Face of Death

“This is not an acceptable mistake, Special Agent Prime. The reputation of the Bureau is on the line. In the current political climate, we cannot have agents going around shooting whoever they want to.”

“I apologize, sir,” Zoe said, taking a breath to form an explanation—but it was wasted.

“One more misstep on this case and you’re done, Prime. That’s two wrong arrests, one of them with the incorrect use of a firearm. One more and I’m pulling you out of there. Your partner too.”

Zoe’s eyes darted toward Shelley. “Special Agent Rose had nothing—”

“I’m sure she didn’t, but you work as a team, and I expect you to get it right. The rookie will get off lightly. I’m holding you responsible as senior agent, Prime. If this all goes to hell, it’s your job. Do you understand me?”

Zoe wet her lips. There was no other acceptable response. “Yes, sir.”

The line disconnected, going flat in her ear, and Zoe dropped the cell back into her pocket.

“Not good?” Shelley winced sympathetically.

“We should just get back to our investigation room. We have only a day before he will strike again—the real killer.” Zoe rubbed her forehead in an attempt to clear the heavy headache that was forming there, and set off through the winding corridors of the hospital for the exit.

As they passed the state police moving in the opposite direction to take up questioning of Ivan Bradshaw, Zoe could not fail to notice their scowls. They were clearly unhappy with the direction that the night had taken, and their frustration appeared to be directed solidly at the two agents.

“We just made a mistake,” Shelley said, charitably including herself in the blame as she strode along to keep up with Zoe. “We will get him. We still know his pattern. We just missed something this time. Next time, we won’t.”

Zoe wished she could share Shelley’s conviction. The truth was, she had messed up, and she wasn’t sure how. And if she made another mistake, it wasn’t just her job that was on the line—but an innocent stranger’s life.

She picked up her cell again, making one last call to the state troopers. Something had been clicking away in her mind, and now it made itself known. An urgency that came with the realization that they did not have their man after all.

“Hello? I need you to send a patrol back to the fair right away. The man we arrested is not the killer. There is a chance he came late, and we missed him.”

“A chance?” The chief sounded skeptical, even through the phone.

“This is an urgent order,” Zoe told him, wishing he would just do as she said. “Lives are on the line. Get a patrol back there now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

He drove without really looking, watching his rearview mirror for flashing lights and keeping the window wound down to listen for sirens. The cold air pouring in through the window like waves was the only thing keeping his head grounded in the present moment. The reality of it was a slap in the face, constantly bringing him back to himself enough to stop him from crashing the car.

Without it, he might have been lost. Just as lost as he felt the pattern was, now that he had no chance to complete it.

What was he going to do?

He had failed—he was going to fail. The night was not over, but the cops had known where to find him. They knew where he was going to strike next. It was all over. How was he going to complete the pattern now?

Putting on his turn signal, he pulled over on the side of the road, resting for a moment with his forehead on the steering wheel. Could it really be all over now, so late in the game, so close to finishing it all?

He sat up straighter, realizing something. They had made an arrest, hadn’t they? He had seen the FBI woman point her gun and shoot, and the troopers swarming in to arrest that other man and take him away. In his rearview mirror as he pulled out, he had seen them manhandling him, their mouths open in shouts.

If they had made an arrest, maybe they thought they had him. That the suspect for all of the murderers was in custody, and everyone was safe.

And if they thought that everyone was safe, then they would not bother to guard the fair any longer.

With this new thought running in his mind, he started the car again and pulled it in a U-turn back toward the fair. Maybe there was still a chance. In spite of everything, maybe he could still turn this night around.

If he could make it work, then he owed it to the pattern to see it through.

Despite the excitement growing in his blood, fizzing through his veins at a renewed sense of hope, he kept the car steady and smooth. He respected the speed limit, staying just under it all the way, even though there was no longer any sign of law enforcement on the road. He would stay calm, play it cool. Approach them with caution, not rush in without thought.

When he reached the area where the cars had waited in a group as he left the fair—the group that he assumed had been made up of police officers in unmarked cars—there was no one in sight. He slowed down, pulling in on the grass next to the road and switching off his engine. If he was caught here, if someone came to question him, he could just say that he was feeling unwell. That he had pulled over to catch his breath and settle his stomach.

But no one approached, and as the minutes ticked by, he began to feel more confident that no one was watching at all.

He got out of the car, staying close to it in the shadows, even bending over and placing his hands on his knees as another vehicle flashed by in a gleam of headlights on the road. Playing the part. And when still no one came to challenge him, he made up his mind.

It was not too far from the fair, here. He could easily walk to the parking lot and slip through it on foot, right up to the gates. It was closed, past time to allow new visitors, but he could sneak over the fence and see what he could see. Maybe there was still a way to make this work.

He stuck close to the trees, hiding himself in the shadows, glad of his decision to dress in dark colors. This way, he could avoid being seen for as long as possible. If there was anyone still waiting in the parking lot, he could slip away, back to his car and away from detection.

The parking lot was empty. He saw that as soon as he reached the edge of the trees, the broken-down fence he had been watching earlier. It seemed much larger now, without all of the cars to fill it. There was no one in sight, and even the lights of the fair had been turned off. Past the entrance, he saw the tall looming shapes of the dinosaur statues, like sentinels over the empty fair.

No one was here. It was closed, and everyone was gone.

He had missed his chance, after all.

He lingered, wanting to kick something or tear his hair out, fighting back an angry scream of frustration. What was he supposed to do now? There was no one here—no one to complete the pattern. He was never going to make it!

How could he have been so stupid? He should have covered his tracks better—made it less obvious that the pattern was in place. Maybe he should have moved more of the bodies right from the start, since it was the location of the kill that mattered! Why had it taken him so long to realize that? And why had he waited—sat in his car without making a move—instead of just going into the fair to make his attack earlier?

All hope was lost. He contemplated going into the fair and checking, just checking. Even so, a heavy weight had dropped into his stomach, and he did not know if he would even be able to move.

A light flashed out before him, illuminating the parking lot in a wide sweep, and he turned in fear. This night was getting worse by the minute. As the dazzle of the headlights faded from his eyes, he made out the insignia of the state police painted on the side of the car.

“Can I help you, sir?” the cop asked, leaning out the window. His voice had an accusatory tone. It was not really a question of help. The man understood that. It was a suspicion.

He had to think fast—tell him something that would take away the suspicion. Make him a normal person in the eyes of the cop. “I was here earlier, and I think I must have dropped my wallet,” he said quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets in an approximation of glumness. “Thought I would come and check, but looks like they’re closed up for the night.”

He waited then, tense. The cop was still inside his car—not an easy target. Maybe if he would get out, that would be a chance. He could loop the wire around his neck, catch him, make him tonight’s piece of the pattern. But he had wanted to avoid cops right from the beginning, avoid anyone that would make too much of a buzz. Cops wanted cop killers more than any other kind.

The other thing was that the cop might try to arrest him, and then he would have to do something. Pull the garrote out of his pocket and stop him before he got the cuffs on or radioed it in. The man couldn’t make out the cop’s eyes in the darkness, couldn’t read his facial expression. He had no idea what he would do next. He couldn’t even see how tall the cop was—what if he was too tall, too strong? He had targeted women for the most part, and for a reason. That first guy by the farm had almost overpowered him, almost gotten away. He couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t happen again.

“Well,” the cop drawled, making it take longer than it needed to, setting all of the man’s nerves on edge. “You’d best come back in the morning, son. We’re patrolling this area because of an arrest made here earlier. You can ask the staff tomorrow whether someone turned it in.”

The man scratched the back of his head, letting his shoulders slump. “Yes, sir,” he said, dropping into a lower tone, a disappointed sound. “Guess I’d better just hope for a good Samaritan tomorrow, then.”

The cop rolled up his window and started to peel out, and the man waited for the car to move before going as if to follow it. He walked toward the entrance to the parking lot, where it led out onto the road, as if he was about to walk out and back to his car.

And stopped as soon as the patrol car was out of sight, unwilling to leave the parking lot just yet. This was where it had to happen. There was no doubt about that. The pattern was clear. But how was he going to do that without any target in the area?

He lingered, unsure of what to do or where to go. There was nothing for him here, yet still he felt compelled to stay. All night, if need be, until the sun rose in the morning and it was finally all over.

But he did not have to wait until sunup. In fact, he barely had to wait long at all.