The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(90)

So he chose quiet solitude, moving his feet and pumping his calves to keep the blood flowing. While he was tired and cold and hungry, he tried to keep it in perspective. He was free, calling his own shots, and directing his own destiny—and that was worth cherishing.

Earlier in the evening, while parked down the block from Vail’s house, Marcks had seen her husband pull into the driveway—and ten minutes later they were back in his vehicle, headed into DC.

That he and Vail were meeting Jasmine was an unexpected bonus. It was what he had been hoping—and planning—for because he had no other way of finding her. What’s more, the timing could not have been better: the darkness would serve as an accomplice to what he intended to do.

Now, as his buttocks began to go numb, Jasmine exited the restaurant, followed by Vail and her husband. When Jasmine climbed into the back of the taxi, Marcks started the Impala’s engine and pulled the gearshift into “drive” as the cab pulled out onto M Street.

The sedan continued on to an area in the outskirts of the city, passing alongside the Potomac on the George Washington Memorial Parkway and into Alexandria. Snow started falling again and he switched on his wipers.

Marcks grew increasingly cautious, as the longer he spent on the road following the taxi the greater the likelihood that the driver would notice and mention it to his passenger. Or he would keep looking in the rearview mirror, which his daughter would inevitably note. She was sharp, like her mother. Too sharp for her own good.

As the area turned residential, Marcks began to wonder if he should break off pursuit and think of some other way of finding out where she was staying. But how would he go about locating her when he could not risk contact with anyone?

Just as he pulled the Chevy against the curb, the taxi stopped and let Jasmine off. She glanced around and then continued on foot, plodding through the snow.

After watching Jasmine trudge along for another block, Marcks wondered aloud what the hell she was doing. Why did she get out of the car? Was she short on money and had to walk the rest of the distance? In this biting cold? In the snow? On the ice? No decent cabbie would let a woman off at night, in this weather, just to save a few bucks.

Maybe she got out so no one would know where she lived—not even the taxi driver. A bit extreme … but then again, she had to know he would keep coming after her until he found her—and killed her. Viewed that way, it made perfect sense.

He pulled back into the street and drove slowly after her. But how long could he follow her at a low speed before she caught on? Jasmine would notice such a thing.

Just as he was mulling that question, Jasmine stopped. She turned and faced him. And she knew. She took off running, slipping and trying to stay on her feet, then turned right down a side street.

Marcks accelerated, then swerved around the corner and slammed his wheels against the curb. He cut the lights and engine and got out, running after her, falling twice but getting to his feet and keeping a bead on her. In fact, he was gaining. He was taller than she was, so his strides covered more ground than hers.

The residential area was relatively dark and because of the snow and cold, no one was out. At nearly 10:00 PM, many were no doubt already asleep.

He pushed the last fifteen yards and tackled her, brought her down hard. She tried to scream but he got his large hand around her mouth. She kicked and squirmed, the slippery snow making it harder on both of them: neither could get enough purchase to gain significant leverage.

But his right knee suddenly slid out from under him and Jasmine landed a direct blow to his groin. It took his breath away and he sprawled facedown, snow infiltrating his mouth and nostrils.

Marcks groaned and struggled to his feet—but Jasmine was already running away, awkwardly slipping and sliding, going fast enough that he knew she was going to get away before he would be able to give pursuit.

He dropped to his knees and waited for the pain to subside, then hobbled back to his car and drove away.





48


The next morning, with snow flurries continuing to fall, Vail awoke to an improving but persistent headache.

She called Richard Prati and asked if he had time to answer a few questions about the arsons they had previously discussed. He agreed to meet her near the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia, in half an hour—which was perfect, because Vail was only ten miles away.

While en route, a thought occurred to her. She called Robby and he answered immediately.

“Everything okay?”

“The car. I may’ve seen it parked out front.”

“What car? What are you talking about?”

“The raccoon. We looked out the window, I saw an old car. But it was down the street, behind a truck. It may’ve been the one Marcks was driving when he grabbed me. What if it was him? He’d know where we live.”

“How would he figure that out? I mean, that information isn’t secret but—”

“If you know what you’re doing online, twenty-five bucks can get you access to county records.”

“Yeah, but he was imprisoned, what, seven years ago? He probably doesn’t know you can do that.”

“Wait—there’s an even easier way. He knows I work at the BAU. Assuming he can find a listing for it—it’s probably out there somewhere—he goes there and waits for me.” We’ve always wondered if something like that could happen. Now we know. She slapped the steering wheel. “I saw that Buick in the unit’s parking lot right before he kidnapped me.”