Yates took a step closer to her, and his gun—it looked like a Beretta—was raised slightly, pointing vaguely toward Manette. “Stop right there,” Vail yelled. “Take another step and it’ll be your last!”
“Just kill me now,” Yates said. “Because there ain’t no way you’re taking me in. I killed a cop, you think I’ll make it through the night alive in lockup?”
“I’ll personally guarantee your safety, Danny.” Vail stood there with her Glock now in both hands, her credentials case on the ground at her feet, spread open, her Bureau badge visible for all who cared to look. “I’ll make sure you get your day in court. I understand the way you think, I know you didn’t mean to kill that cop.”
“Bullshit. I did mean to kill him! I fucking hate cops, they raped my mother. You bet I wanted to kill him!”
“There’s only one way this can end good, Danny. You put the gun down and let me help my partner there. You got that?”
Yates took another step forward, his Beretta now aimed point-blank at Manette. Vail brought up her Glock, tritium sights lined up on the perp’s head.
“Now,” Vail yelled. “Drop the fucking gun!”
But Yates’s elbow straightened. His hand muscles stiffened.
Given the angle, no one else could see what she could see. He didn’t ‘drop the fucking gun,’ so Vail shot him. Blasted him right in the head. And then she drilled him in the center mass, to knock him back, make sure he didn’t accidentally unload on Manette as his brain went flat line. Two quick shots. Overkill? Maybe. But at the moment, truth be told, she didn’t really care.
Yates fell to the ground. Vail ran to Manette. Grabbed her, cradled her. “Manny—Manny, you okay?”
Manette’s face was drenched with sweat, pain contorted in the intense creases of her face.
And then Vail lost it. She felt the sudden release, the stress of the past couple of months hitting her with the force of a tornado, knocking her back against the lower stonework of the White House fence.
Commotion around her, frantic footsteps, shouting, jostling. Someone in a blue shirt and silver badge knelt in front of her and pried the Glock from her hand.
DARK-SUITED SECRET SERVICE AGENTS stood in front of the White House fence, stiff and tense. White, red, and blue Metro Police cars sat idling fifty yards away. Half a dozen motorcycle cops in white shirt/black pant uniforms milled about.
Thomas Gifford, the Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge who oversees the Behavioral Analysis Units, badged the nearby Secret Service agent and walked to the ambulance backed up against the short, concrete pillars that sprung from the pavement. Vail sat on the Metro Medical Response vehicle’s flat bumper, her gaze fixed somewhere on the cement.
Gifford stopped a couple of feet in front of her and raked a hand through his hair, as if stalling for time because he didn’t know what to say. “I thought you had dinner reservations. You told me when you left the office you had to leave early.”
“Yeah. I did. And then we saw Yates, and I called it in—”
“Okay,” Gifford said, holding up a hand. “Forget about all that for now. How are you doing?”
Vail stood up, uncoiled her body, and stretched. “I’m fine. Any news on Mandisa?”
“Going into surgery. Shattered pelvis. But the round missed the major arteries, so she’ll be okay. She’ll need some rehab, but she’s lucky. She’s lucky you were there.”
“With all the snipers and Secret Service and DC police around? I think she would’ve been fine without me.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing. They were assessing the situation, moving into position, trying to sort out what the hell was going on. The snipers weren’t going to act unless there was a perceived threat to the president. And callous as it may seem, Danny Michael Yates was only a threat to you and Detective Manette. After Yates said he’d killed a cop, Metro started to put it together. But I honestly don’t know if any of them would’ve shot him before you did. You saved her life, Karen.”
Vail took a deep, uneven breath. “I had a good angle, I saw his arm, his hand—I knew he was going to pull that trigger.”
Gifford looked away, glancing around at all the on-scene law enforcement personnel. “You still seeing the shrink?”
Vail nodded.
“Good. First thing in the morning, I want you back in his office. Then get out of town for a while. Clear your head. A couple months after Dead Eyes, this is the last thing you needed.”
A smile teased the ends of her mouth.
“What?” Gifford asked.
“It’s not often we agree on anything. I usually have some smartass comeback for you. But in this case, I’ve got nothing.”
Vail realized that had been the punch line of the joke Manette had told earlier in the evening. It didn’t seem so funny now.
Vail headed for her car, looking forward to—finally—getting out of town. Where? Didn’t matter. Anywhere but here.
St. Helena, California
But despite the region in which John Mayfield worked—the Napa Valley—the crush of death wasn’t reserved just for grapes.
John Mayfield liked his name. It reminded him of harvest and sunny vineyards.
He had, however, made one minor modification: His mother hadn’t given him a middle name, so he chose one himself—Wayne. Given his avocation, “John Wayne” implied a tough guy image with star power. It also was a play on John Wayne Gacy, a notorious serial killer. And serial killers almost always were known in the public consciousness by three names. His persona—soon to be realized worldwide—needed to be polished and prepared.
Mayfield surveyed the room. He looked down at the woman, no longer breathing, in short order to resemble the shriveled husk of a crushed grape. He switched on his camera and made sure the lens captured the blood draining from her arm, the thirsty soil beneath her drinking it up as if it had been waiting for centuries to be nourished. Her fluid pooled a bit, then was slowly sucked beneath the surface.
A noise nearby broke his trance. He didn’t have much time. He could have chosen his kill zone differently, to remove all risk. But it wasn’t about avoiding detection. There was so much more to it.
The woman didn’t appreciate his greatness, his power. She didn’t see him for the unique person that he was. Her loss.
Mayfield wiped the knife of fingerprints and, using the clean handkerchief, slipped the sharp utensil beneath the dead woman’s lower back. He stood up, kicked the loose dirt aside beneath his feet, scattering his footprints, then backed away.
