The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [56]
“I’m a fucking FBI agent, I know my rights!”
But he continued on nonetheless.
“Bledsoe!” she shouted at the closed door to the house. Would he hear her? What could he do, anyway? She felt the cold metal touch her wrists and the deputy’s voice disappeared in her mind. Tears filled her eyes. This can’t be happening. “I need to get my son. I need to—ow!” The hard cuffs bit into her skin. “You don’t need to make the damn things so tight. Didn’t they teach you anything at the academy?”
Greenwich swung the cruiser door open and nudged Vail toward the backseat. She more or less fell in as he guided her head past the door frame.
“Can I at least make a phone call?”
He looked down at her. “After you’re processed, I’ll make sure you get access to a phone.”
And then the door slammed shut.
She looked at the front door to the house, willing Bledsoe to walk out and save her from this nightmare. “Bledsoe!” she screamed.
But the cruiser windows were closed. She glanced at the clock: it was ten minutes to five. Even if she was able to reach Robby—who was in the middle of a crisis of his own—he wouldn’t be able to get someone to the school in time.
The other officer headed back toward his squad car as Greenwich opened the door, got in, then slammed it shut. “Four-ten Baker,” he said into his radio.
“Go ahead Four-ten Baker.”
“Heading toward ADC, prisoner in custody.”
As the car pulled away from the curb, Vail closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the seat. This can’t be happening.
Goddamn you, Deacon.
twenty-three
He was so pissed at the moment, he had the urge to do something, to do someone. Right now. Like that dog that wouldn’t stop barking, this was monopolizing his thoughts. He stunned the dog to shut him up. But he couldn’t shut off the anger inside him. He couldn’t make it go away. He paced, then kneaded some clay, but none of it helped. He sat down and began to write.
I want to stab him, hurt him like he hurts those whores he brings home. I want to kill him. How would I do it? Shooting him would be the easiest and least risky way, but I don’t have a gun. I’d hit him with a baseball bat, but I don’t know if I could hit him hard enough before he turned it on me.
But a knife . . . a knife in the face would stun him. In the eye and he wouldn’t be able to come back at me. A fast attack. I could do that.
Stab and run. No, stab and stab and stab.
Yes, I could do that. I could do that. I could.
He liked what he’d written, but it didn’t cool his anger, his urge, which felt like a ravenous hunger eating away at his stomach. If anything, the rage, the fury he felt toward the prick was driving him to take action sooner rather than later. He wasn’t prepared for this, and for a few seconds wondered if he was behaving irrationally, allowing his emotions to control his actions. He had a plan, and he should stick with it. It’s when you cut corners that you end up making mistakes.
But he couldn’t help himself.
He found himself sitting outside the nearest Food & More about twenty minutes from his house. Supermarkets, bars, and malls were the best places to find a bitch when you were desperate, that much he’d thought through. And the stun gun was tucked away in his glove box, just in case he got pulled over. So many details, so many things to keep straight.
It was four o’clock and the sky was darkening, meaning he had maybe forty-five minutes of light left. He got out and walked into the market, his overcoat flapping in the brisk breeze, the hat threatening to lift off his head.
He angled for the deli counter. Women standing around, nowhere to go while they waited for their orders. He stayed there for ten, fifteen minutes watching them chitchat, watching them peer into the display cases. Watching their eyes. But none of them intrigued him. On to the dairy section . . . another place where the bitches seem to always linger while they scanned the