Allison Brennan - The Kill

She sucked back tears, her fear growing with each ping of rocks on the undercarriage. The pings were coming more frequently. Where was he taking her? What was he going to do? Was he… was he going to kill her like those other girls she’d heard her mother talking to Mrs. Vail about?

This was so bad. All the stuff her mother told her, her teachers told her, didn’t seem important at the time. Her mother worried all the time. “Yes, Mom,” she’d say after listening to another lecture about being careful and to watch out for strange men.

And she’d run her bike right into one.

She stifled a cry. She wanted her mommy so bad right now, but she didn’t want the man to hear her. She had to find a way to get out. She was all her mom had, ever since Daddy died. Nina didn’t even remember him, she’d only been two. Her mom was her only family.

Her mom did everything for her. They weren’t rich; in fact, they were always broke and they couldn’t do things like Abby’s family, like going to the movies or vacationing every summer at Disney World or some other fun place. Nina sometimes resented that Abby’s family had money to do things and Nina’s mom didn’t, but Nina knew her mom worked hard to make sure she had a college savings account and she took gymnastic lessons, which cost a lot of money. Nina loved gymnastics and she knew she was good. Her mom said she loved watching her, and her coach said she’d be able to try out for the state team next year.

The state team was one step closer to the Olympic team. Nina wanted that more than anything in the world.

Well, now she wanted something even more. She had to find a way to escape.

Nina stifled a sob. She tugged at the ropes that bound her hands. They were tight, and her fingers were numb. How-wait. She just might be able to-yes! It was just like the rings.

Though it hurt her wrists so much tears streamed down her face, Nina pushed herself up with the palms of her hands and pushed her body backward through the hole her arms made. She eased down, not wanting to make a sound, then worked her arms under her legs until they were now in front of her.

Yes!

She reached up and tore off the blindfold and blinked. She saw nothing. No light coming from streetlamps. No light from the cab of the truck. She was locked away in a camper shell, far from her mom, far from help. Her heart pounded. How would she get home? Even if she got away from the man, where was she? Where would she go?

Stop it, Nina ! She couldn’t think like that. Just get away. Get away. She could figure everything else out later.

Just run away.

She used her teeth on the ropes binding her wrists, the rough fiber making her lips and gums raw. But it was working. They were loosening.

Suddenly, the truck started driving up a steep hill and she toppled over and couldn’t stop herself from crying out when her sore head hit the back gate. She righted herself and felt around for a handle on the camper shell. She couldn’t find one. She was trapped.

She continued working on the ropes as the truck slowed, winding around sharply. The air became noticeably colder.

She had to get out. As soon as he opened the gate, she had to run. As fast as she could.

And not look back.

Assistant District Attorney Ross Perdue was working late Friday night. He had no wife, no children, and lived for his job. Everyone in the courthouse predicted he’d be appointed to fill Hamilton Craig’s remaining term as district attorney and could very well be the youngest elected D.A. in county history if he ran in the next election.

Most people thought Ross was a ladder-climber, but those who knew him well-which weren’t many-knew he was motivated by far more than a title. Eight years ago, when he was a law student, his young pregnant wife was gunned down on their first wedding anniversary.

The next semester he changed his focus from corporate law to criminal law and he’d never looked back.

The nature of Hamilton Craig’s death bothered him, but he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was the randomness of it, that it was too much like Becky’s. There seemed to be no reason , and random violence seemed so unfair, like a tornado falling out of the sky and obliterating only one house in a neighborhood of thousands.

The knock on his door came after six, long after most attorneys had left for the weekend.

“Come in.”

It was the Redwood City Chief of Police, Bill Tuttle. Ross stood and extended his hand. “Chief. What can I do for you?”

He didn’t sit. “Gary Porter was killed sometime last night in his house.”

“Gary Porter? Do I know him?”

“Probably not. He was a detective, retired a few years ago.”

“And?” Ross prompted.

“We checked out his house this morning when his wife called from her trip to Paris and said she couldn’t reach him. He’s been on heart medication for a few years, so she was worried about him. We found him in his kitchen, shot to death.

“From what we could see, Gary came home after Hamilton Craig’s funeral. Turned on the lights. Went to his den. Poured himself a Scotch. Drank about half before the power went out. He went to the kitchen-probably to get a flashlight to check the fuse box-and someone shot him in the chest. Then they shot him at close range when he was already down.”

“Shit.” Ross’s hands tensed. “Do you have a suspect? Do you need a warrant?”

Tuttle paused. “I cajoled the crime lab into working overtime to analyze the bullet. They just came back with their report. It matches the gun that killed Hamilton Craig.”

“No coincidence.You thinking maybe they worked on the same case? Vengeance murders? I can run released prisoners, see if they match up-”

“There’s one I want to check out right away.”

“Who?”

“Brian Harrison Hall.”

“Hall? I just met him this morning. He gave Seattle PD some valuable information on the murders up there. Why in the world would he kill Hamilton and a retired cop?”

“Because he went to prison for thirty-four years?” Tuttle leaned over Ross’s desk. “Ross, let me tell you straight. My twenty years of experience tells me that it’s no coincidence that Hall was released less than a month ago and now Hamilton and Gary are dead. He lives in town. He has a motive. I just want to talk to him. But I need a warrant to search his apartment.”

“Aw shit.” Ross weighed the pros and cons. If Hall was innocent, they’d be in for a rocky ride with the press. They’d had so much PR trouble since his overturned conviction. It would look like they were railroading him.

But if he was guilty… “Is there anyone else you think he would go after?”

“Hell if I know. The judge? That was Clive Dunn. He died years ago. Same with Porter’s partner. Maybe the parole board members? The arresting officer? That gal who testified against him? I don’t know.”

“I don’t know if we have probable cause,” Ross muttered. “But-” he looked at his blotter to see what judge was on duty tonight. “Okay, luck is on our side. Faith Hayes has the night docket. She’ll give us a warrant. Probably limited, but it’ll get us in his apartment. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

An hour later the two sketch artists had worked together to create a realistic picture of Chris Driscoll based on his Army photo and the descriptions of Henry Jorge and Abby Vail.

“I’ll get this out through federal channels,” Quinn said, taking a copy.

“Do we release it to the press?” Zack asked, almost to himself.

“I say yes,” Quinn said. “He’s been around Seattle for months, perhaps longer. Somebody will have seen him. If we can put it on the news stations-” He glanced at his watch. “-we can get it out to the ten o’clock and eleven o’clock news. Can we set up a hotline here to take calls?”