Allison Brennan - Killing Fear

Will drove his personal car, a black Porsche 911, over to Frank’s house, just a mile from Carina’s place. He’d bought the car five years ago at a government auction. It had been seized at a border drug raid and he’d had his eye on it the entire time it was in impound. Cost him a pretty penny, but far cheaper than on the retail market.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said to Carina.

“I know.” She paused. “You’ve been acting weird since Glenn escaped.”

“You read my case files. The guy’s a sick sociopath. He had not one ounce of remorse, not one shred of guilt. He’s the most arrogant criminal I ever met. The guy was so arrogant he fired Iris Jones.”

Carina turned to him. “Have you called her?”

“His defense attorney? Why would he go-” Will stopped. “Shit. I didn’t think. She wasn’t on Diaz’s list because she never actually went to trial with him.”

“I’m sure she knows, but-”

Will pulled out his cell phone, called dispatch, and got Jones’s mobile number.

“Iris Jones,” she answered in her crisp, formal style.

“It’s Detective Will Hooper with SDPD.”

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You heard about what happened at San Quentin.”

“Of course.”

“Theodore Glenn escaped and-”

“Detective,” Jones snapped, “if you think that I would harbor a fugitive, you are sorely mistaken. I can assure you that I have no ties to that man, nor would I harbor him, nor would I represent-”

“Iris,” Will interrupted. “I was just calling to tell you to watch your back. We have a task force here, but we’re contacting everyone involved in the case to make sure that they are taking precautions.”

Pause. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I jumped down your throat. He fired me. I had nothing to do with his conviction.”

“He may blame you for something, we don’t know.”

“I doubt-” She paused. “Detective, I don’t scare easily, but Theodore Glenn scares me. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Theodore Glenn couldn’t help but feel superior. He’d been sitting right outside the police department for hours and they hadn’t spotted him. Either his disguise was more than adequate-he’d threaded his brown hair with gray and popped in over-the-counter contacts to change his blue eyes to brown-or the police were even dumber than he thought.

More likely, the police didn’t expect him to hang out in the middle of their own territory. They’d assume he would hide out in a motel or run for the border after taking care of Sherry. Now he needed information, but he wasn’t confident his disguise would pass intense scrutiny-if Hooper saw him, for example.

That made sitting here even more exciting.

Theodore craved adrenaline. He’d shoplifted as a child not because he needed anything, and certainly not for the attention, but for the punch of adrenaline when he staked out a shop, monitored the staff, avoided cameras, grabbed anything from candy to money in a change drawer. The activity bored him after a time, because no matter how many risks he took, he’d never been caught. He was that good.

Team sports held no allure for him. He’d tried, but he was better than everyone else and the idiot coaches would insist that everyone have a turn. Even the stupid fat-ass sissies who would run away from the ball instead of toward it. Theodore couldn’t fathom doing that for years before finally being old enough to make a team that would truly value talent.

He went for individual sports. He ran. When he came in first in any given race, it was over. Once he’d proved he was the best, there was no other place to go. He didn’t need twelve first place trophies.

He’d discovered skateboarding young, then dirt bikes, then motorbikes. His parents gave him whatever he asked for because they recognized that he was special. He could accomplish anything he set his mind to.

When he fell-and he often did at first-a rage came over him. Even when he had no injuries, his failure physically hurt, a knife twisting in his skull, telling him he couldn’t . Only in conquering that failure could he seize on the power that gave him the high and reward he needed.

But eventually, the adrenaline from personal achievement wasn’t enough. How many times could he sky-dive? How many times could he bungee jump off a bridge? He’d traveled all over the country seeking thrills that needed to be bigger, better, more dangerous just to get the same satisfaction.

Until he killed.

The strippers weren’t the first. The first time was two years before them. Spontaneous.

Theodore was still in law school the first time he BASE jumped, over the Royal Gorge in Colorado. The first time he jumped had been the most exhilarating experience of his life. Free-falling, before he pulled the parachute cord, Glenn felt a euphoric high that lasted for weeks. No subsequent jump gave him that intense thrill. He couldn’t go back to bungee jumping, which seemed so childish by that time, and instead tried a variety of other BASE jump locations. Nothing satisfied him, not the same way. The more he failed to get the rush, the more he craved it.

So he went back to the Royal Gorge one weekend, to regain the excitement that he was the best and jumped.

The thrill was gone. He might as well have been jumping off a two-story house. He’d done the Gorge once, he knew what it felt like, and the second time he felt nothing. Nothing! It was like being a kid again, watching the other kids laugh and play and smile and not know what the fuck they were finding so fun.

If Dirk Lofton, a prick he’d jumped with before, hadn’t walked up just then, after Theodore made a perfect landing in the Gorge, Lofton would still be alive.

“Nice landing,” Lofton said. “’Course you had perfect weather. No updrafts.”

Lofton had always been competitive. While others might have called it “friendly,” it twisted and festered in Theodore’s stomach. Churning until all he wanted to do was snap the asshole’s neck.

Picturing Lofton lying dead at his feet gave Theodore a rush. And an idea.

The next morning Lofton planned to jump. When Lofton went on his early morning run, Theodore broke into his hotel room and subtly rearranged his parachute. Lofton had packed it the night before and used his own, unique chute, so there was no way Theodore could swap it out. But moving the cords around, twisting one of the cables, that Theodore could easily manage without Lofton noticing anything amiss at a glance.

It might not work, but that was part of the thrill. The unknown. That Lofton might die, might live. Maybe he’d break his back and be paralyzed for the rest of his life. All because of Theodore.

He felt on top of the world. Anticipation fed his need for excitement.

Later that morning, Theodore watched Lofton from the bridge along with everyone else, a dozen or so bystanders and jumpers. The winds were whipping up, but Lofton said he could do it. Gave Theodore that dumbass smile. “You had perfect weather yesterday, Glenn. It takes real balls to jump today.”

Theodore grinned; pasted the aw, shucks look on his face. Lofton’s girlfriend Sandy patted Theodore on the back. “He’s just being a jerk. You were incredible yesterday.”

“It’s fine,” Theodore said. And it was: His heart was racing and his eyesight was clear. Everything was brighter, more brilliant. Lofton climbed onto the platform. Tested the wind. Climbed down. Checked his safety harness. He climbed back up. The wind died. Lofton jumped, perfect form. Soaring down, down, down…

“Fucking shit!” an observer shouted, though Theodore didn’t hear. He watched in ecstasy. The world stood still except for Lofton falling faster, faster, to the beat of Theodore’s raging pulse.