Nancy Grace - The Eleventh Victim

Police were no help to her now; they wouldn’t accept defeat. An invisible weight settled on Hailey’s shoulders as the lights continued to blink through the misty darkness settling over the city. One thought burned into her consciousness.

Who planted the pen?

St. Simons Island, Georgia

VIRGINIA UNLOCKED THE WOODEN DOOR THAT WAS PART OF THE tall, weathered fence surrounding her house, and stepped into the yard. It was all grass, sea oats, and scrub pines growing wild and unmanicured, still wet from morning dew and sea mist.

As she approached the front door, she could hear tiny yelps and barks as the dogs hurled themselves at the door to welcome her back, their little doggie toenails digging at the bottom. When she pried through the tiniest possible opening so as not to let them escape, they leaped on her, all tongues and fur.

First, treats, and then, the guerrillas. With Sidney curled in her lap, she took out her old address book, BlackBerry be damned, and started dialing.

“Good afternoon, Radio Shack.”

“Yes, may I please speak to Ken?”

She was on hold for the duration of a Britney Spears song until, finally, she got her first lieutenant, Ken, on the other end. They spoke in agreed-upon code.

“The beach is hot. We need to cool off.”

The undercover talk thrilled Ken no end.

“When?” he whispered into the phone, and Virginia could just see him, turned away from the others and being all Barney Fife.

“Nighttime, and we go by boat. Call me tonight but start the chain.”

“Chain commenced. Over and out.”

The phone clicked off and the gig was on.

The other dogs were all sacked out on the den furniture, sleepy after their treats. Virginia pulled herself out of the chair, depositing Sidney on his paws, and started upstairs to make the bed and take a shower.

After that, she’d head back to Larry’s. She had to locate some sort of a boat they could take around the bend of the Island. Shouldn’t be hard, no water patrol that time of night. It would have to be large enough to carry the shovels and hedge-clippers they’d need to tear apart the layout.

In the back of her head, somewhere remote and tucked away, she knew it was all temporary. The money man would find a way to lay the foundation regardless of their attacks on the work site.

And then what? Chain herself to the site’s chain-link fence? Mount another petition of Islanders that opposed development?

That was beginning to wear thin as more and more Islanders got paychecks from developers.

It would be a long war, and this was simply one battle.

At the top of the stairs, Virginia turned right into her bedroom. She opened the curtains and looked out at the waves rolling in one after the next after the next.

It was beautiful and hypnotizing and worth fighting for.

“That’s what it’s all about,” she whispered to nobody. She would find a way.

A thump at the front door snapped her out of her daze.

The damn paperboy. She’d told him a million times, don’t hit the door. It would throw the dogs into a fit. But luckily, they continued to snooze off the treats.

She bent to pick up a pillow off the floor, then stood up straight, eyes wide, locked on the window.

The paper had already come.

Something wasn’t right. All at once, Virginia could feel it.

She stood absolutely still, listening.

For a moment, all she could hear was the distant sound of the ocean and her own breathing.

Then, the faint but unmistakable sound of a footstep creaking on the stairs.

She was no longer alone in the house.

Panic washed over her and she looked around for a place to hide. Knowing she was trapped, she made a futile move toward the closet.

Just before she reached it, she glimpsed, through the corner of her eye, movement in the doorway.

It was too late.

She turned around.

Two of the most massive men she’d ever seen looked back at her with flat gazes.

“Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want? Get out of my house before I call the police!” She eyed the phone on the other side of the bed, and without waiting for an answer, she lunged for it.

Diving across the bed, they tackled her. She hit the floor, her face sliding along the rug, burning. One of them kicked her hard in the backside when she tried to stand up.

“Take it…my purse. It’s over there.” When she spoke her tongue tasted blood.

The shorter one backhanded her and she flew against the wall.

“Somebody likes the beach, doesn’t she?” The pointed toe of a snakeskin cowboy boot crashed into her ribs.

The tall one yanked the neck of Virginia’s shirt and ripped it down around her hips. Her arms crossed her chest and she stayed flat on her stomach. One of them turned her over, but she couldn’t see which. A pain went crashing through her skull when a fist made contact with her jaw.

Far away, she could hear the wild barking of her dogs…and then it faded into silence. The last thing Virginia saw was the carpet under her face on the floor.

New York City

HE’D ALWAYS HAD EXCELLENT NIGHT VISION, EVEN AS A CHILD.

The super-heightened sense, his uncanny ability to see in practically pitch-dark conditions, had served him well in the past. On the streets of Atlanta, he’d been able to spot the silhouette of a lone woman on a darkened sidewalk blocks away, even in shadowy pockets where the streetlights had been shot out for target practice.

And then later, in the penitentiary, he would sit nightly, unmoving, in the dark of his cell, looking straight forward through the bars of his cell door, seeing yet not seeing.

He always had the advantage at night, and tonight was no different. His eyes had been trained on the front entrance of the New York City Women’s Detention Center for nearly seven hours. As the daylight faded, he had to focus even more keenly as people came and went about their business. His back to a wall across the street, he continued staring, watching every single person who emerged.

Darkening winds whipped up the street to fly above him and around the building that rose like a mountain in the middle of a New York City block. He melted against the stone of the building.

Then suddenly, the hours spent hunched there against the building came to an abrupt end.

It was her.

The moment was perfect…just like he dreamed…the precise moment he saw her emerge from the giant front doors. A huge overhead lantern-fixture hung down in the middle of the old building’s entrance, glowing golden in the night and spilling light down over the steps. It bathed her body with light against the dark and when it did, the sight of her hit him hard in the gut. He sucked in wind so cold it hurt his chest and made his teeth ache.

The blonde hair, the pale face, the slight frame…the figure precisely matched the one etched into his memory.

He watched her step out of the building and into the night air. He refused to even blink, drinking in the sight of her as she stood for a fleeting moment on the gray-streaked solid granite landing of the NYPD. She was poised there, topping thirty or so sharp granite steps leading down to the street level, like a tiny, delicate marzipan ballerina decorating a giant cake.

She almost seemed to lean back and rest against the heavy doors. Her coat fell back, away from her body. He could barely breathe.

What was she thinking?

She could have absolutely no idea he was this close to her.

But then, none of them had.

How does it feel now, Hailey? The hunter is the hunted. The destroyer is being destroyed. Does it hurt, Hailey?