The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [40]
He raped me? No—couldn’t be. Could it? She wanted to put her hand on her crotch, feel to see if she was wet. But she wouldn’t give him that. From what she could tell, she didn’t feel any soreness or irritation. “Nice try, asshole. I’d know if you raped me.”
“Rape? Such a strong word, don’t you think? We are married—”
“Only in your warped mind. Divorce is just about done.”
“So maybe I did rape you. And maybe I didn’t.”
She shook her head in disgust. “When did you become such a vile human being?”
“You’re being kind of harsh, Karen. I mean, don’t you deal with a lot worse?”
“It’s just a matter of degree. And believe me, the dividing line between you and those scumbags isn’t that wide. You’re a lot closer to those monsters than you think.”
He stepped closer, wiggled the handgun at her. “How’s your head feel? I hit you pretty hard.”
Is that how I ended up on the floor? He hit me? But she hadn’t seen a bruise on her face—which she would have by now if he’d punched her. Still, her jaw did hurt. She looked up at him. “I’m getting up now, Deacon, and you’re going to hand over my gun.”
“Well, you can get up. Let’s start with that.”
She rose—and in one motion, pivoted on her back heel and swung her leg wide, her left foot side-slamming the Glock and sending it across the room.
She scrambled after it—but so did Deacon—and they both dove forward onto the hardwood like linebackers pursuing a fumble, their bodies colliding and Vail scooping up the weapon with her right hand. She swung it around, and, while on her side, slammed the barrel up against Deacon’s nose. “You goddamn son of a bitch. Were you going to pull the trigger? Huh?”
His eyes crossed as he focused on the Glock.
“I should blow your goddamn brains out, you useless piece of shit!”
“Go ahead, Karen,” he said, unfazed. “Pull the trigger.” He shifted his gaze back to her face. “Throw away your career. Leave Jonathan without parents. Come on, I dare you.”
Her breath was coming in spasms, her heart pounding so forcefully she felt it in her ears. Calm down. Think. She looked into his eyes, seeing the malevolence she often saw in the killers she interviewed in prison. She wasn’t sure what it was, only that she knew it when she saw it: a cold depth, an emotional void.
Vail got to her feet but kept the weapon pointed at Deacon. Her hand was shaking—not out of fear but out of concern she’d lose her nerve and pull the trigger. He was right—she had more at stake than he did. Given his shambles of a life, he would probably embrace suicide if he had the guts to do it.
Vail backed out of the house and didn’t holster the Glock until she sat down in her car. She pulled away from the house and stopped at a light. She felt dirty, poisoned. He didn’t rape me, she told herself. He was just screwing with my head.
Overwhelming unease pulled at her thoughts. The light turned green and she drove on, in the direction of the task force headquarters. She needed to get her head back into the Dead Eyes investigation, to do something useful and productive. To get her mind off Deacon, off what had happened.
When she arrived at the house, a Verizon Communications van was parked out front, no doubt installing the phone lines Bledsoe ordered. Still in a semifog, Vail nearly ran into the technician, who was on his way back to his truck.
As soon as Bledsoe caught sight of her, he opened his mouth to ask the obvious question. She had been so absorbed in her anger she had forgotten to brush her hair or throw on some makeup. I probably look like shit. Bledsoe placed a hand around her shoulders and led her into the room that had once passed as a rudimentary kitchen. He sat her down and stood there looking at her, clearly at a loss about what to do.
A moment passed before he finally grabbed a seat in front of her. She realized he was in cop mode, which would explain why he was keeping his distance.
“What’s wrong?