Michael Prescott - Next Victim

She expected him to continue descending into the canyon, but he surprised her, veering to his right, where a second hillside intersected with the first. He crossed over to that slope and began climbing toward the ridge. His movements were assured, confident, and she realized he must be retracing the route he’d taken when he arrived. He had parked somewhere in the maze of cul-de-sacs off Mulholland, then crossed the hills and sneaked onto Dodge’s property from the rear.

She was yards behind him, hampered by the lingering weakness of her muscles and her unfamiliarity with the terrain. She couldn’t catch up to him, not in time.

But, damn it, he was practically in her sights. She could see him, see Mobius, or at least his faint silhouette, his progress marked on the far hillside by a shifting wake of brush.

She yanked the Sig Sauer free of her waistband and fired off a round, aiming high, leading the target.

Whip-crack of the bullet in the air, thud of impact on sandstone, but the figure didn’t stop moving, wasn’t hit.

From the rising plume of dust, she judged that the shot had been wide of its mark by a yard. She adjusted, fired again.

This time the figure stopped-she thought she’d nailed him-no, he’d only frozen momentarily when the shot landed close.

She’d come within a foot of him. Next time…

A scrub oak beside her swayed as a bullet made a soft thwack in its branches.

He was shooting back.

She threw herself behind the tree, using its slender trunk as cover. Another shot went off, kicking up dirt and gravel near where she’d lain a moment earlier.

The bastard was armed, and a good shot too-better than she was.

When she glanced out from behind the oak, she saw him disappearing into a copse of eucalyptus trees halfway to the ridge.

The trees provided perfect cover. She had no chance of hitting him now. Her best opportunity was to get back to her car, try to cut him off before he could drive away.

She ran uphill, bending almost double at the waist to form a smaller target in case he decided to pick her off from the safety of the trees. She wondered how it would feel to be shot in the back, or if he was a good enough marksman to place the round directly in her skull-no warning, no awareness, no time even to hear the gun’s report-just a shattering impact and lights out.

But she didn’t get shot, and now she was scrambling into Dodge’s backyard, clear of the hillside, safe.

She kept running, her heart working hard, breath coming in explosive gasps. If there was any VX left in her system, she must be sweating it out, purifying herself.

Fast around the side of the house to the front, then down the street to the turnout where she’d parked-brief, frantic fumbling in her purse for her car keys, and then she was at the wheel, cranking the engine, flooring the gas as she slammed the gear selector into reverse and backed into the street. She popped the lever forward, putting the car into drive, and sped east on Mulholland, in the direction Mobius had been going.

Side street ahead. Car pulling out. Blue coupe. Moving fast.

Him.

It had to be him.

He must have made it to his vehicle just when she’d reached hers.

She gunned the motor, the bureau car bouncing on the road, spraying dirt as she swerved into the shoulder on tight curves. She flicked on her high beams. The fleeing car bobbed in and out of the light. Camaro or Firebird, California plate.

Another rough curve, her tires wailing as she fought with the steering wheel to prevent a skid, and then the road straightened out and so did she, and she was closer to Mobius’s car.

The license plate. Read it.

Two-two-three…

He put on a burst of speed, racing out of the range of her high beams, challenging her to keep up. She floored the gas pedal. The sedan shook, bounding over ruts and potholes, each impact nearly banging her head on the ceiling. She realized she wasn’t wearing a seat belt.

Closing in again.

Two-two-three-XK…

He swerved left, and it took her a split second to understand that he was taking a hairpin curve in the road.

She spun the wheel, too late.

The road switched hard to the left, and then there was no road, only a tangle of brambly weeds that scraped the hood and windshield, clawing at her through the open windows as she stood with both feet on the brake pedal.

The car shuddered to a stop a hundred feet off the road, on a gentle downward slope that became a precipice not more than fifty yards farther ahead.

There was no hurry now. Mobius was gone in the night. She took her time easing the sedan into reverse, backing and filling until she found the tracks made by her own tires and was able to slowly climb the hill and regain the road. Layers of foliage brushed the car, clinging briefly and pulling free, leaving twigs and briers and leaves behind. Her hair was full of the stuff.

Once on the road, she made a U-turn. The sedan was making a variety of unsettling noises, several warning lights were glowing on the dash, and the left front tire seemed to be going flat. Even so, she made it back to Dodge’s house.

A brief stagger brought her to his front door, still open as she’d left it.

She entered, turned on the lights, found a phone. She had Andrus’s number on speed-dial on her fried cell phone, but she couldn’t remember it offhand, so she called the field office’s switchboard. Larkin answered.

"It’s McCallum," she said. "I just had a run-in with Mobius."

"You’re kidding me."

She ignored this. "And I got his plate number."

"Tess, if this is some kind of gag-"

"It’s no joke, Peter. I’m goddamn serious. I need you to run a trace on Mobius’s license plate. Right now."

She recited the plate number, which she’d memorized just before losing the coupe on the switchback curve.

"I’m putting it through," Larkin said. "Christ, what the hell happened?"

"He killed a cop. Tried to kill me. I didn’t get a look at him, but I know what he’s driving. Blue Camaro or Firebird, late model. Of course, the plate could’ve been taken off another vehicle-"

"It wasn’t."

"Results came back?"

"They sure did, and the plate goes with a late-model Firebird belonging to…God damn it."

"What?"

"Looks like we all screwed up."

"What does that mean?"

"We had him in our hands, and we let him walk. Let him walk right out."

She sank down slowly on her knees, still holding the telephone handset. "Who is it?" she whispered. But she already knew-even though it couldn’t be.

She’d looked into his eyes, right into his eyes, and there had been nothing.

Nothing at all.

He couldn’t have fooled her so completely. Couldn’t have.

But he had.

"It’s Hayde," Larkin was saying. "Our friend from the interrogation last night-Mr. William Hayde."

Mobius, underground.

He felt curiously at home here, in the subterranean deeps, one hundred feet below the city pavement. He liked the sense of entombment, of burial. He had died once, sinking into the bloody water, a shout of bubbles pouring from his mouth, and he had never really returned to life. It was appropriate that in his simulacrum of living he should find himself interred.

He waited, doing his best to attract no attention. Surveillance cameras were mounted around the station, and later the tapes were sure to be scrutinized, even digitally enhanced. The platform was brightly lit by banks of overhead lights, and he had to assume that the video would be of good quality.

To conceal his features, he was wearing a baseball cap and an oversize bomber jacket with the flaps turned up. On tape he would be a meaningless, unidentifiable smudge.