Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(52)

Vail patted Margot’s chest and the dog disengaged herself from Vail’s lap. Vail pulled herself off the floor and grabbed what amounted to an overnight bag.

She said good-bye to Margot and Quinn, then left the house with Dixon. En route to Napa Valley Medical Center, Vail called the car service that Gifford’s secretary, Lenka, had arranged, and gave them the new address where she was to be picked up.

When they arrived, Vail sat in Dixon’s Ford, staring out the windshield at the ER bay. “When were we here with Mayfield?”

“A couple days ago?”

Vail brought both hands to her face and rubbed at her eyes and cheeks. “This has been a week from hell.”

Dixon popped open her door. “Look on the bright side. When was the last time you caught two serial killers in one week?”

Vail gave Dixon a weary look. “Nice try, Roxx. But until I find out what happened to Robby—or find him alive—I won’t consider the past ten days a success.”

Dixon got out and closed her door. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

They made their way into the ER and found the charge nurse. Cannon had been brought in, triaged, and sent directly to the OR. “Brain surgery. No telling how long he’ll be in there.”

“What was wrong?”

“Subdural hematoma. That’s bleeding in the brain due to traumatic—”

“Yeah, we got that part,” Vail said. “Thanks.”

“Roxxann.”

Behind them, Austin Mann was approaching. He looked surprisingly fresh for nearly 3:30 in the morning.

“Cannon’s in surg—”

“We know,” Vail said. “You get a chance to talk with him before they took him back?”

Mann twisted his mouth. “No such luck. Came in unconscious.”

Vail looked around for a seat. Ahead and down the hall was the waiting room. She led the way and wearily lowered herself into a chair. “So that’s it.”

“Hey, we’re not giving up,” Mann said. “Just because you’re gettin’ on that plane doesn’t mean this is ‘case closed.’ We’re still gonna work it. Soon as Cannon is conscious, he and I will have a chat. We learn anything, we know where to find you.”

Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She sighed, then lifted it out of its holster. “Vail.” She listened a moment, then said, “You’re early.” She pulled herself straight in the chair and said, “I’ll be right out. Yeah, in the back, by the ambulance bay.”

Vail shoved her phone onto her belt, looked at Dixon and Mann, then stood up. They rose as well.

“There’s nothing more to do here,” Mann said. “At this point, ten, fifteen minutes isn’t going to make a difference.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

Dixon gave Vail’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s time to go.”

Vail smirked. “I think the fat lady is singing, Roxx.”

Dixon gave her a firm hug. “The fat lady doesn’t sing under my watch, Karen. She’s not even here.”

Vail turned and shook Mann’s hand, thanked him, then headed off to grab her bag from Dixon’s car.

As the cool night air struck her cheeks, she thought back to when she and Robby landed at SFO. The time ahead full of promise, fun, play, and relaxation. And now, as she settled into the rear seat of the black Towne Car, she wished she could have a “do over.”

If only I hadn’t insisted on working the Victoria Cameron case. If only I’d taken Robby’s advice and let it go. If only she had done nothing that she had done.

Things would be different. Robby would be here with her. And she wouldn’t feel the empty void that now enveloped her like a straitjacket.





PART 2


TRACTION


Washington Dulles International Airport

Fairfax & Loudoun Counties

Dulles, VA



The flight home was uncomfortable. Vail hadn’t expected to sleep, but the woman next to her seemed to have bathed in some horrendous floral perfume—enough to perfuse every passenger on the plane. It irritated Vail’s nose and she launched into a sneezing fit multiple times throughout the flight. And there was nothing she could do about it. There were no vacant seats—but she wasn’t sure any seat was far enough away to evade the offensive scent.

After landing and powering up her phone, Vail e-mailed Dixon to ask if anything had broken while she was in the air. Dixon replied immediately: “Cannon’s no help. Amnesia. Hang in there.”

Now, standing in a Dulles restroom before heading out, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. It may not have been a red-eye, but she exhibited all the manifestations of it. Add in the bruises and cuts, and she looked like a boxer who’d gone twelve rounds and lost. Felt like one, too.

She passed a coffee kiosk and grabbed a shot of espresso—full octane to get her brain and body moving—and went out to the curb, where Detective Paul Bledsoe was due to pick her up.

It was a quarter past five and the early evening was masked by a gray, depression-draped sky. Vail was not dressed for the weather, which she estimated at around 45 degrees. She waited just inside the doors until she saw Bledsoe arrive out front. She tossed her overnight bag into the backseat and climbed into his department-issued Crown Victoria.