastard knocked me unconscious and took my handgun! I wasn’t going to let him do it to me again —”
“Hang on a second,” he said, holding out a hand. “Now you’re saying he knocked you unconscious? Your story seems to be changing—”
“No—it’s not. Look, Officer, let me explain—”
“I think at this point I’ve got to advise you of your right to remain silent—”
“No, no. Listen to me. You don’t have to do this—”
“In fact, ma’am, I do have to do this. You’ll have your say, I promise you that, but I’m going to need to take you in. I’ll be as discreet about it as I can.” He pulled a set of cuffs from his belt and held it out in front of him long enough for her to see what was going to have to happen. He cocked his head, waiting for her to turn around. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“I’m a fucking FBI agent, I know my rights!”
But he continued on nonetheless.
“Bledsoe!” she shouted at the closed door to the house. Would he hear her? What could he do, anyway? She felt the cold metal touch her wrists and the deputy’s voice disappeared in her mind. Tears filled her eyes.
Greenwich swung the cruiser door open and nudged Vail toward the backseat. She more or less fell in as he guided her head past the door frame.
“Can I at least make a phone call?”
He looked down at her. “After you’re processed, I’ll make sure you get access to a phone.”
And then the door slammed shut.
She looked at the front door to the house, willing Bledsoe to walk out and save her from this nightmare. “Bledsoe!” she screamed.
But the cruiser windows were closed. She glanced at the clock: it was ten minutes to five. Even if she was able to reach Robby—who was in the middle of a crisis of his own—he wouldn’t be able to get someone to the school in time.
The other officer headed back toward his squad car as Greenwich opened the door, got in, then slammed it shut. “Four-ten Baker,” he said into his radio.
“Go ahead Four-ten Baker.”
“Heading toward ADC, prisoner in custody.”
As the car pulled away from the curb, Vail closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the seat.
He was so pissed at the moment, he had the urge to do something, to do some
I want to stab him, hurt him like he hurts those whores he brings home. I want to kill him. How would I do it? Shooting him would be the easiest and least risky way, but I don’t have a gun. I’d hit him with a baseball bat, but I don’t know if I could hit him hard enough before he turned it on me.
But a knife . . . a knife in the face would stun him. In the eye and he wouldn’t be able to come back at me. A fast attack. I could do that.
Stab and run. No, stab and stab and stab.
Yes, I could do that. I could do that. I could.
He liked what he’d written, but it didn’t cool his anger, his urge, which felt like a ravenous hunger eating away at his stomach. If anything, the rage, the fury he felt toward the prick was driving him to take action sooner rather than later. He wasn’t prepared for this, and for a few seconds wondered if he was behaving irrationally, allowing his emotions to control his actions. He had a plan, and he should stick with it. It’s when you cut corners that you end up making mistakes.
But he couldn’t help himself.
He found himself sitting outside the nearest Food & More about twenty minutes from his house. Supermarkets, bars, and malls were the best places to find a bitch when you were desperate, that much he’d thought through. And the stun gun was tucked away in his glove box, just in case he got pulled over. So many details, so many things to keep straight.
It was four o’clock and the sky was darkening, meaning he had maybe forty-five minutes of light left. He got out and walked into the market, his overcoat flapping in the brisk breeze, the hat threatening to lift off his head.
He angled for the deli counter. Women standing around, nowhere to go while they waited for their orders. He stayed there for ten, fifteen minutes watching them chitchat, watching them peer into the display cases. Watching their eyes. But none of them intrigued him. On to the dairy section . . . another place where the bitches seem to always linger while they scanned the ever-expanding varieties of cheese.
He hurried there, the heat of the hunt making his neck sweaty. He was close, he could feel it. He turned left down an aisle and slammed into a bitch coming right at him. They’d both been moving at a good clip and were thrown back a bit. Her purse went flying and opened, scattering all sorts of shit across the aisle.
Her hands flew into the air, then came to rest on her sunken cheeks. “You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said.
She bent down to collect her fallen items. He knelt, too, and they were nose to nose. Crows feet hidden below caked foundation, dirty blond hair. And her eyes: hollow, nearly lifeless. This one was dead already. She just didn’t know it. Definitely not the one. He had to disguise his lingering gaze, so he grabbed a lipstick, makeup case, and a pack of Wrigley’s off the floor. He handed them to her and she took them with cold hands and a crooked smile.
But then, a high-pitched voice: “Oh, here. Let me help.”
His head whipped to the right. Brunet twenty-something kneeling beside him, wire-rimmed glasses magnifying her golden tiger eyes. What incredible detail. He’d never seen so many swirling colors before. Golds and browns and tans with a hint of black. He couldn’t move.
The brunet gathered up a handful of the remaining items and handed them to the blond-haired bitch, who held her purse open. “Thanks for your help, both of you.”
He fought back a smile and couldn’t help but think,
