around and smashed into her left front fender, and they careened to Vail’s right, off Silverado Trail, and slammed through the wire-and-wood fence. She struck a divot in the shoulder and went in nose-first, but the Chrysler hit the gully at an odd angle with greater force and flipped trunk-over-hood. It tumbled backward before coming to rest upside down. Vail’s Ford wedged itself in the furrow, at the edge of a vineyard.
She took a deep breath and seized into a coughing fit. Grabbed the dashboard to calm the spasm, then steadied herself. Eyes blurry with tears. Head aching.
She forced herself to assess the situation: Airbag did not deploy. Front end lodged in some kind of ditch. And it was dark.
She turned on her headlights; the lone working lamp illuminated a portion of the vineyard ahead of her. She caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, which was cocked at an odd angle. She had a gash on her forehead above the left eye.
Vail pushed the driver’s door open and tumbled out of the Ford. A few yards off to the right, nestled among the vines, was the Chrysler, spouting a fog of smoky steam from the front grill. She pulled her Glock—which she should’ve done before exiting the Ford—and scrambled toward the overturned car, the pistol out in front of her.
Vail shooed away the smoke and peered through the windshield, which was diffusely lit by the brightness from her headlight. But it appeared to be empty. She swung around and fired a round into the lamp, throwing her— and her pursuer—into charcoal darkness. She then headed off in the opposite direction. If her pursuer was nearby, she didn’t want him to have the advantage of seeing her. The risk of him hearing her gunshot, and thereby locating her, was fairly low. Unless he saw the muzzle blast, it was more difficult to pinpoint location based on a single shot you were not expecting.
Vail moved around the upended vehicle, encircling it, looking for signs of where its occupant could’ve gone. Just about impossible in the near-darkness. But out of the corner of her peripheral vision, she caught something— the blur of motion, perhaps, along with the rustle of leaves. She ran toward the object, her Glock firmly clasped in both hands out in front of her.
As she neared the approximate location, she sensed something slip past her, a row to her left. She dipped to the ground, rolled beneath the lowest hanging vines and cross-wires, then rolled through to the adjacent aisle. There—ahead, maybe thirty feet in the darkness, her brain combined the vague blur of motion with the shift of dirt being displaced by shoes.
Vail pushed forward, a bit more cautiously, sensing that her quarry had stopped moving. She felt the brush of nascent grape leaves against her cheek and she nearly unloaded her weapon into the unsuspecting vine. But she regrouped and kept moving down the aisle.
Absent a nearby city and a visible moon, there was scant external light. There had been times in her career when she wished she had another fully loaded magazine; at other times, she longed for the easy reach of her weapon—any weapon. Now all she wished for was her Maglite.
Something to the left—movement. She turned in its direction, brought her Glock up, and felt the rush of air by her cheek before a powerful punch exploded into her temple. She fell backward and went down, falling against a mess of vines and supporting cross-wires—which, although rough, served as a cradle. She lay there a second, dazed, until—somewhere off in the distance—she heard rustling leaves, then felt something swipe at her left arm, knocking the Glock from her grip. Two hands grabbed her by the blouse and yanked her up out of the tangle of branches.
Vail focused her eyes and saw the face of her pursuer. But she did not let the revelation of who it was delay her response. She brought her knee up hard, into Scott Fuller’s groin, then, as he doubled over, she cupped her right fist and slammed her hands down onto the back of his neck. Now it was his turn to go down.
“You prick,” she said, standing over him. “You fucking tried to kill me!” She thought of kicking him in the face, which would likely loosen a few teeth as well as render him unconscious—but she needed answers first. “I know about your juvie record, the arson,” she said.
“You don’t know shit,” Fuller said between clenched teeth. He fought off the pain but rose into a stooped posture.
“I know it’s enough to get you booted off the force. A cop convicted of arson as a teen investigating an arson committed against a federal agent that cop didn’t like? Sounds pretty fucking bad, Scott.”
She stepped to her left, hoping to come across her pistol before Fuller rushed her—or worse—pulled his sidearm. On her second step she felt a hard crunch. As Fuller moved toward her, she brought the weapon up and swung it in line with his chest. “Where were you the night of Victoria Cameron’s murder?”
He did not raise his hands. Did not flinch. “Fuck you. I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“Did you set the fire to my room?”
A broad smile spread his lips.
“I guess that’s my answer.”
“Go pound sand, Vail.”
“Fine, you don’t want to talk to me, you can face your stepfather. I doubt the sheriff will be happy to hear my theories. Because pretty soon, we’ll have all the evidence we need—”
That was all she got out—because in the next moment she felt a sharp prick, followed almost immediately by a dizzying sway. The ground moved beneath her. She lost her footing. And all went black.
Vail opened her eyes, but saw nothing. No, not nothing—she tracked left and right, and saw stars. She was lying supine, looking at the sky. She started to sit up—but a wave of nausea hit her like a bad flu. Vail lay back down and wondered where she was, why she was on the ground. She turned her head left—saw vines—and realized she was in a vineyard.
To her right she saw more of the same. Darkness. Flora. And a pair of boots. But not just any boots; they looked like the ones Scott Fuller wore. Fighting the dizziness, Vail forced herself onto her right side to get a better look, pushing up her torso with her left hand, slowly, into a sitting position. That’s when she saw it.
Fuller was also on his back, and though it was dark, she could tell he was not moving. Incapacitated, like her. Her senses were slowly returning. Her head hurt and she brought a hand up to her temple. It felt bruised, swollen.
Something was irritating her nose. It was a scent she knew all too well. Blood.
Reached for her Glock. Not there.
“Scott, wake up,” Vail said. She shut her eyes, trying to will away the dizziness. She leaned forward and got onto all fours, then began feeling around in the dirt, searching for her missing Glock.
Felt around. Nothing. She swung around in another direction, to the right, trying to keep some sort of directional sense as to where she was going so she didn’t double back on herself.
Still failing to locate her pistol, she hung another right turn and crawled back toward her starting point.
Vail crawled toward Fuller to get his handgun. Then she would wake him and find out what the hell he did to her—and why. Then, and only then, maybe she’d kill him. At least, that’s what she felt like doing.
Vail came upon Fuller’s boots, yanked on them. The movement made her nauseous. “Fuller, wake up!” But he didn’t respond. She scrabbled forward, grabbed his shirt to give him a good shake, but it was wet. Not just wet, but slimy and thick. Blood.
She drew back, wiped her hands on her blouse, then peered closer to try to get a better look at where he
