Crush - Alan Jacobson [68]
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.
TWENTY-FIVE
An acrid scent stung her nose. A sour taste coated her tongue. A chill blew across her face. And her back felt wet.
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.
How? Why?
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. Oh, this is not good. Weapon gone, unconscious in a field, blood