“What is this, role reversal? You’re the one usually advocating a balls-to-the-wall approach.”
“So you’re saying I’m usually the one with the balls.”
“Well, not in so—”
“That’s okay. I’ll accept that characterization. I’m trying to be a little more reserved. By the book.”
Bledsoe chuckled. “Now’s as good as any time to start, I guess. But in my book, a guy running from the cops because of late alimony or overdue parking tickets will surrender when confronted. If he doesn’t surrender, whatever he’s done is more serious.” He tapped X-ray on the left shoulder. “Close on him.”
2:03 AM
Bledsoe radioed his dispatcher and asked for them to coordinate with the local sheriff to get a car to Harrison Vaughn’s cabin ASAP. If he was their killer, and if he did have Debra Mead inside, they needed to ascertain her status and render emergency medical care if necessary.
“Can we get a heat signature on the van?” Vail asked.
“Tried,” X-ray said. “Not getting anything.”
She snorted. “Well I’m pretty sure that old clunker isn’t an autonomous vehicle. And it’s not being driven by an android.”
X-ray peered forward into the dark landscape ahead. “He’s a cold-blooded killer, right? Maybe my infrared cam can’t pick him up.”
Yeah, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Where the hell’s he going?” Vail asked.
Bledsoe leaned his head against the window, careful not to strike his monocle on the glass. “Somewhere that we’re not.” He leaned back and pulled out his phone. “Text from Kearney.”
“And?”
“A lot here. Gimme a minute. Gotta take the monocle off or I’ll blow out my night vision.”
“Tree cover makes it impossible for us to get any lower,” X-ray said.
“So follow him until we can get lower,” Vail said.
“Except that we have limited fuel.”
Of course we do.
“I’ll let you know when we’ve got ten minutes left. So far we’re okay, but we should get some cars on the ground to intercept up ahead.”
Bledsoe looked up from his screen. “We can have them lay down a spike strip.”
Vail nodded. “Sounds like a good plan. Do it.”
While Bledsoe made the request, Harrison emerged from the tree cover and entered a freeway.
“He’s picking up speed,” X-ray said.
Bledsoe grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat as X-ray matched the van’s acceleration. “Stay with him. I’m radioing our position.”
At the moment Bledsoe finished, the van slowed and he made a sharp exit into downtown Charlottesville.
“What’s his endgame?” X-ray asked.
“Maybe he’s running out of gas,” Bledsoe said. “Like us. Those tin cans got horrible mileage. He probably wasn’t prepared to engage in a high-speed pursuit.”
“At best a dozen miles per gallon when new,” X-ray said. “At fifty years? Who knows. Ten? You could be right.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
Vail fought off a smile. “Stay sharp. He may be getting ready to ditch the van, try to lose us somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Bledsoe said, “but where?”
“Someplace he knows well.”
“And that is?”
Vail snorted into the mic, which came across as loud crackling. “I’ll let you know the minute we find out.”
605 E Main Street
Charlottesville, Virginia
They found out moments later, as the Chevy van drew to a stop at the end of the road — in the middle of it, actually. Perhaps Bledsoe’s low fuel theory was right.
“Getting a heat signature,” X-ray said. “Only one.”
Vail sat forward to look at the screen. “So Debra Mead isn’t with him.”
“Let’s just say, if she’s alive, she’s not with him.”
Wiseguy.
“What street is that?” Bledsoe asked.
X-ray thought a second. “Looks like, um, Market. No — he was on Market, he stopped on Seventh. Right near that big tented structure, the pavilion next to the visitors center.”
“I know the area.” Bledsoe keyed his radio and relayed their location to local law enforcement. “By that freedom of speech blackboard.”
“Did he get out of the van?” Vail asked. “Haven’t seen any movement.”
Bledsoe cupped the window to get a better view. “Door’s opening. He’s on foot.”
“X-ray, can you get us down there?”
“You serious? It’s a downtown, where do you suggest — wait, the top level of that parking structure. You’ll have to run down a few flights of stairs, but—”
“Fine, just put us on the ground. Keep an eye on him from the air.”
“Copy that.”
“He’s headed down the mall,” Vail said, “east.”
Seconds later, X-ray was setting the chopper atop a large, multistory cement monstrosity. “I’ll circle overhead and relay his position. Won’t be easy without a radio.”
“Twenty-first century,” Bledsoe said. “You’ll figure it out, buddy.”
They climbed out of the helicopter and ran toward the exit to street level, coming out near a historical landmark-style sign that read, THREE NOTCH’D ROAD. Behind it, a small multi-colored children’s Merry-Go-Round was gated off by wrought iron fencing.
“I’m turned around,” Vail said. “Which way?”
Bledsoe, SIG Sauer pistol in hand, headed past the storefronts on both sides of the open-air brick-paver mall, which featured restaurant dining tables sectioned off in the center of the breezeway.
“C’mon, X-ray,” Vail said. “Give us some idea of where he is.”
“You know he can’t hear you.”
“I’m sending the message telepathically.”
Their phones buzzed. Vail checked hers.
passing atlantic union bank
coming up on urban outfitters
Bledsoe harrumphed. “Your message was obviously received.”
“Harrison doesn’t strike me as the type to shop at Urban Outfitters.”
“You see him?”
Vail peered into the darkness. The mall area was lit by low wattage four-bulb ornamental light fixtures every few dozen feet. “I see some homeless guys down the cross-streets. But not Harrison.”
Another text:
coming up on the escape room
“Is that a joke?”
Bledsoe gestured at the storefront’s sign, a good distance away. “Nope. But like everything else, I’m sure it’s closed.” Bledsoe elbowed her to the right, closer to the Lynne Goldman shop. “I think I see him.”
She squinted into the darkness. “Uh, yeah. Got him.”
“Why come here? Everything’s closed.”
“Did you finish reading the background Kearney sent?”
“Shit, no.”
“Give me your phone. Keep an eye on Harrison.” Vail scanned the notes, which looked to be a copy/paste conglomeration of disembodied facts in different fonts. She figured Kearney had someone drive him to the Caruthers residence while he worked on the dossier.
She instinctively followed Bledsoe, who was slowly heading toward Harrison, taking care to keep out of his sightline.
“I know where he’s going.”
Bledsoe stopped. “Where?”
“Up ahead. The Paramount Theater.”
“That’s good because I lost him.”
Another text:
no eyes on
hope you see him
“Probably went into the theater,” Vail said, reading the background document. “Vaughn worked there after it reopened about fifteen years ago.”
She snapped her fingers. “That’s right. That’s where he was employed before changing careers.”