Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) (40 page)

As Dan unlocked the deadbolt, they dropped their front legs from the sill and bounded toward the door. His attempts to soothe them continued to fail. “Okay. Okay. I’m home. I missed you too. Easy now. Easy.”

He struggled to push the door open with 280 pounds of dog on the other side, each fighting to be first to greet him. Their snouts batted the edge of the door, forcing it open, and they burst out. They knocked Dan off balance, but he managed to brace himself and not get sent sprawling to the ground. He rubbed their fur and scratched their heads as they circled him, whining with pure joy. After a minute, Dan stepped onto his front lawn. “Go run. Go run.”

The dogs raced around the yard, slamming into and bouncing off one another like bumper cars. Dan encouraged them—anything to get them to expend their pent-up energy before going back inside. Luckily they weren’t built for endurance, and after a few minutes they came back with their tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths. He gave them another minute of attention before they all went inside.

He shut the door and called Tracy’s cell again. He’d tried on his drive, but his calls had gone to voice mail. This one did as well. He checked his watch, wondering if she’d gone for a run, though by this point it would have been a really long run and he doubted she’d have left the house at night alone, given the circumstances. He tried her home phone, but that, too, went to voice mail.

He was concerned, but not overly. He’d spoken to her earlier, and she’d told him she was locked inside and everything was fine.

So then why wasn’t she answering the phone?

He set his phone on the marble counter, turned on the television to the local news, and went into the kitchen. He found a lone Corona at the back of the fridge and a block of Reggiano cheese. He retrieved a box of crackers from the pantry and a knife from a drawer and started snacking and drinking his beer. About to take another sip of his Corona, he turned to the television and noticed a ticker running across the bottom of the screen.

He thought of the lights tripping in Tracy’s backyard. Then he thought again about her not answering her phone.

Kins took the exit for the West Seattle Bridge, kept left at the fork in the ramp, and blew by the line of cars waiting at the stoplight. The evening commute across the bridge was also heavy, but there were more lanes to work with, so the other cars could more easily move out of his way.

Faz hung up with dispatch, who had called him back to tell him units were on their way to Tracy’s home.

“Have they been able to contact her?” Kins asked.

“Not yet.”

“At this rate we’ll beat them there,” Kins said, his frustration peaking.

Admiral Way was the first exit off the bridge. At the bottom of the ramp, he turned right, ascending a steep grade. As they neared the top, he slowed to turn, moved his foot to hit the accelerator, then had to quickly brake hard. The car stopped inches from the back of a UPS truck parked in the narrow road.

Tracy lay on her stomach, Bankston atop her, his breath and spittle warm on her neck, the rope strangling her. She had managed to get the fingers of her left hand beneath the rope just before Bankston had cinched the noose tight, and she was now fighting to keep that precious half inch, to keep him from completely cutting off her oxygen.

Something was jabbing into her rib cage. With her right hand, she felt around and found the piece of broken handrail wedged tight beneath her. She gripped it, summoned her core strength, and lifted with her hip and stomach muscles just enough to slide out the piece of wood.

The rope cinched tighter. She started to see bursts of light.

She lifted her hips again, rolled, and swung the piece of wood like a club, striking Bankston hard on the left side of the head, a dull thud. The blow knocked him to his right, and he lost his grip on the rope. Tracy yanked the rope away from her throat and sucked in a deep breath. She swung the club again, then a third time. Bankston rolled off her, trying to ward off the blows. She rolled away from him and struggled to her knees, in pain and still gasping for breath. She yanked the noose over her head and threw it into a corner of the room. She sucked in more air, gagging and wheezing. It felt like someone was burning her shoulder with a branding iron. She felt light-headed and nauseated.

And pissed. Really pissed.

Unsteadily, she got to her feet.

Bankston, blood flowing from a gash on the side of his head, staggered and also stood.

Tracy raised the broken piece of banister. “Come on,” she said, teeth clenched. “Come on, you son of a bitch.”

Bankston charged.

Kins had never seen a UPS driver move so fast. With Faz screaming for him to move his truck, the man ran across the lawn and nearly vaulted behind the steering wheel. Gears ground, and the van lurched forward, front wheels bouncing up onto the sidewalk. Kins squeezed past, and they shot down the street, tires skidding to a stop in front of Tracy’s house. They flung open their doors and jumped out. Kins rushed to the gate and pushed the intercom button, still hopeful Tracy would answer.

She didn’t.

“Where is the damn patrol car?” he said, looking back up the street while pressing the buzzer again and again.

Two patrol units screamed down the block, emergency lights flashing. They stopped in the middle of the street behind the BMW, and four officers exited. One carried the Ram-It, a tubular piece of steel with handles that could be wielded like a battering ram.

Kins stepped back from the gate. “Break it down.”

The biggest of the officers gripped the handles, swung the steel tube back, and smashed it hard into the gate just above the keypad. The fence rattled and flexed, but the gate didn’t open.

“Again,” Kins said.

He hit it again, then a third time, and a fourth. With each blow, the gate flexed and shook, but that was it. “Hang on.” Kins bent and looked more closely at the lock. The deadbolt, a thick piece of steel, extended at least two inches into the metal plate. With the flex in the fence, they couldn’t get the bolt to pop free of the lock.

“No good,” Kins said. “Too much movement.” He considered the fence, then spoke to two of the other officers. “Cup your hands. Give me a boost.”

“You can’t go over,” Faz said. “What about your hip?”

“You got a better idea?”

“Send one of them,” Faz said.

“Cup your hands,” Kins said. The two officers did as instructed, and Kins stepped into their hands. “On three. Lift me and hold me up until I tell you to let go. I’ve had one vasectomy in my life. I don’t want another. Ready? Three.”

The officers lifted. Kins reached for the horizontal bar running six inches below the spear tips, used his arms to brace himself, and swung his right leg, and good hip, over the bar. He straddled the spear tips, holding himself up like a gymnast on the pommel horse. His arms shook from the exertion. “Okay, let go,” he said.

Kins held his breath, clenched his teeth, and swung his left leg over the fence. When it cleared the spear tips, he pushed off, dropped, and rolled to soften the impact. A bolt of white-hot pain shot from his hip down his leg.

“You all right?” Faz asked.

Kins struggled to his feet, the pain taking his breath away. He grimaced and said, “Toss the Ram-It over.”

It landed with a bang, cracking one of the patio tiles. Kins picked it up and limped to the front door. He stood back a foot and rammed it just above the keypad. He heard the wood crack, but the door didn’t give. He hit it a second time. The wood splintered, but again the deadbolt held. When he hit the lock a third time, the door exploded inward.

He dropped the Ram-It, pulled his Glock, stepped inside, and hit the button on the control panel to the right of the door to release the gate. Then he rushed in calling Tracy’s name.

Maria Vanpelt’s photographer slid the last of the equipment into the news van and turned to her. “Outstanding,” he said. “You must have fallen under a lucky star or made a deal with the devil.”

She smiled. “Maybe both.”

Vanpelt was still feeling the adrenaline rush. She’d just scooped not only all the other local stations, but every national network. The station’s assignment editor had called to tell her that all the major affiliates were running their video. Vanpelt’s cell phone rang. “Did you see that live shot?” she said, answering. “Has anyone ever been live on the scene when police found the hideout of a serial killer?”

“Where are you?” the assignment editor said, and Vanpelt detected concern in her voice.

“We’re just packing up the van. Why? What’s wrong?”

“We’re getting all kinds of reports of something happening at Tracy Crosswhite’s home in West Seattle.”

“What?” Vanpelt felt her stomach drop. “What kind of reports?”

“Don’t know. But something big is happening. The scanners are going crazy. I’m sending someone—”

“No,” Vanpelt said. “I’ll take it.”

“You’re too far.”

“It’s my story. I’ll get there.” She hung up and looked across the yard, past the two CSI vans parked on the lawn. Johnny Nolasco stood huddled with the FBI team. Despite what they’d found, no one looked to be celebrating. There were no high fives or handshakes, no satisfied smiles.

“Maria?” her photographer said.

“We need to move, now.”