The blue van Zoe had first seen by Sorenson’s Plumbing was parked in front of Laura Summer’s home, instantly dispelling Zoe’s hope that Jeffrey Alston was really fixing someone’s drain. Tatum switched off the engine and checked his gun.
Zoe had called Martinez on the way and explained in very general terms what they had learned. Martinez sounded livid but was professional enough to realize that his top priority had to be taking the serial killer off the street. He’d handle the rogue FBI personnel later. Police squads were on their way.
“I’ll take the back door in case he tries to bolt when they get here,” Tatum said. “You wait in the car. Watch the front door. Let me know if he leaves through it. And welcome the cavalry when it gets here.”
Zoe nodded. She was useless here, of course. She was untrained. She’d stay in the car.
Tatum drew a small gun from an ankle holster and handed it over to Zoe. “That’s a Glock 43. It has seven bullets. Use it only if there’s no other option.”
She nodded numbly, taking the metal object from his hand. It was cold and surprisingly light. She held it pointed away from them both, terrified.
Tatum opened the driver’s door and got out.
“Don’t be a hero,” Zoe said.
He smiled at her, more a grimace than a real smile, and shut the door.
Zoe watched him creeping alongside the house to the back. He was smooth, alert, and fast. Every movement was calculated to avoid the line of sight from the windows. She found herself fascinated with her partner’s skill as he edged his way, crouched, gun in his hand. As she spent days with Tatum and his silly jokes and antics, it was easy to forget he was also highly trained for hostile situations such as this one.
He disappeared behind the corner of the wall, and she was left alone. Almost instantly, she could taste bile in her mouth. Her throat constricted, and she breathed heavily, staring at the house. What was going on in there? Were Laura and her children dead already? Was Jeffrey pumping embalming fluid through Laura’s throat right now?
The hand holding the gun trembled. Scared it might accidentally fire, she placed it on the seat next to her, still warm from Tatum’s body heat. He had only left half a minute ago. It felt like hours. It felt like weeks.
She glanced at the road. How long until the cops showed up?
She thought of Lily Ramos, screaming through her gag, praying for the cops to show up before she died.
She clenched her fists and waited.
CHAPTER 74
Laura Summer’s backyard was strewn with children’s toys, a rusty tricycle, dry leaves from the neighbor’s tree. Moving silently in that mess was slow work. Halfway into the yard, Tatum stepped on a twig, hidden under the layer of leaves, and the sudden snap sounded to him like a gunshot, piercing the air. He froze, glancing at the back door, waiting.
It didn’t budge.
His target was the wall by the door, but a large window looking out to the yard prevented him from sidling up to it. Instead, he crouched low, moving slowly, hopefully out of sight, knowing well that if someone decided to walk to the window and look outside, he would be completely visible.
Perhaps the prudent thing to do would have been to position himself farther away, gun trained on the door, and wait for the approaching backup. But his mind was on Laura Summer and her two children.
He prayed they were still alive.
The door was still three steps away, but the windowsill was behind him, meaning he could stand up. He did so and glanced through the glass pane. From his new vantage point he could see the children.
They were alive.
Tied in the corner of the room, gags in their mouths, faces wet with tears, but undoubtedly alive, and Tatum let out a long breath of relief. Now he just had to—
A muffled scream drew his attention. Something crashed inside the house, and he saw the children crying harder, looking at something beyond his vantage point. Their mother, of course, and by the sound of it, she was struggling for her life.
Reflex took control as he rushed across the remaining distance to the door, took a step back, and kicked it open, swiveling his Glock to take a bead on the struggling two figures.
The man, whom Tatum pegged as Jeffrey Alston, held a woman whose mouth was taped shut. Her hands were twisted behind her back. She faced Tatum, and Jeffrey stood behind her, his body almost entirely hidden. His eyes widened as he saw what was going on, and he reflexively lowered his head, taking cover behind his human shield.
Laura’s face was purple, her eyes bulging, a nylon rope around her neck. She was thinner than Jeffrey, and his body was partly exposed. Almost good enough to take a shot.
But Laura buckled and moved, the lack of air driving her to struggle desperately, and it was a difficult shot. If he missed, he would hit Laura.
Both men were frozen in place, but Jeffrey reacted first, lunging sideways, grabbing a knife from the counter. He held the knife to the woman’s throat.
“Drop it!” he roared.
Laura’s eyes stared at the ceiling as she convulsed. She was seconds away from death.
Tatum aimed the gun desperately at Jeffrey’s protruding body. “Take that thing off her throat, or I shoot.”
“Drop the gun, or I kill her.”
“If she chokes to death, I’ll kill you, you bastard. Take that thing off.”
Apparently understanding he was losing his leverage, Jeffrey twisted something behind the woman’s neck, and the noose loosened. The woman let out a wheeze, trying to draw breath through her gagged mouth. Her nostrils widened and narrowed as she snorted air into her lungs.
“Drop the damn gun, or I cut her throat.”
The knife nicked Laura’s throat below the rope, and blood dripped down its blade. Tatum hesitated, knowing that there was no right answer to this desperate situation. But the police were on their way. He could try to buy some time.
He lowered the gun, heart beating fast, trying to take in his surroundings. The two children were bundled in the corner, their eyes wide. They were shrieking incomprehensibly, rags taped to their mouths as well. A small coffee table lay on the floor. Laura must have kicked it as Jeffrey was strangling her. That was the crash Tatum had heard before.
“Put the gun on the floor.”
Tatum very slowly crouched and put the Glock on the floor, his eyes not moving from Jeffrey and the knife on Laura’s throat.
“Kick it over.”
Tatum hesitated, calculating. If Jeffrey had the gun, nothing would stop him from shooting Tatum and then finishing off Laura and her children.
“Do it!”
Tatum gave the gun a small kick, and it spun on the floor. It stopped midway between them. Jeffrey stared at him, his eyes furious.
“Don’t do anything you might regret,” Tatum said. “If you kill that woman, you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars.”
He hoped that Jeffrey wouldn’t figure out what was going on. The man didn’t know that Tatum was with the FBI or that the police now knew who he was. All Jeffrey knew for sure was that an armed man had barged into the house to try to help Laura.
“You could still walk away,” Tatum continued softly. “No one was harmed here, right? No one needs to know.”
“Shut up. Go sit over there.” Jeffrey motioned with his head to the corner where the kids were crying.
Tatum nodded and began to move, his first step taking him closer to Jeffrey and Laura.
“Stay away!” Jeffrey’s voice was hysterical. “I will cut her—do you hear me? I will cut her throat.”
Blood was still trickling from Laura’s throat, and Tatum froze. Nodding very slowly and raising his hands, he walked sideways alongside the wall until he reached the crying children.
“Sit down. On the floor.”
“Okay.” Tatum sat, crouching slowly.
“Sit. On your ass.”
Where were the damned police? Tatum sat down and watched Jeffrey, who seemed to be frozen by indecision.
“Just walk away—”
“Be quiet! All of you, be quiet.”