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The landline phone rang as he was about to go and sit down in front of the television. Huh, that’s odd, he thought, before reaching to pick up the receiver.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Laura brought the car screaming to a stop outside the address, looking up as she did so for any sign that she was in the right place. Her he
ad was back to pounding again, and she felt like she was on the verge of triggering another vision. That had to mean she was in the right place.
As she leapt out of the car and ran for the door, she caught a glimpse through a window set into it. A hallway. A table set in the hall. A pile of mail on top of it, crowned with a set of keys.
This was the place.
She was here, and the victim was already home.
There was no time to call for backup, no time to hope that Nate was on the way. She had to go in, and she had to do it now. She didn’t even have time to be afraid for herself as she charged for the door, landing a kick squarely underneath the lock, waiting for it to splinter. It took one more try, and she barreled forward with her shoulder braced to hit the frame, relying on the damage that she had already done to yield to her momentum. The old, poorly maintained, and half-rotted door exploded into splinters as she staggered into the house, taking a course straight through to the living room, following in the footsteps of Thomas Lacey as she had seen them in her vision.
And there he was.
Thomas Lacey, his head tilted back against the chair as he kicked and fought for purchase on his neck, the blue striped tie firmly around it, his face reddening with the pressure. Above the neck, with his gloved hands grasping the tie from the other side, was a tall, lanky man wearing a dark mask over his face.
But not dark enough.
The moment she saw his eyes, Laura knew it was him: Ed Bronston. She’d been right. But that was no consolation now.
For a moment they simply stared at one another, both of them in shock. Laura, because she had finally tracked him down, and now she was almost too late, but there he was, and he was just looking at her. He, probably because he had never believed he would be interrupted in the middle of carrying out another kill.
“How—?”
Laura didn’t need to let him finish the sentence, didn’t need to answer. She hadn’t been able to draw her weapon before, while she was hurling herself into the door, but she could now. She reached for the gun in her holster and pulled it out quick, holding it right to the level of Ed’s head and freezing still again.
In the time that it had taken her to pull a gun, Ed had gone for his own backup plan. He had pulled a knife from his belt and was now holding it against Thomas Lacey’s throat.
He said nothing, but the intention was clear. Lacey had stopped struggling, his body going limp. His eyes were closed, and the motion of going for the knife had loosened Ed’s grip on the tie. Most people didn’t die immediately after they fell unconscious from strangulation. It was a survival method. Playing dead, quite literally. The body went into shutdown mode to preserve what little oxygen it had left; leave the airways clear, and they could come to. Laura had heard of it happening before. Serial killers getting caught out because their “dead” victim woke up and escaped.
Thomas Lacey still had a chance. Just not if Ed Bronston cut his throat for him before he could wake.
Laura’s hand tightened on the trigger. She had a good line of sight. She was staring Bronston right in the eye, and he her. There was nothing between her and his head. One shot—that was all it would take. If she could land the bullet quicker than he could move the knife, it would all be over.
She had to take the chance.
She moved her finger, preparing to squeeze—
The pain came out of nowhere, almost knocking her sideways, so instantaneous she had no time to prepare—
Laura pulled the trigger, and the bullet flew from the gun toward its target. Like in slow motion, she watched it happen. It moved through the air like it was water, slow, leaving ripples of movement behind. As it moved closer to Ed, he moved, too. He pulled his hand forward and across. It wasn’t a precise move, but it was vicious. Even as the bullet struck home in his forehead, the knife slid away from Thomas Lacey’s flesh, leaving a fountain of blood pouring out in its wake. Red splashed down Lacey’s chest, soaking the upholstery of the chair, spilling down onto the floor…
Laura drew in a breath, her eyes wide open. Her head felt like it was splitting open. It took everything she had not to drop the gun and clutch her head. She couldn’t shoot. That much was clear to her now.
So then what?
“You’ve got me, Agent Frost,” Ed Bronston said. His voice was a dry croak, like he hadn’t had a drop of water in the whole time since she’d seen him last. It was sepulchral, eerie, like he wasn’t of this earth any longer. “But I’ve got him. What are you going to do?”
Laura clenched her jaw for a moment, trying to think. She couldn’t shoot.
“Drop the knife,” she said. It was worth a try.
“You drop the gun,” he replied.
As she had expected.
