“I’m on it,” Richie said as he picked up a phone on the desk and began dialing.
Curtis removed the USB flash with the downloaded footage and turned to Jane. “Can you tell the sarg I need a BOLO on this car? I think it may be a ’64 Buick.” He pulled out his phone and googled 1964 Buick. Images popped up on his screen. He scrolled and spread his fingers, enlarging the photo. “Affirm, it’s a ’64 Buick LeSabre.” He read her the license plate.
“Got it,” Jane said.
“That what you were talking about earlier?” Hurdle said. “You seemed to realize something.”
They walked briskly back toward the knot of task force members in the lot. “Yeah, that Buick. Vail saw it in the parking lot of the Behavioral Analysis Unit when we left there this morning. Bastard must’ve followed us here.”
“Why was she suspicious of it when she saw it?”
“She wasn’t. It was just a car she knew during her childhood. Brought back some memories.”
“You think it was Marcks?”
Hurdle glanced at Curtis. “I keep hoping it wasn’t—but I’d bet money that it was.”
41
Vail opened her eyes. Everything was blurry. She fought to focus and tried to move—but her hands were bound behind her with rope.
What the hell?
She was lying on her right side, facing the backseat of—Holy shit, I’m in the Buick!
It all now came back to her. She struggled to sit up and saw the back of a head—and the unmistakable face in the rearview mirror—of Roscoe Lee Marcks.
He did not glance back at her, did not divert his eyes from the road, which were scrolling left and right, no doubt looking for law enforcement. He had to know that if you kidnap an FBI agent, there would be an alert put out immediately. Then again, there were already alerts issued for his apprehension.
Vail leaned forward in the seat to ease the pressure on her wrists. “So, Rocky, what do you have planned for me? Gonna slice lines in my stomach and cut off my genitals?”
“You think you’re so smart,” he said. He did not raise his voice. His tone was not one of anger. It was matter of fact. “But you’re fuckin’ clueless.”
“Am I? I know all about your murder of Eddie Simmons when you were fourteen. And I know about your love affair with Booker Gaines.”
He swung his right arm around and slugged her in the face, a quick, powerful, fisted backhand that stunned her. It hurt. A lot. She saw stars and she lost consciousness for a brief second. At least she thought it was a brief second. They were still driving and her head was extended, resting against the back of the seat.
Obviously that’s a sore subject. Certainly for me. She stretched her mouth open to make sure her jaw still worked.
“You asked what I have planned for you. I’m going to take you somewhere and then we’re gonna talk. You’re going to tell me what you know about the search for me, what approach your task force is taking. Then you’re going to tell me where Jasmine’s staying. When you’ve told me what I want to know, well, we’ll see. I’m very angry for what you did to put me behind bars.”
Translation: he’s going to kill me.
“You’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t—”
“We’re done talking. For now. When we sit down, that’s when we’ll clear the air.”
Vail could not let it come to that.
She desperately wanted to hear what he had to say—her years-long curiosity was screaming at her to press forward, to ask him the questions she’d wanted to ask … the ones she hoped she would get the opportunity to ask back at Potter.
But that desire to know the answers did not outweigh her wish to live a long life.
She could feel that her Glock was no longer in its holster. No surprise there—it was now probably in Marcks’s waistband. But Tzedek, the dagger-like tanto she kept sheathed in the small of her back, was still there. And that was not surprising, either: Marcks was a career criminal but he was not a law enforcement officer trained in the proper ways of frisking an individual for hidden weapons. He likely checked her for an ankle holster—she was not wearing it today—but he had no reason to suspect she had anything other than standard-issue police weapons: a service pistol and perhaps a smaller backup piece. Vail was not aware of any FBI agents who carried such atypical weapons—well, other than she and her friend, Aaron Uziel.
Her bindings were tied tight but she was able to get her fingers on Tzedek’s handle. She worked the knife out of its scabbard a quarter inch at a time, keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror, watching Marcks to see if he checked on her. He had not as of yet. Clearly he did not see her as a threat so his concern was focused on the more likely immediate danger: cops who by now could have a description of the vehicle. And him. And her.