The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [38]
He’d been on the receiving end of a beating too many times, so if you wanted to go toe to toe with him, fine, he was ready to rumble. He knew all the moves because he lived through them.
He shoved an ice pack against the lump on his forehead. The swelling had drained a bit into the side of his face and jaw, but fortunately the discoloration was easily covered by makeup. An FBI agent with a large purple and black bruise on his face would attract attention, and that was something he needed to avoid.
But if there was one thing this bitch taught him, it was that he needed to handle these encounters better, find a way of knocking them out faster, before they had a chance to swing at him. Next time it could be a knife or a broken bottle.
He made a list of possible solutions, but they all involved risk—the biggest of which was being seen in public buying a weapon. But the Internet, on the other hand, allowed him to go anywhere and do anything he wanted, without anyone scrutinizing his face or questioning his motives.
He could buy whatever he needed, within reason. A simple search brought him to numerous websites that sold stun guns, which could incapacitate a bitch for minutes at a time. All he’d have to do is touch the probe to her body—hell, even her clothing. The longer the contact, the longer the period of incapacitation.
He clicked on the Frequently Asked Questions link, and read: “Using a high pulse frequency, stun guns scramble the nervous system and make the muscles work so rapidly their source of energy converts immediately into lactic acid, exhausting and disabling the muscles. At the same time, the pulse interrupts the brain’s nerve impulses, causing the stunned individual to lose muscle control and become disoriented. This incapacitated and confused state will last two to five minutes or longer depending on body mass and. . . .”
Minutes! He only needed a few seconds, really. A few seconds to get his hands around her neck, a few seconds to squeeze the life from her body. Two hands, two eyes. Two bugged out eyes, the capillaries bursting from the pressure. . . .
He quickly paged through the website, entered the credit card number, then logged off. He’d have the package tomorrow.
It seemed almost too good to be true.
sixteen
The room spun for a second before coming back into focus. Vail blinked a few times and realized she was staring at the light fixture on her ceiling. No, not her ceiling, not anymore. Deacon’s ceiling. Deacon’s house.
The television was on, the unmistakable sound of cars racing around a track blaring from the speakers. A cigarette was burning down near the filter in an ashtray beside Deacon’s recliner. And—what the hell?—her pants were unzipped.
What time is it?
Why am I on the floor?
Why does my head hurt so much?
Vail rolled onto her side and saw Deacon’s empty Lazy Boy. Where the hell is he?
She felt like a hammer had crushed her skull. She reached back and felt a bruise, as if her head were a piece of damaged fruit. Whatever had happened, it involved Deacon. And that meant it wasn’t good.
Vail pulled herself up and stood in the middle of the living room, which tilted back and forth like a seesaw. She swayed, dizzy and wobbly, bending her knees and holding her arms out like a surfer for balance. After steadying herself, she stumbled out to her car.
She rooted around her pocket for the keys, opened the door, and drove away. Her mind was still a blur, and she was more or less driving on autopilot. She knew the way to her office without