Michael Prescott: Last Breath

“His blood or yours?” Tanner asked.

She read concern in his eyes as he peered down at her, lit by his own flashlight. Concern and something more. Tenderness.

“C.J.-is it his blood or yours?”

The question got through this time. “His. I think.”

The SWAT team members were bandaging Adam’s wrist, ordering him to hold still, while he whimpered in pain.

“What happened?” C.J. asked, sitting up slowly.

“I had to take the shot. Wasn’t supposed to, but he didn’t leave me any choice.”

“Talk slower. Explain.”

“We landed a chopper right outside-the alarm covered the sound of our arrival. Once we were on the ground, we killed the power to the alarm so we could negotiate. We were ready to talk all night. But when I took up my position in the alley, I heard him threatening you. Got to the window in time to see him put the gun in your mouth.”

“Saw him how? It’s pitch-dark.”

He pulled down goggles, covering his eyes. “Night vision. Swiped it out of the SWAT squad’s gear when we deplaned.”

She saw herself reflected in the lenses. “It looks good on you. Better than those sunglasses of yours.”

He raised the goggles. “Shades are more my style. Anyway, I didn’t want to risk the shot from that distance, so I came inside and got close.”

“Contrary to procedure…”

“Yeah, well, I got news for you, Killer. You’re not the only one who can climb through a window in a hostage-barricade situation to face a crazy man with a gun.”

She had to smile. “Never said I was.”

“Anyhow, I was only five feet away when I unloaded. Blew the gun out of his hand. Was afraid if I went for a head shot, he might squeeze the trigger in a death spasm.”

“You could have called for an invasive entry.”

“Then he would have killed you for sure. Besides, you know what they say about those SWAT raids. They have a way of going wrong sometimes.”

“So I’ve heard,” C.J. said, and she squeezed his hand.

“Now come on. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

“I’m okay.”

“Like hell you are. You’re getting a complete physical, Killer.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Tonight it seems appropriate.” He glanced at Adam and smiled. “You took Mr. Nolan for an E-ticket ride.”

She couldn’t argue.

Adam had been subdued now. He lay on his back, hands cuffed over his stomach, a wad of bandages on his wrist. The bandages were already soaking through with blood.

“We need to evac this asshole right now,” one of the SWAT guys was saying. “He’s got a spurting wound. We wait too long, he’ll bleed out.”

“Load him up,” another man ordered.

Tanner led her past Adam, who gazed up at her from the floor. She expected to see hatred in his gaze, but there was only exhaustion.

“You’ve got to admit,” he whispered, “it was one hell of a last dance.”

She just looked at him. “Try not to die, Adam.”

“Why? You thinking we could get back together?” At least he said it with a smile.

“I’m thinking,” she answered, “how much I’ll enjoy testifying against you.”

He laughed. A bubble of blood leaked out of his broken nose.

“You really are a bitch, C.J.” He shut his eyes, still laughing silently. “God damn, I wish I’d killed you.”

“Better luck next time,” she said, walking away.

Tanner whistled. “That’s what I call a love-hate relationship.”

“Heavy on the hate.”

“But it was love once?”

“I don’t know what it was.”

“What’d he mean by that crack about the dance?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” She glanced at Tanner. “You happen to like Emmylou Harris?”

Tanner took a moment to reply. “I can pretend to.”

“Good enough. Friday night, a club in the Valley? Chicken wings and beer?”

“Sounds good, Killer.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “C.J., I mean. See how fast I learn?”

She thought about Adam, her three years wasted with him, and the year of loneliness since. “Faster than I do, I hope.”

Then they were outside, under the bright stars and the setting moon, and a rumpled man in a rumpled jacket was reaching out to take her arm. “Officer Osborn, I’m Detective Walsh.”

She recognized his voice. “You interviewed Adam.”

“Not my finest hour. He snowed me.”

“He’s good at that. Got me to marry him.”

“At least I didn’t go that far.”

The SWAT team moved past, carrying Adam on a gurney. They put him aboard the big chopper that sat not far from the warehouse, its rotor blades glinting like the wings of some fantastic insect.

“How’d you find me?” C.J. asked. “Where is this place?”

“Foothills near San Dimas. As for how we got here-you know the old joke that goes, ‘We’re from the federal government, and we’re here to help you’?”

“Yes?”

“This time it was no joke.” Walsh turned serious. “Listen, I hate to tell you this, but your problems aren’t over. There’s someone else who may be after you.”

“The Hourglass Killer,” C.J. said.

“You know?”

“I know. God, I have the worst luck with men.”

Walsh smiled, but there was no humor in his voice. “This wasn’t luck. He selected you deliberately. There seems to be a history.”

C.J. stopped.

“What?” she breathed.

“Did something happen to you as a child? Were you ever threatened, menaced? Because this man…” Walsh let his words trail off, and C.J. knew he could read the answer in her face.

“The boogeyman,” she whispered so softly that only Tanner, standing beside her, could hear.

“What was that?” Walsh asked.

She shook her head. “How close are you to nabbing him?”

“We were close,” Walsh began, “but-”

“He outmaneuvered us.” Tanner picked up the thought. “It was my operation, C.J. I let him slip away. I’m sorry.”

She was barely listening. Part of her was in the crawl space of her parents’ ranch house, gripping a kitchen knife while a stranger’s tread vibrated through the floorboards.

“This isn’t the time for pointing fingers,” Walsh said. “Bottom line is, he’s been killing for years-decades. He has some kind of fixation on you. And as Deputy Tanner indicated, he’s still at large.”

C.J. hugged herself against a chill, but when she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice.

“Not for long.”

Gavin Treat, the Webmaster. Bluebeard. The Hourglass Killer.

These were some of his names, but of course he’d had so many others through the years. The San Bernardino Stalker, the Pied Piper of Taos, the Mojave Strangler. In Dallas he had been the Night Shadow, and in the high country of Colorado he had been the Forest Trail Murderer. An incident in New Orleans had given him a sobriquet he especially liked-the Angel of Death.

These were names bestowed on him by himself or by the media. Then there were other names given to him by his victims in their last minutes or hours. Freak, psycho, piece of shit-the words people used when pain and terror had driven them past all calculation into the realm of pure emotion.

He cherished those names most of all. They were badges he wore with pride. Medals of honor, ribbons bedecking his chest, notches in his gun.

He wondered what name Caitlin Jean Osborn had for him. There must be one. He had traumatized her as a child. Such experiences, even if repressed, were never wholly forgotten.

He would like to ask her what she called him in her private thoughts. Perhaps he would. Soon.