The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [63]
She pushed the swing higher, the temperature a sweltering ninety-five, the humidity approaching pretty much the same figure. She swatted some air at her neck, wishing she’d brought a sun hat with her. Good old New York weather.
She thought of her promotion from the Academy, which was followed three years later by Deacon’s layoff from his job because of accounting irregularities. He maintained it was an honest mistake, a claim Vail believed and defended. But true or not, it began his downward spiral, a freefall that would last the next four years. He stopped taking his bipolar medication, started drinking, and lost motivation to find a new job. He drifted from one low-paying position to another, each one of lesser prestige than the last. He seemed defeated, and though Vail did everything she could to help pull him out of his doldrums, he struck bottom when she was promoted to the profiling unit. His teetering male ego couldn’t take another hit, and he only appeared to garner an intensified resentment toward her.
Vail took to raising Jonathan on her own, arranging for her son to go to after-school programs and day care until she could pick him up on her way home from work. Busy with her new career, she saw less and less of Deacon, who’d taken what was supposed to be a temporary job as a long-haul trucker. Like an ice cube in a refrigerator, their love slowly melted away, until there was nothing remaining of what had drawn them together so many years ago. The thought of divorce crossed her mind many times, but she could never pull the trigger. Karen Vail, expert marksman, daring NYPD detective, and crack FBI agent, couldn’t hit the most significant target of her life.
When Deacon was relieved of his job because of repeated incidents of road rage, it was the final brick in the wall. He sat at home and drank beer, his anger slowly turning toward his wife in the form of verbal abuse, which built over six months to the one and only time he struck her. She walked out the door with a swollen lip and a deep sense of sadness she never imagined possible.
She served Deacon with her application for divorce five days later.
Vail shook her head. The fuse had been lit, and now this. Her son lay in a hospital bed in a coma. How could this have happened?
The rhythmic vibration of her BlackBerry invaded her thoughts and woke her from her semisleep. She lifted her head and realized she had drooled on Jonathan’s forearm. She wiped it away, then looked at her watch. It was seven thirty in the morning.
The text was from a private line at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. She dialed in and was routed to Thomas Gifford’s office. Her boss had no doubt just learned of the arrest. With all that had gone on, she had forgotten to call him. Shit. Got any more kerosene for the fire?
“Mr. Gifford wants to see you in his office ASAP,” the secretary said.
“Tell him I’m on my way, be there in about forty-five minutes.”
She gave Jonathan a kiss on the forehead, knowing there was nothing she could do sitting by his side. “I love you,” she said, then left.
VAIL ARRIVED at the commerce center and parked. She looked in the rearview mirror and tried to fix herself up, but she had to admit, she looked like hell. She still had Robby’s car, no purse, no makeup, and she still had not been home to shower and change.
She took the elevator up to the second floor, punched in her ID code, and wandered down the hallway toward Gifford’s office. It was three times the size of her own cubicle, with a huge picture window view of the surrounding Aquian foliage.
Vail