The 7th Victim

“What if I don’t have extra headsets for all of you?”

“Give us what you got. We’ll stay together, out of your way. But once you secure the place, we need to be in there right behind you.”

Kilgore stepped to the back of the truck, lifted the canvas covering, and slipped beneath it. He emerged a moment later with six spare headsets. Handing them to Bledsoe, he said, “Don’t change the frequency. And stay out of the way. Above all, don’t fuck up my operation.” Kilgore spun and ran off into the brush to catch up to his team.

“You gonna take that, Blood?” Manette asked.

“I did and I will. Remember the reason why we’re here.”

Sinclair pulled on a black ball cap to cover his shiny bald head and slipped on a headset. He motioned for Del Monaco to go first. “You gonna be able to make it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re carrying some extra tonnage and this is gonna be a long hike.”

“Extra tonnage,” Manette said. “I like that. Mind if I use it, Sin?”

“Be my guest.”

“The ‘extra tonnage’ doesn’t slow me down,” Del Monaco said. “I pass all the physical endurance tests the Bureau requires. But thanks so much for your concern.” He motioned Sinclair ahead of him, then fell into formation behind him.

THEY TREKKED through the forested stands of pine and cedar and occasional oak, emerging at a clearing and hugging the tree-lined perimeter for cover. After nearly an hour’s hike, the various SERT members were beginning to call in, stating they had reached their positions.

For the task force group, Robby led the way at the point, with Bledsoe following in the second position. Manette was third, Sinclair next, Vail, and then Del Monaco pulling up the rear. Despite his assertions about passing the endurance tests, Del Monaco had never hiked through forestland on uneven terrain after having gone thirty-five straight hours without sleep.

By the time all team members were in final position, daylight had melted to dusk. The quarter moon was hiding behind cloud cover, and the temperature had plummeted another several degrees. Their breath was vapor, a dangerous situation when involved in covert maneuvers. For the task force members, who lacked night-vision goggles, the darkness was a double-edged sword: though it provided them adequate cover, it also prevented them from seeing unknown objects in unfamiliar territory.

From what they could see in the failing light, the house appeared to be a medium-sized clapboard two-story home that looked very much its one hundred and fifteen years. The paint, or at least what was left of it, was peeling and faded. The porch decking was cracked and dry. It was for this reason that Kilgore had wanted the Virtual Earth photos: he saw what appeared to be decking and knew, from his years of experience, that wood and nails and the ravages of weather produced noises one had better not encounter when attempting to launch a surprise attack. Due to Kilgore’s diligent intel, the team members were prepared and followed a preplanned route around the deck.

Vail bent her mouthpiece away from her face and asked, “Now what?”

Bledsoe stood beside her, both of them hunched behind a largetrunked redwood. “Now I kick myself for not asking them for night-vision goggles.”

“Most important thing is that they have them.”

“How’s your knee?” Bledsoe asked.

Robby had seen her pop a couple Extra Strength Tylenol just prior to beginning the hike, but she had shrugged it off. “I’m not going to let a little pain stop me.”

“A little pain?” he had asked.

“Okay, a lot of pain.”

Now, after the long hike, she framed it with level-headed realism. “As long as I don’t run out of pain pills, I’ll be fine.”

“When this is over,” Bledsoe said, “we’ll get a chopper in, fly you out of here.”

“Not exactly how I’d pictured my own private limo.” She inched to her right and watched as the first tactical officer moved to the left of the front door frame. Though the other four team members had gone around to the back door and were engaged in similar maneuvers, they were outside Vail’s line of sight. She pressed the earpiece against her head. She didn’t want to miss this.

“Unit one in position and ready to move,” the anxious voice said over the headset.

“Unit two, three, and four ready.” Vail immediately recognized Kilgore’s voice.

Vail’s heart was slamming against her chest.

“Unit five, six, seven, and eight ready.”

“Hold all positions,” Kilgore whispered. He moved his fist in front of the door and banged it hard several times: the knock-and-notice. “Patrick Farwell, this is the sheriff,” he shouted. “We know you’re in there. We’ve got the place surrounded. Come out with your hands up.”

The house remained dark, the air still.

“Flash bang, sir?” asked one of the officers.

“No.” Kilgore’s voice was stern. “Stick to tactical.”

Another voice over the radio, probably from the back. “Unit eight reports no sign of movement.”

“Roger that,” Kilgore said. “On my mark.” After waiting a beat, he said, “Go!”

The first position moved aside and the second officer stepped up with a Stinger battering ram. “Second in position. On my mark. Go!” He swung back the thirty-five-pound steel cylinder, then arced it forward and breached the door, sending shards of splintered wood flying in all directions. The position three team member, Lon Kilgore, rushed the house.

Vail put her head down and concentrated on the voices coming through her headset:

“Entryway, clear.”

“Kitchen, clear.”

“Living room—hold it—body, I got a body. Male, looks to be in his late fifties maybe.” Pause. Then: “Dead. Rest of living room, clear.”

Vail turned to Bledsoe. “What the hell?” She bent the mike back in front of her mouth. “How long has he been dead? What’s the apparent COD?”

Kilgore’s voice crackled through her headset: “Get off the damn radio!”

“Shit,” she said, rising and moving out from behind the tree.

Bledsoe grabbed her left arm. “Wait here, Karen. Let them clear the house, then we can go in.”

She pulled herself free with a windmill of her shoulder. She yanked the Glock from her side holster and stepped toward the house. “I’m going in now.”

Robby, ten feet back behind another tree, emerged and followed her forward. “We’re coming in,” Vail announced.

“Upstairs bedroom, clear. Holy shit—”

Vail stopped, instinctively raised her weapon with both hands. “What?”

“This is one sick fuck,” the tactical officer said. “All sorts of shit hanging around up here. And I mean hanging. Five severed hands strung up from the ceiling. Holy, Jesus.”

Vail exchanged a knowing glance with Robby, then proceeded up the steps toward the fractured front door. She moved slowly into the living room, where she came upon the body.

“Upstairs bedroom two, clear,” another voice said somewhere in her ear. But she was not listening. She was staring at the face of Patrick Farwell.

Her father.

The Dead Eyes killer.

seventy-two

Frank Del Monaco knelt beside Vail and matched her gaze. “I don’t get it,” she finally said.