She checked her watch and saw that it was past eleven. No newcomers should be entering now. But where was he?
The answer had to be somewhere close by. There was no way he would miss this chance. The pattern demanded a death at this spot, and he would do whatever the pattern required. Zoe knew that—could feel it in her bones. Unless he was dead himself, he would not stop.
So, where was he?
A prickling feeling was moving up and down her arms. At the far side of the lot, a car moved out, revealing something behind. “What’s that over there?” she asked, angling her head toward it rather than pointing.
Max looked, squinting his eyes to make out what he could in the darkness. “Looks like some of the fencing got knocked down. Someone’s driven through and parked on the grass.”
Zoe set out at a stride, not waiting for Max to follow her. “Did someone check it out earlier?”
“I-I’m not sure,” Max stuttered, rushing to keep up. “They should have, right? If it was in their section?”
“Ask,” Zoe said, handing him her radio. “There is someone at the car. Find out, and then follow me with backup.”
She should have taken him along with her; that was protocol. But Zoe had never agreed with the simple math that two heads were better than one. She worked better alone, without someone else’s flawed assumptions and calculations getting in the way. She worked better not having to see angles and trajectories and wonder whether her partner was in danger. Knowing her own safety was much easier.
The sound of Max’s voice asking the other teams if they had stopped at the boundary of the fence faded into the distance behind her as Zoe moved forward carefully and quickly. She kept her head pointed off to one side, as if she were looking for her car, but her eyes were fixed on the vehicle. A sedan, and no mistaking it. But what was the color?
Zoe watched a man lifting up the hood at a seventy-degree angle to peer inside. The angle of his gaze and the tense, straight line of his shoulders told her that he was having car trouble. Or at least pretending to. The mind flashed to Ted Bundy easily. There were all kinds of ways a man could trick someone into getting close enough to slip a garrote around their neck, and being vulnerable—asking for help—was certainly one of them.
Zoe eased off her pace, remembering to keep her own safety in mind. There was no use in rushing in and becoming a victim herself. In her mind’s eye, she sketched the area she had calculated as that which their killer would target. Wasn’t this car parked beyond those boundaries? She had suspected it more likely to happen within the grounds of the fair itself, not out here. Yet here he was, if it was him.
He was tall and skinny. Just a smidge over five foot eleven, and the right weight, matching the clues she had seen at the crime scenes. Zoe calculated everything, the numbers flashing in front of her eyes as she moved slowly closer. The car was the right age, the right shape and make. The tires would fit the marks left behind, the correct distance between them, the correct width.
And, as she moved close enough to see clearer, she was sure of it: it was green. An older model green sedan, driven by a tall, thin man, with out-of-state plates.
This is it.
Zoe spared a glance behind her for Max, who was still talking over the radio, but moving step by slow step in her direction. No doubt issuing orders for the others to move in. Backup was only minutes away.
She was close enough now. Close enough to see the color of his shirt and know that his hair was a regular two inches long, at least around the back. No closer. Any closer, and he would be within distance to turn and jump, loop it around her neck and pull.
Zoe stopped and unholstered her gun. For a single moment there was nothing but the dwindling noises from the fair behind her, and silence all around, and the man leaning in to fiddle with something in the engine. He was completely unaware that she was there.
It wouldn’t stay that way for long.
“Turn around and put your hands in the air,” Zoe called out, raising her gun and dropping into the correct stance to aim it. “Slowly.”
The man froze, his hand still within the hood of the car somewhere. Did he think she was talking to someone else?
“FBI! Turn around and put your hands in the air!”
This time, the message seemed to go through. He slowly and stiffly moved, raising his hands a little—only a little—and starting to turn. His right hand was clenched around something, something that glinted in the light coming from the fair as he turned, holding it at chest height. Not high enough. Not safe enough. What was that, glinting like metal? That thin object—could it be a garrote looped in his hand?
“Drop what you’re holding!” Zoe shouted, her heart pounding a mile a minute in her ears. Her hands were shaking, and she willed herself to find that calm center and hold steady. Now was no time for nerves.
He flinched at her voice but finished turning, the item still clutched in his hands. The way the light fell, the shadow of the hood cut across his face. She couldn’t make out his expression, his eyes.
“Drop it!” she yelled again, loud enough that there could be no mistaking it.
The man seemed to consider it for a single second. His hand moved, as if he were about to drop the item onto the floor.
Or to throw it at her, lunge forward, go on the attack. Zoe’s finger tightened on the trigger, ready for him to make his move. Everything slowed, stilled, millennia going by in a single breath as she reacted to his sudden change of posture. Muscles bunched, tensed, kicked, and he was springing away from her, not toward.
The split second of relief was tempered with alarm as Zoe recognized that he was running—making his escape.
He could not be allowed to escape.
She squeezed down on the trigger, trusting her aim, hoping she had guessed the trajectory of his body correctly. There was a flash of light and noise from the gun, and a recoil that snapped her hands back briefly even though she was used to it. Zoe trained her sights on him again, just as she practiced every time she needed to brush up at the gun range, bring the weapon back to aim before she could react to anything else.
He was on the ground, crying out, clutching at his leg. Her aim was true.
Behind her, Zoe could hear the clatter of running footsteps as the troopers moved in. She approached her target cautiously, keeping the gun trained on him, ensuring that the angle and trajectory were always correct even as she stepped closer.
“You are under arrest for suspicion of murder,” Zoe said, reading him his rights as she waited for Shelley to step past her and snap a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists. He made no more attempt to move or run, though he gasped in pain and tried to keep his hands clutched on the wound.
And as Shelley finished closing the cuffs, Zoe looked to the ground and saw the object he had been holding, that had caught the light and her attention.
It was the oil dipstick from his car.
No.
Zoe whirled around immediately, dropping the angle of her gun to point it at the ground as she stared helplessly in all directions. Her eyes took in the crowds that were quickly amassing, keeping a respectful distance from the source of the gunfire but wanting to see what it was all the same. Curious faces of families and couples, teenage kids with their friends, grandparents. All attention was on their corner of the parking lot.
Their cover was blown. If Zoe had taken down the wrong guy, they would never find the right one now. He would be long gone.
The arrest was made, and it was all they could do here and now. Zoe returned her attention to the suspect as Shelley helped him into the back of a patrol car that had come flying up the road at the sound of the shot. They had him in custody. She just had to pray that she had made the right call—and that this man was not as harmless as he seemed.