“Start chest compressions.”
“What about an AED?”
Jimmy shakes his head. “Defibrillators are only for arrhythmias, to stabilize the heartbeat; they’re useless when the heart flatlines. Do chest compressions until the medevac chopper arrives. They’ll have Adrenalin and other options; if we can restart the heart we have a chance, provided I can get this bleeding under control.”
The helicopter sets down in a clearing a hundred feet south of Zell’s driveway. It’s impossible to move a gurney on the rutted mud and gravel road, so the medics bring in a two-man stretcher. Rather than covering the distance back to the helicopter in one run, they stop twice along the way and do a series of chest compressions to keep the blood flowing.
With their patient onboard, the medevac flight wastes no time getting airborne and the bird quickly disappears to the east.
“Do you think he’ll make it?” I say to no one in particular.
Jimmy turns and taps his finger into my chest several times. “That could have been you, Steps,” he chides. “Watch your six next time.” He pats me on the shoulder and then gives a thank-you nod to Deputy Bill Pascal, whose well-placed .223 round dropped Zell just as his finger was feathering the trigger.
I heard the bullet pass my left ear.
I think I felt it.
In the quiet as we crouched behind cover, Zell had worked his way south and skirted around the wall of metal siding and corrugated tin. It was just luck that Deputy Pascal entered the compound when he did. He made good time from his surveillance position on the hill and was breathing heavily, but there was no time to think; upon seeing Zell, he just shouldered his AR-15, sighted in, and fired a single round.
Don’t hit the FBI guy.
The thought had to be going through Pascal’s head as he squeezed the trigger. Even so, there was little chance of that happening. He’s one of three certified snipers at the sheriff’s office. And though he doesn’t have his sniper rifle with him today—since this was supposed to be strictly recon—apparently he’s just as good with an AR-15, albeit at closer range.
“All bets are off,” Walt bellows a few minutes later. “Warrant or no warrant, let’s check these buildings, all of them. Tear it apart if you have to. If there are victims here, we need to find them. Let’s move! Use your training and watch for booby traps; this guy’s sick enough to use them.”
But the exhaustive search turns up nothing.
Lauren may be dead, but Susan Ault is still alive. How long she remains alive may well depend on our next move. I fully expected to find some type of hidden bunker dug out underneath the single-wide, or a steel cage inside one of the travel trailers, but we’ve searched and searched again and there’s nothing.
Zell’s property is a bust.
An hour later we’re inside the trailer looking through stacks of mail, old receipts, bills, and other paperwork, hoping that Zell has a storage unit somewhere, or that maybe he rents a remote cabin—anything that’ll give us somewhere to start searching.
And then Walt’s phone rings; the conversation is short.
“He wants to talk to you,” the sheriff says, giving me a small grin as he slides his phone back into his pocket.
“Who?”
“Zell, of course.”
Jimmy’s eyebrows rise up. “He’s still alive?”
“Appears so,” Walt replies. “They’re prepping him for surgery as we speak, but he’s refusing to go until he talks to the FBI.”
I let my head fall back on my shoulders and just stare at the ceiling. “Thank God.” The words spill from me in a rush. If Zell wants to talk, he has a reason. Maybe he wants to cut a deal; maybe he’ll cooperate and tell us where Susan is.
Jimmy nods and even ventures a smile. Just like that, everything changes. A moment ago the walls of hopelessness were closing in around us.
Zell just opened a door.
Pulling his keys from his pocket, Walt says, “I’ll drive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
July 8, 12:41 P.M.
A pair of chrome handcuffs fastens Zell to his hospital bed. It’s procedure, though probably unnecessary in this case. The killer looks too weak to lift his arm, let alone mount an escape.
“It’s about time,” a disheveled and moppy nurse huffs as we enter the room. Her name tag reads STACY, and Stacy’s not happy. “He’s on a morphine drip to take the edge off the pain,” she says pointedly. “He won’t take anything stronger and he won’t let us operate until he talks to you.” She raises a contemptuous eyebrow just in case we didn’t catch the snide overtones in her voice.
Nurse Stacy marks something on a clipboard and sets it aside. “I don’t know what you think he did,” she continues, this time eyeballing Walt, “but really, isn’t it bad enough that one of your deputies shot him? What? Now he feels he has to wait to talk to you before he gets proper medical care. This isn’t Gitmo.”
“No one asked him to wait,” Walt growls.
“Oh, and I can tell you what he did,” Jimmy says, taking two steps toward Nurse Stacy. “Not what we think he did, but what he actually did.” There’s a raw, perturbed edge to his voice. “He abducted, brutally raped, and then murdered a dozen women.” As the color runs out of Stacy’s face, she seems to have trouble swallowing—either that or she’s struggling to keep the vomit from rising in her throat.
A low chuckle escapes through Zell’s lips.
“Why don’t you stand over here?” Jimmy continues, moving up to the hospital bed. “You can hold his hand while we talk to him, that way he won’t be frightened.”
Stacy shakes her head and shrinks into a corner.
Point made.
There’s a smug look on Zell’s face as he studies us through fragile eyes. “Special Agent James Donovan,” he says weakly. “Operations Specialist Magnus Craig—”