Michael Prescott - Last Breath

His laptop computer-wired into the AC power to save the battery, connected to the Web via a cell phone using an ISP shell account-displayed the video image of Caitlin’s bedroom. The clock on the computer screen read 12:01 A.M. The Webcam was still running. The bedroom was visible in real time.

It was empty, as it had been all night. But Caitlin would have to return home sometime.

And he was patient, as patient as a trapdoor spider lying in wait for its prey.

He had waited sixteen years for his second chance at her. He would not give up now.

“You sure you want to do this?”

C.J. shut her eyes briefly, fighting off a wave of fatigue. “I’m sure.”

“You don’t have to. We’ll catch him eventually. It’s not necessary for you to put yourself in jeopardy.”

Her eyes opened, and she faced Morris Walsh. Because she knew he was only trying to be kind, she kept her voice level. “First of all, I won’t be in jeopardy. I’ll be safer than I’ve ever been. Isn’t that right, Rick?”

Tanner, seated at the far end of the table in the Parker Center conference room, hesitated only a moment before answering. “The way we’ll be covering your house, there’s no way he can get past us. He’ll be spotted no matter what he tries.” He swiveled toward Walsh. “We’ll have infrared sensors, long distance mikes, telescopic lenses trained on every door and window.”

“Plus they’ll be watching the live feed on the Web,” C.J. said. “They can see me in my bedroom even with the curtains closed.”

“Maybe,” Walsh persisted, “but it’s still unnecessary.”

“Wrong. It’s very necessary. We have to stop this guy.” C.J. glanced at Detective Cellini, seated next to her. “You’ve read parts of his journal?”

Cellini nodded. “And the forensics crew found news clippings in his bureau. Some of them were taken from newspapers that aren’t even in business anymore. He’s been doing this for a long time-twenty years, we’re guessing. The body count by now…” She let the statement trail off unfinished.

“He can’t get away this time,” Walsh said.

C.J. refused to accept that argument. “Why not? He’s been getting away for two decades.”

“But now we know who he is. We know his name. We have his driver’s license photo, his social security number.”

“Until he changes his name, gets fake ID, a new birth certificate, a new SSN. Come on, Detective. This man is smart. He’ll know how to lose himself. He’s probably got it all planned out. He might be on his way out of state right now, with a new identity, a new face.”

Walsh spread his hands. “Well, if he’s left town, your plan won’t work anyway.”

“It might.”

“If he’s not watching your house…”

“He’ll be watching, even if he’s fifty miles away. Look, you told me he took his computer with him when he fled. He can hook into the Internet from any phone line.”

“He doesn’t even need a phone line,” Cellini said. “His phone bill gives no indication he was using dial-up. Most likely he’s gone wireless. He probably uses a cell phone as a modem, with the cell account under another name.”

“Any way you look at it”-C.J. plowed ahead-“he can monitor the Web site. That’s how he’ll watch the house even if he’s nowhere near. And when he sees me in the bedroom…”

“He’ll come after you,” Walsh said. “If he’s as obsessed as you think.”

“Detective, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind for sixteen years. I’m betting he feels the same way about me. If he sees an opportunity to get me, he’ll take it.”

Walsh lowered his head in resignation. “You’re determined to go through with this?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then let’s get it done.” He looked at Tanner. “How many officers will be undercover at the scene?”

“Twenty LAPD, including Metro’s D Platoon. Fifteen Sheriff’s, including Pardon’s SWAT squad and yours truly. Plus technicians to set up the surveillance, and EMTs on standby.”

“EMTs,” Cellini said with a glance at C.J.

“For Treat,” Tanner added hastily. “Or for our guys, if Treat resists.” He looked at C.J. “He won’t get near you. There’s no way he can penetrate the perimeter and get inside the house. Simply not possible.”

“So everything’s copacetic,” C.J. said with her best imitation of a smile. “How soon can we start?”

Tanner checked the clock on the wall, which read 12:45. “One-thirty,” he said. “With luck, we’ll have Treat in custody before dawn.”

“There she is.”

Rawls nodded at the screen of his desktop computer, where the live video image on Steven Gader’s Web site showed C.J. Osborn entering her bedroom, wearing an LAPD jacket that looked too large for her.

The lamp on the nightstand had been turned on by the police when they inspected the house hours earlier, and it remained lit, casting a dim glow over the room. Low illumination, but sufficient for the Webcam’s sensitive lens.

C.J. circled the room, pausing at the nightstand to handle a shapeless blob of blue, unidentifiable in the low-resolution image. She left it where it lay and entered the bathroom to get a drink of water.

“She’s checking out the place,” Rawls said. “Wants to make sure she’s alone.”

“Of course she’s alone. That’s the whole point-to lure him to her.”

“I guess she’s not taking any chances. Can you blame her?”

“No, but I’m betting she’s got nothing to worry about. He’s had three hours to make tracks. I say he’s nowhere near her house. This whole thing is an exercise in futility.”

Rawls smiled. “You can go home if you like.”

“Hell, no. I’m staying put, even if we have to pull an all-nighter.”

“You mean, in case you’re wrong?”

“It could happen.” Brand shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

C.J. took some comfort from the sight of her purse on the nightstand, and more important, from the feel of the handgun inside. Nice to know it was still there. The off-duty gun was an old friend, and she liked having it close.

She considered removing it from the purse and putting it inside her jacket but decided against it. If Treat was watching, he would wonder why she had moved her purse out of camera range. And if he so much as suspected a trap, he would not come.

Besides, she didn’t need the gun. She already had one, a 9mm Beretta that Tanner had given her, which was now tucked into the waistband of her shorts beneath her LAPD jacket.

“There’s no chance you’ll need this,” Tanner had said.

“So why are you giving it to me?” she’d countered.

“Well, there’s that old Murphy’s Law business. Just take it, and keep the piece out of sight when you’re in the bedroom.”

The bedroom, yes-her private sanctuary, which had turned out not to be private at all. For a month she had slept here, worked on her exercise rig, showered, brushed her teeth, dressed and undressed, and because the curtains had been closed, she had thought she was unobserved.

Wrong. The curtains were closed now, but she knew that eyes watched her as she made a pretense of putting some laundry away. Gavin Treat’s eyes, perhaps. The eyes of Detective Walsh and Detective Cellini and Deputy Tanner, certainly-they were observing her on a computer monitor in an unmarked car down the street. And other eyes-the eyes of strangers, visitors to the Web site, lonely men who spied on her in secrecy late at night.

Those eyes troubled her most of all. Possibly there were only a few dozen watchers of that sort, yet they were scattered across the country or around the world; they were faceless, nameless; they could be anyone, anywhere; and they had been in her bedroom, had invaded her life, just as surely as if any of them had come through her window wearing a ski mask.