The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [31]
But somehow she knew he was there. He darted through the bushes but stopped when he cut his hand on a sharp branch. He found a safe place to crouch while he licked the blood, to taste it, see what it was like.
Running his tongue across the open wound stung. He didn’t think it would hurt so much. At least he tasted better than that slut Sandra did. She was satisfying, but predictably bitter with a strong aftertaste. More iron, less copper. Maybe he was a bit anemic.
He swiveled around, staying behind some bushes. Watching for movement. That bitch cop was going to be coming after him, and he had to be ready.
ROBBY’S .40-CALIBER GLOCK was out in front of him now, his back against the left door frame. Vail was facing him, pressed against the opposite side of the doorway.
“How do you know? How do you know he’s here?”
“I saw something, when the lightning lit up the yard. I feel him.”
In the next half second, Vail was outside, the rain pouring, another rumble of thunder crawling across the horizon. She made her way through the side yard with reckless abandon, pushing away the thick, overgrown brush with her free forearm. Robby was five feet behind her, slipping on the thick weeds and bushes that hadn’t been pruned back in years.
“Karen, where the hell are you going?”
THERE SHE IS! He knew it! Running into the yard—looking for him—but going in the wrong direction. He crouched lower. Thick, woody bushes and a dark suit . . . good cover. He was fairly safe, if only for a short time. But as any good prey who wants to survive knows, you need to get a close look at the hunter. Assess his strengths and weaknesses. After all, even though he knew there’d be no way they’d find him, he still had to be vigilant in making sure he didn’t give them too much. Tempting fate was not a smart thing to do.
He put his head back and sniffed. Sucked in deeply. Smelled her scent riding the breeze that carried the rain droplets against his face. Light scent, perfume, with a hint of fear and anger. Yes, she was angry. Very angry.
“KAREN, SLOW DOWN. He could be setting a trap—”
“Shh!” Vail hissed into the darkness, which was illuminated by an obscure moon hiding behind engorged rain clouds. She cut left round a tree but slipped and went down hard. “Goddamnit!”
“You okay?” Robby’s voice was behind her, a dozen feet or so.
Another bolt of lightning cracked the sky and lit up the yard, which seemed to go on for a rolling acre of pines, firs, and wild shrubs. Robby was now at Vail’s side, his gaze bouncing around the flora. He grasped her by the right arm and lifted her up.
“He’s here,” she whispered.
“You sure?”
She nodded, though she knew Robby’s eyes were on the surrounding shrubs and bushes. Gun in his right hand, legs spread wide and bent slightly at the knees. He was ready, but the question was, ready for what?
“Where?” he asked.
She smelled something on the breeze. Sniffed, crinkled her nose. A scent she couldn’t readily identify . . . as well as an odor she knew too well: Blood. She looked around, wishing she could hit a switch and turn on the sun, if only for a minute. Get a good look around. So damn close—
“Karen?”
“I don’t know, I just feel him. Saw something in the yard when the lightning hit. I looked over, saw movement. He was watching us.”
“Like an arsonist coming back to watch his handiwork.”
Vail didn’t answer. She stood there, her left knee throbbing something fierce and bug bite itches prickling her legs. But the most irritating itch of all was the mental one: her need to know why the offender had waited there when he could’ve been long gone. She had tracked these killers for years from a distance. Glossy black-and-white and color photos in a file folder, interview forms, witness statements. It was all so removed. This was more visceral, urgent, and real-time.
Up close and personal.
twelve
He never had a subconscious desire to get caught, as some killers did.
He only got