The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [39]
As she headed back toward the interstate, she struggled to recall what had transpired after arriving at Deacon’s. The dashboard clock read 10:36. Ten-thirty-six . . . she had been there an hour and a half. Whatever she had done, whatever had happened, had taken a considerable amount of time.
She remembered going there to discuss a change in Jonathan’s custody—and Deacon had been less than cooperative. Things were coming back to her, but she was still drawing blanks.
Ten-thirty. There was something she was supposed to have done at ten. What was it?
She stopped at a light and looked around. Was it something for work? Was she supposed to meet the task force somewhere? She yawned and her jaw hurt. She looked in the mirror and fought back dizziness to see half-mast eyes and frazzled hair. What the hell had happened?
Come on, Karen, think! The light turned green—and her thoughts cleared a bit. She took what she knew and mixed in a little inference . . . and figured she and Deacon had gotten into it over Jonathan’s custody. The end result she knew—an unexpected nap on Deacon’s floor, some dizziness, and one hell of a headache. He must’ve clocked her good, because she still didn’t remember it. But there was no bruising on her face.
However it went down, she only hoped she’d gotten him good, too. But judging by the fact that the TV was on and a smoke was burning in the ashtray, she probably did not get the best of the encounter.
A sprinkling drizzle began dotting her windshield. As she reached to turn on the wipers, her forearm brushed up against her holster, and oh, shit—
She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the rain-slick roadway, a portfolio of papers and files stacked in the backseat flying to the floor.
Though she didn’t remember what had happened at Deacon’s, her weapon was missing, and that was something she did not want to have to explain—to anyone, let alone Gifford or the policy freaks at OPR.
seventeen
Vail swung the car around and headed back to Deacon’s, taking care to obey the traffic ordinances of the local jurisdiction—actually, she was doing about eighty and swerving all over the road on the wet asphalt. Jesus Christ . . . she had to get there before he left with her Glock. Knowing him, he’d make sure the sidearm was found somewhere embarrassing . . . or he’d put it in the hands of a junkie in the bad part of DC so it would be used in a crime. That wouldn’t go over well with the Bureau. It’d be in all the papers, make national news. She’d be disgraced. And if it was used in a murder . . . how could she live with that?
Vail made it back to his house in a little over five minutes. His car was still in the driveway. She ran to the front door, yanked it open. Deacon was somewhere in the house, singing. Singing? Why the hell is he singing?
Her eyes scanned the room. Didn’t see her Glock anywhere. Knelt down, searched beneath the couch and coffee table when suddenly she heard—
“Looking for this?”
She spun, still on her knees. Deacon was standing there, ten feet away, her Glock in his hand, holding it up as if showing it to her.
“Give it—”
He lowered the pistol and pointed it at her. “Now just a minute, Karen. I don’t think I like your tone. See, I’m holding the goddamn gun here. Understand what that means?”
Oh, she understood all right. She understood that she hated this man. She hated him so much that she envisioned taking her own serrated knife and ramming it through his eyes.
“Stay where you are. On your knees.” He raised his eyebrows in mock excitement. “Hmm. How appropriate.”
No, how infuriating. What to do? Rush him? Too risky. Not yet. She’d give it a bit longer to unfold before acting. It couldn’t get any worse than it was right now, so she had nothing to lose by waiting for, perhaps, a better opportunity.
He unzipped his pants with his left hand and extended his right elbow, the one holding the weapon.
She forced a laugh. “Keep dreaming, Deacon. No fucking way.”
“Funny you