She could end up shooting herself in thearm, or Shelley, if the angle was completely wrong.
“Just think about this,” Shelley wasentreating him again, trying to persuade him. Even Zoe could hear the fainttouch of desperation creeping in at the edges of her words. They all knew hewasn’t going to let her go. Even Chrissie, weeping and staggering backward, herhands fluttering around her neck but not quite daring to grab hold of his arm.He was going to take her to the door, cut her throat, and take his chances witha run.
Zoe had to do something. There was noother option. Even if it backfired, Chrissie was dead if she did not try. Shehad to try. She took a step forward, a gentle and subtle one, just enough tomove her in to a more direct angle. A thirty-degree approach with a muchshorter trajectory—or back to twenty degrees if she aimed toward the far edgeof the metal. She would need to get the shot right. If she missed and hit thewall, he would kill Chrissie and run.
The killer took one more step backward,and she saw her shot.
She did not risk distracting him. Whatif he stumbled backward or moved his body, twisted to look at something? No,and there was no time to hesitate. It had to be now.
Quick as a flash, Zoe moved her gun,pointed at the metal plate. She aimed for the dead center of it, or as close asshe could manage at this slanted angle, and turned off her doubts. She fired asingle shot, the sharp report of the gun followed immediately by a high-pitchedring as it struck the metal.
For a long second, there was no way ofknowing if it had worked. Maybe the longest second in Zoe’s life.
And then, with a groan, the killerslipped to the floor, his hand sliding downward and narrowly grazing Chrissie’sarm with the knife as he fell.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Zoe rubbed a hand over her face, thensplashed it with cold water before drying off and moving to the hall. She hadbeen asleep for five hours and twenty-four minutes before her alarm woke her,driving her to get up and dress and prepare to go back to the precinct.
It would be the last time. This was adebrief only, before she and Shelley would get on a flight and return to D.C.,ready to make a report to SAIC Maitland. She could already recite to herselfwhat he would say: reckless endangerment, tempered with the fact that it hadworked, and she should be careful about taking risks in future because her luckwould run out one day. The same spiel he always gave her when she did somethingthat looked stupid.
Looked stupid to others, of course.Because she had known all along that the shot was almost guaranteed to ricochetexactly where she wanted it to: deep into the flesh of the killer. It hadpenetrated diagonally from under his arm, the one that was raised to hold theblade. It passed through several major organs before coming to a stop. He hadbled out there in the corridor, but not before the catastrophic damage to hisorgans resulted in cardiac arrest and ended his life. Zoe and Shelley had beenable to do nothing to save his life—not that anyone was racing to pick them upon it.
Chrissie Rosenhart, on the other hand,had been effusively grateful. She knew that Zoe had saved her life through herquick actions. The three of them who had been in the room knew the truth. Therewas no way that she would have survived without that intervention.
Zoe and Shelley arrived at the precinctto find Captain Warburton directing his staff through a cataloguing of all thepieces of evidence that had been picked up on a raid of Lee Thomas’s home. LeeThomas—that was his name: a piercer who worked part-time at Dead Eye Dave’s,coming in one or two days a week, which explained completely how he had beenable to access the appointment book only some of the time.
“Talk us through it,” Zoe said, offeringCaptain Warburton a tired smile. She was rested, but not rested enough. Theyhad insisted she go to the motel and sleep after the shooting incident, torecover from a long day on the case as well as the shock, but she barely feltthat it had touched the exhaustion at all.
Captain Warburton nodded, which was agood sign. Sometimes, when she was tired and tried to smile or offer otheremotive expressions, all she would get was an odd look in return. Perhaps shewas getting better at being “normal,” after all. “There wasn’t much that gavehim away, although we’ve taken in clothing and outerwear to check for DNAevidence. But one of my detectives found a journal hidden behind his bedsidetable. It makes for… interesting reading.”
Zoe accepted a pair of gloves andslipped them on before removing the journal from its plastic evidence bag. Itwas a small, plain, unassuming notebook, the kind you might imagine to containboring business notations or accounts. Inside, however, was a different story.
It started off simple enough. A recordof some things that Thomas had found interesting, some accounts of his day. Zoeflipped ahead a few pages, Shelley watching over her shoulder, and watched asthe handwriting began to slowly change. It went from neat and orderly, ifsharply angled, to large and spidery, some words falling off their lines ortaking up double space. As it did, Zoe started to pick up words as she scannedthe text. The number thirteen, written over and over again in different places.Other key standouts that told her of a psychotic brain: Danger. Must. Devil.Lord. Die. Evil. Following me. Chosen.
Shelley offered a low whistle by Zoe’sear. “He was nutso.” There was a pause, and then she added: “I mean, heobviously had issues. I mean that in the most respectful of ways.”
Captain Warburton stifled a laugh. “Nodisciplinary committee here, Agent Rose. I don’t think anyone in this precinctwould argue with you. Three, almost four victims. The bastard was a psychopath.”
“He was suffering from psychosis,” Zoesaid. “I am sure that any psychologist
