“You will not be forgotten, Zach. That’s a promise, my man. I’m going to make you proud if it’s the last thing I do. Your death will mean something by the time I’m finished.”
He pocketed the recorder and kept the bow in hand as he walked the rest of the way, but even the rabbits seemed to be keeping their distance these days.
Whatever. He was too distracted to do any real hunting, anyway.
It was just getting dark by the time he came out of the woods and onto the old fire road, where he usually parked. His head was so full of angry thoughts, he didn’t even see the other car until he was practically on top of it.
That’s when he saw the cops, too. There were two of them standing there. One, he recognized by sheer size — the guy was closer to seven feet than six.
The other had a face that Rodney Glass would never forget. Not since they’d been nose to nose in that interview room in copland. He was a detective with the Washington police, and his name was Alex Cross, and he would be defeated too.
“
He had a recurve on his arm, with the arrow pointed down at a forty-five-degree angle. It’s a weapon I’ve never fired before, never gone up against. I wasn’t sure what it would take to get a shot off. That’s why my Glock was out and pointed at his chest.
One reason, anyway.
Glass froze, but only for a split second. Then his face broke into a wide grin. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. This guy was cocky all the way to the final buzzer. It was impossible not to hate the man, no matter what had happened to his son. He was a kidnapper, with the heart of a murderer.
“Well, look who it is,” he said. “Are you going to shoot me out here in the woods? So nobody will know?”
“Is that what you think?”
“You heard the man,” Sampson said. “Put the bow on the ground and step back away from it. Do it now.”
Something flashed in Glass’s eyes. I’m guessing it was the memory of Sampson’s right hook on the car ride. In any case, he crouched down slowly, still watching us, and set the bow next to his car. Then he carefully slid the quiver of arrows off his shoulder.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked. “Seems like a strange choice, all things considered.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just curious. People have been telling a lot of lies about me. I figured I might as well come out here and see what all the fuss is about.”
“Jesus,” Sampson muttered next to me.
“You know, we’ve been a little curious, too,” I told him. “Mostly about that tape recorder of yours. The one you keep in your glove compartment.”
Glass stood with his head cocked to the side, keeping his hands where I could see them, but stealing glances at my gun.
“I like to get my thoughts down sometimes,” he said. “That’s not illegal, is it?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You want to know what else isn’t illegal? Putting a transmitter the size of a match head in that little recorder of yours. Not with the right warrant, anyway.”
I reached into my pocket and took out my own recorder. Mine was a little nicer than his. It was a gift from Ned Mahoney and his technical people at the Bureau.
Then I pressed play.
“
Glass blinked. That’s all he did. He was as cocky as ever.
“This doesn’t prove anything,” he said.
“Rodney Glass, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Ethan and Zoe Coyle,” I said. “Get down on the ground and put your hands away from your sides.”
“We got you, Glass,” Sampson said. “We finally got you. And
GLASS STAYED WHERE he was. The grin stayed on his face. “You know, there is just so much wrong with this picture. You guys are way out of your jurisdiction. Go back to Washington where you belong.”
Sampson’s Glock was out now, too. “Oh, we’re going back to Washington,” he said.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Glass rolled his eyes at us and turned halfway around like he was walking away.
“Glass —”
But it was only a cover. He swung back around fast, and as he did he pulled something out from under his jacket. A pistol in his right hand.
