Джеффри Дивер: Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology

“Demolished. No, wait. Somebody charges admission to see it.”

Vail nodded slowly. “Now you’re getting it. They trucked it out to a museum. It’s on display in a goddamn museum in Washington, DC. Part of American history.”

Vaughn’s face was stoic. “Uh huh.”

“That car the DC Sniper used. The 199 °Caprice. You know about the DC Sniper, right?”

“’Course.”

“John Allen Muhammad and his buddy hid in the back seat and shot their rifle out of a hole in the back of the trunk. Know where that car is now?”

“In a museum.”

“Right. A floor directly above the cabin. Muhammad’s car and Kaczynski’s cabin, both immortalized forever. Hundreds of thousands of people reading big plaques telling their story.” She considered Vaughn’s expression. He was getting it. “Once they find your van, where do you think it’ll go?”

“In that museum.”

“If you want, I’ll make sure it goes on the same floor as the DC Sniper’s car.”

“No. I want Kaczynski. The Unabomber’s cabin. That floor.”

Vail feigned frustration — as if this were a real negotiation — then said, “Fine. Same floor as Kaczynski. I’ll make it happen.”

Vaughn looked at her. “Now why would you do that for me?”

“Because you’re going to do something for me .”

“I’m in a fuckin’ prison cell on death row, Vail. About to die. What can I possibly do for you?”

“Excuse me,” the corrections officer said. “Agent Vail, it’s time.”

“Five minutes. I need five more minutes.”

The man shook his head. “No can do. Already gave you more time than I was s’posed to.”

“But—”

“Not my decision. These things are timed. It’s all set up. State law. No one wants to be responsible for prolonging this, if you get my drift.”

Yeah, give anyone a chance for second thoughts, another appeal to the governor.

Vail turned to Vaughn. “Stephen, it’s now or never. Tell me who has your van.”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Because you groomed someone to take over for you. It took him some time, but he’s now killing.”

“So why should I give you his name?”

“Because he’s stealing your thunder. They’re gonna forget you. He’s doing it better than you did. He’s the one they’re gonna remember, not you. But if we find your van, it goes in the museum. It’ll be you who’s memorialized. And your protégé will be nothing more than a footnote. At best.”

“Okay, that’s it,” the officer said.

She had reached the end. She had to take a flyer. “Is the protégé — is it Harrison, your son?”

Poker face. “Don’t know what he’s up to. He visits but he don’t say much. I know one thing — doesn’t seem to be interested in women.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. You know that.”

Vaughn shrugged. “He’s not your guy.”

“Agent Vail, it’s time. The death warrant has to be read to him and Mr. Vaughn’s attorney and spiritual advisor are waiting for him. Follow Jack here. He’ll escort you out.”

He knows who it is, I can feel it.

“Stephen,” Vail said. “If it’s not Harrison, who is it? I need the name.”

Vaughn closed his eyes. The officers walked to his side and pulled him up.

“Agent Vail.” Jack gestured with his chin. “This way.”

Vail accompanied Jack up to the locked gate. Buzzers sounded, metal clanked, and all Vail could think about was that she had failed. She wanted to smash her fist against the nearby bars.

As she walked down the corridor, she glanced back over her shoulder at Vaughn, who was being led through a door in the opposite direction.

Vail joined Bledsoe in a small administrative area.

“Well?”

“Close. No cigar.”

“Shit.” He looked away. “How close?”

“I needed another few minutes.”

“You kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“They wouldn’t give it to you?”

“Already gave me extra time,” Vail said. “This thing... it’s a highly orchestrated event.”

“It is, but still. Lives are on the line. A young woman—”

“I know, Bledsoe. I know.” She turned to the guard behind the glass. “Can you have someone take us to the witness gallery?”

The man radioed for assistance.

“Let’s have Kearney check on Vaughn’s son, Harrison.”

Bledsoe nodded. “Yeah. He’d be, what, early thirties now?”

“Could be our offender. Vaughn denied it, but let’s find him and put him in a room, get an alibi. If he was anywhere near that SmartLots—”

“I’m on it,” Bledsoe said as he pulled out his phone.

Seconds later, an escort led them down a few short hallways walking in a three-sided square. Apparently, they had been relatively close to the execution chamber all along.

Vail figured the holding cell where she had met with Vaughn was purposely adjacent to the chamber to reduce the chances of anything going wrong in the last minutes. With things so tightly managed, there was no time to deal with unforeseen occurrences.

11:57 PM

They entered the semi-circular witness gallery, a few rows of stadium-style seats rimming a glass-enclosed theatre of death. White walls and sparse stainless steel stared back at them.

The room was small; although the theater had some width, it was only a few rows deep. All attendees were afforded a close-up view of what would transpire.

A gurney sat close to the window, no more than ten feet from where Vail and Bledsoe were sitting. A red wall-mounted telephone — a direct line to the governor — sat unused in its receiver.

Also unused — but soon to be deployed — was a trio of rubber surgical tubes protruding from a short divider and snaking up to the gurney. Virginia followed a three-drug execution procedure. The first rendered the inmate unconscious, the second caused paralysis, and the third stopped the heart. Two of them — midazolam and potassium chloride — were made by a nearby compounding pharmacy. Vaughn was the first prisoner to use this form of midazolam, so the weeks during the run-up to his date of reckoning were not without handwringing controversy.

A door opened on the left side of the execution chamber and two burly guards entered, followed by the star of the show, Stephen Raye Vaughn, and another two imposing corrections officers.

Vaughn’s face harbored a look of hatred and contempt as he gazed out at the glass that separated him from his witnesses. Vail knew it was a two-way pane that permitted them to see Vaughn, but the prisoner was merely staring at a reflected image of himself.

Vaughn was led to a gurney with crisp white linens. He sat down and laid back, two guards fastening thick leather straps to his limbs.

A curtain was drawn across the viewing window. Regardless, Vail knew that intravenous lines were being inserted into his heavily tattooed arms. She pictured Vaughn staring blankly at the ceiling, a feeling of helplessness enveloping his soul as reality struck him in the head like the mallet he had used on his victims’ skulls.

Vail looked at the wall-mounted clock. It was black and white, like justice is supposed to be. Good and bad. Truth and lies. She watched the hand jerk along the hashmarks painted on the clock face. One second at a time.

And one minute to go.

“You did the best you could,” Bledsoe said, settling himself into his seat.

Vail fell into hers. “For what that’s worth.”

“Déjà vu all over again.”

“How so?”

“Richard Singletary. Tried to get him to talk, give up info on the Dead Eyes killer. How could you forget?”

“Forget?” Vail snorted. “Never. I just try not to think about it.”