Because walking out of the ladies’ room was an older woman with a cane. She should be easy pickings. Then again, Daisy should have been, too.
He waited until she’d approached the Honda, taking her keys from a gigantic purse. Slipping up behind her, he brought the rock down onto her head, ignoring her cry of pain when she fell to the pavement. He grabbed her keys and her purse and got into the car.
Exiting the rest stop, he stomped his foot on the gas, speeding back to the highway—just as an explosion splintered the air. His car was now just a memory. It’d burn until someone came to put it out, and by then, his prints would be no more.
“Yes,” he hissed triumphantly. “I did it.”
Plus, a fire was a handy way to keep all the cops busy. So they’re not looking for me.
About two miles later, he passed through another group of trees. Slowing down, he tossed the woman’s purse into the thicket. He hadn’t wanted her to have her phone or her ID. Her car could be too quickly identified that way and he needed a head start, until he could find somewhere to dump this car and get another.
At the same time, he didn’t want anyone tracking her phone, either. So he’d taken care of both problems.
He checked his rearview mirror, relieved to see no one behind him. No one followed him. Except . . .
His heart stopped. Just . . . stopped.
“Holy fucking shit.”
MACDOEL, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:15 P.M.
“You shot the gun out of his hand?”
Daisy was getting damn tired of answering this question. Danton had asked. His daughter had asked. His daughter’s husband’s cousin—a park ranger with EMS training—had asked. This time it was the sheriff from the next town up.
“Yes, sir, I did,” she said, not taking her gaze off Gideon, who was being settled onto a stretcher by the park ranger/EMT. From the corner of her eye she saw the sheriff’s deputy moving to pick up the gun, which still lay in the middle of the road. “Don’t touch it!” she shouted, finally looking away from Gideon, who was actually smirking at her.
The deputy straightened his spine and glared at her. “Who are you to be telling me how to handle a crime scene?”
“I’m nobody. But he’s Special Agent Reynolds with the FBI and that gun may have been used in other crimes.”
“What she said,” Gideon called out.
She gave him an irked look even as she gently pushed his hair away from his eyes. “You need to keep still. Plus you’re not helping anyway.”
Although he did look a lot better. Sammie Danton had done a good job stopping his bleeding and applying a dressing. At least Daisy thought it was a good job.
But you let him get away.
Fuck off.
“Daisy?” Gideon tugged on her sleeve.
She blinked down at him. “Sorry. What?”
“Call Molina again,” he suggested. “Hopefully she’ll answer this time.”
Daisy did as he asked, dialing up his boss with his phone.
“What is it, Agent Reynolds?” a woman snapped.
Daisy had heard her voice before, that morning when she’d overheard Gideon and the woman discussing what had been done to Trish . . . so matter-of-factly.
Which is how they cope, she reminded herself.
“This isn’t Agent Reynolds,” Daisy blurted out. “This is Daisy Dawson. Gideon’s been shot, but he’ll be okay. He asked me to call you.”
“Is he conscious?” Molina asked sharply.
“Yes. We’re waiting for the helicopter.” Sammie’s husband’s cousin—the EMS guy—had immediately radioed for one.
“Where are they taking him?” Molina demanded.
“To UC Davis.”
“Let me talk to Reynolds. Please,” she added in a tone of forced courtesy.
Daisy put the phone to Gideon’s ear. He was securely wrapped in blankets, but he was still shivering. “She wants to talk to you.”
Gideon rolled his head to get closer to the phone. “I’m a little . . . indisposed at the moment.” A few seconds ticked by as he listened, then gave his boss the CliffsNotes account of what had happened. “Please tell the sheriff that your team is coming to deal with the crime scene.” He rolled away from the phone. “Give the phone to the sheriff.”
Daisy did, nodding politely when the sheriff met her eyes with a bit of apology.
“Yes,” the sheriff said into the phone, “we’ll make sure the scene is secure as long as someone gets here soon. There isn’t much traffic through here this time of year, but it is the only road and we’re blocking it off.” He handed the phone to Daisy. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Yes?” Daisy asked.
“You’re going with him in the helicopter.”
“Yes. I’d planned to.”
“You will. Call me when you get to the hospital.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll call you.” She heard the sound of the helicopter’s approach. “His ride’s about to land. I need to go.”
“Miss Dawson,” Molina said, her tone still terse. “Thank you for stepping up and protecting Gideon the way you did.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ending the call, she called good-bye to the Dantons, who waited beyond the helicopter’s landing range. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen tomorrow,” she told them. “If it’s one of the other agents who goes to Portland, will you still help them?” she asked Sammie.
Sammie nodded. “If you vouch for them, sure. I’ll be going anyway. I need to try to find Eileen. If she’s hurt . . . I just need to make sure she’s okay. My husband’s already said he’ll go with me, so Dad doesn’t have to worry.”
Daisy gave Mr. Danton an abrupt hug. “Thank you. For everything.”
“We didn’t do anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done,” he murmured, patting her back. “Call us. Let us know you’re okay. Go on now. They’re ready to load you up.”
“I will.” She’d turned for the helicopter when the sheriff tersely ordered his deputy to secure the scene, then got in his squad car and took off in the direction they’d be going.
She glanced up at the EMT who was helping her up into the back of the rig. “Is he clearing a path for us?”
The man shook his head. “No, he just got a call from Dispatch. A guy just knocked out an old lady at the rest area and stole her car.”
“Mr. Beige Chevy?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.
“Sounds like. There’s a car vaguely matching that description parked off the road across from the rest area. But it has the same license plates, so probably.”
“Probably? It’s a beige Chevy with a shot-up windshield and shot-out back window. How hard can it be to ID it?”
“It’s on fire. Gas tank exploded. He got away in the stolen car.”
“Then they can catch him,” she said with relief. “Hopefully they’re better shots than I was and they actually flatten his tires.”
“There’s no way they can get off a better shot than you did,” Gideon said with a pride that made her smile. Until the EMT spoke again.
“I don’t think anybody’s gonna be shooting at that car, ma’am. There’s a child in the backseat.”
Any color still in Gideon’s face drained away. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
Daisy’s stomach pitched. “Oh no.”
They’d seen what the monster had done to Trish. What would he do to an innocent child?
GRASS LAKE, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:15 P.M.
He threw on the brakes and turned around to see big brown eyes staring from the child’s car seat strapped in behind him.
His heart simply stopped. “Holy fucking shit,” he repeated in a whisper. “It’s a kid.”
A toddler, to be exact. Wearing pink. So probably a little girl.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
Just drive. Fucking drive. Ditch the car as soon as you can.
But it’s going to get cold tonight. I can’t just leave her. Alone. What if some pervert steals her?
You fucker. You stole her.
Not on purpose! And I’m not going to hurt her.
Idiot. Just. Drive.
He pressed the accelerator to the floor, peeling out with a squeal of tires. “What the hell now?”
But the kid didn’t answer.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:15 P.M.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Zandra Jones squinted at the driver’s licenses mounted on the inside of the cabinet door, barely close enough for her to see. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.
She’d been repeating the women’s names in her mind, over and over again.
Because I’m going to get out. I’m going to tell someone who they were. That they’re dead. Because I will get out.
She had no idea how she’d make that happen. But she would. She was not going to end up as an addition to his collection of trinkets. And licenses.
She’d get out and she’d make sure this monster paid for his crimes. And she’d make sure the families of all the women he’d killed got closure. So they could grieve.
Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.