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“I’ve got him,” Ragnar said to Mark. “And the 911.”
Mark nodded and followed the dog down the stairs. And there, on a cot, lay the woman they had been seeking. Sally Smithson. Her eyes were closed; she was pale as ash. A bucket for a toilet lay at the foot of the cot.
The basement also held some lumber and some tools. No built boxes or coffins, just the usual supplies that a basement might contain. Nothing there proved that the man was the Embracer.
He could already hear sirens. The local police chief had not minded the FBI intervention. Sally had been taken from her home in Maryland, and they were now in Virginia. Mark had been confident about the Krewe and the certainty they would find Sally, and the police chief acknowledged that what few clues they had led to Virginia, so he had been happy to agree to their handling of the case.
Mark hurried to the young woman, feeling for a pulse. It was there—weak, but steady.
“Sally,” he said softly.
Red whined and gave her a sloppy lick.
Sally opened her eyes, screaming hysterically and edging up against the wall.
The girl had just turned twenty-four. She had large brown eyes, a tangled mane of dark hair, and a pretty face filled with fear and despair.
“Sally, Sally, it’s all right,” Mark assured her. “I’m FBI. You’re safe,” he said softly.
She stared at him at first, afraid to believe she might have been rescued. Her eyes switched from terror to mistrust. Then she started to cry. Red set his paws on the cot and whined as if also telling her it was okay. The girl threw herself against the dog, sobbing.
The local police and emergency crews had been put on alert, and they must have been near when Ragnar had put through his 911 call.
A paramedic hurried down the basement steps, followed by a county deputy.
“Sally—” Mark began.
But she threw her arms into the air and started shaking and crying and speaking in disjointed sentences that made no sense.
“Let me get her to the hospital,” the paramedic said. “Give her time. You can talk to the doctor later. They’ll get her checked out, hydrated, and sedated, and by tomorrow morning, she’ll probably make more sense.”
“Thanks,” Mark said, and turned to the deputy. “Carver ran. I’m going after him—my partner is already on him.”
The deputy nodded and Mark hurried back up the steps, Red on his heels.
“Which way, boy?” Mark asked.
Red ran to the left; Mark followed.
They were in a quiet suburban neighborhood an hour out from DC, a bedroom community for many who worked in the city. The houses were large here, with nice yards—probably costing about the same as a small apartment close in. That was the way it was. Mark was glad; neighbors were at work or in their houses. It was too early for kids to be playing outside.
Carver didn’t seem to know how to shoot very well, and the last thing they wanted was a civilian casualty.
Red suddenly veered to the right, heading into an adjacent yard. Mark took off after him. As he raced around the side of the house, he heard a shot. Then Ragnar’s voice.
“Drop it, Carver. You have nowhere to go. It’s over.”
“I’ll kill the kid or the damned stupid dog!” Carver raged.
Mark slowed his gait, sliding against the side wall of the house, edging against it until he could see exactly what was going on.
Red certainly wasn’t a stupid dog. He had stopped against the side of the house as well.
Carver was about two feet in front of the back door, his gun against the head of a boy who was sobbing and appeared to be about ten.
Mark quickly weighed his options.
Shoot the man in the head from the rear?
That would free the kid.
But he calculated his distance, Ragnar’s position, and Red’s. And he decided he had a better option.
“Okay, Red, low!” he commanded softly.
The dog whined and started out. As Mark had reasoned, Carver moved the gun from the kid’s head to aim at the dog.
Mark sprinted out of his position, throwing himself at Carver.
The kid screamed and fell. Carver howled.
Carver’s gun went flying, and Ragnar scooped it up in a matter of seconds. Red sprang up and ran at Carver, standing over him, growling. Mark found his feet and helped the kid to his, thrusting the boy behind him lest Carver have another weapon.
Ragnar started to inform Carver he was under arrest, but he didn’t get far; officers from the county had followed Mark down the street. The cops were quickly in the yard, taking over with Carver. A young officer went to the sobbing boy, sliding his arm around the boy’s shoulders and asking him how to reach his parents.
Lieutenant Kenworth of the county police came around the house then.
“I—uh—thank you. I told my officers to handle it from here. But...do you want—”
“No, thanks,” Mark said. “I trust your officers to process the scene.” He hesitated. “We know he kidnapped Sally. But we don’t yet have any evidence to prove he’s The Embracer.”
“How did you get on to this guy anyway? I mean, Special Agent Crow informed me the house had been rented under a pseudonym. The guy has been Mr. Nice to the neighbors and in the community.”
“Anonymous tip,” Mark said. “And Carver wound up on our suspect list after we learned about the first victim. He disappeared as ‘Carver’ about a year or so ago. He had been wanted for aggravated assault in Fairfax.”
“Then he is The Embracer?”
