Chapter Twenty Three

Faith and Michael's eyes widened. Turk barked in excitement. Then all three agents rushed to Wanda, who stood at the doorway of the conference room.

Wanda started off down the hallway before the agents reached her. They had to jog to catch up. When they were close, Wanda explained what was going on. "We just got a call for the 4400 block of Westmore Drive in Holbrook. A bunch of dogs going crazy, whining and howling. We have two units in Holbrook already converging on the scene with three more on the way."

"We're sure this is legitimate?" Faith asked. "I can't believe our killer would strike so soon."

"Might be a false alarm," Wanda admitted. "We told people to call every time a dog barks, so we're bound to get some of those. But I choose to be optimistic. Besides, at least we know this system works."

The four of them entered the dispatch room. Half of the room was separated for use solely by the task force going after their killer. One of the dispatch officers was speaking while everyone else listened in hushed anticipation. No fewer than seven detectives and officers surrounded the dispatcher's desk.

"Can you describe the suspect?" the dispatcher asked, her voice barely containing her own excitement.

A thrill ran through Faith. She reminded herself that there could be an innocent explanation for what was going on, but damn, she hoped it wasn't.

"Roger that," the dispatcher replied, "Caucasian male, six-foot-three, two hundred twenty pounds, blonde hair. Wearing what looks like a military uniform. Any tattoos or identifying marks? Anchor tattoo on right bicep. And you said he's walking down the street blowing a whistle?"

An explosion of activity followed that. The gathered police detectives rushed away. Most headed back to the command room, but a few followed Wanda and the agents toward the exit.

"Have they assigned us another car yet, Michael?"

Michael cursed. "No, not yet." The two of them stopped at the front desk, and Michael said, "Hey, we need a car ASAP."

The desk sergeant blinked, a little frazzled by the sudden explosion in activity at his precinct. "Um… I'm pretty sure all the cars are in use right now. There's a big task force hunting a serial killer."

"We know," Michael said irritably. "We're the heads of that task force. We were supposed to have another car waiting for us. Did no one tell you that?"

The sergeant blinked again. "No. What happened to your first car?"

Michael rubbed his eyes. "Can you just give me a damned car, please?"

"Forget it, Michael," Faith said. "We'll catch a ride with—"

The sound of squealing tires assaulted Faith's ears. She looked through the glass doors of the precinct to find the only cruiser remaining in the lot, speeding off with Wanda and the three detectives that joined her inside.

"Seriously?" Faith cried. "Damn it!"

"I can get you a BearCat," the desk sergeant offered helpfully.

"Is that a car?"

"Well, it's an offroad truck. It belongs to Bellevue PD, but they loaned it to us for—"

"Can it drive on pavement?"

"Um, yes, but it's governor limited to—"

"Fine, where is it?"

"It's in the impound lot."

Faith sighed. "Please tell me the impound lot is here."

"It's… well, it's close."

"God damn—how close?"

"You make a right at the next light, and it's a half-mile down."

"Keys?"

"In the truck."

Faith rushed from the building, Turk and Michael following. When she saw Wanda again, she was going to rip that woman so many new holes they could use her as a damned cheese grater.

The agents rushed across the street, earning honks from several surprised drivers. Faith didn't care. She needed to be on scene when they got this killer, or God knows how Wanda would screw things up.

The more reasonable voice inside her head told her that just because Wanda was selfish and more concerned about political gain than protecting the innocent didn't mean she would screw up the collar. She had responded well to Elena's flight attempt, after all.

That soothed Faith's mood somewhat, but it wasn't until they reached the truck that the rage calmed enough for her to think about next steps. She jumped into the driver's seat, and Michael and Turk followed her. The keys were in the cupholder, and Faith had the truck in gear and moving before Michael even closed his door.

Moving turned out to be a relative term. The truck's engine revved to the redline of forty-five hundred rpm, and the truck lazily accelerated to about twenty-five miles per hour and stayed there.

"What the hell?" Faith snapped. "Is this normal?"

"It's in low range," Michael said. "Shift into high."

She reached for the shifter, and Michael caught her hand. "Stop first, then shift into neutral, then shift the transfer case into two high."

She growled in frustration and slammed on the brakes. "What the hell is this thing for?"

"It's an off-road truck. Low range helps multiply engine torque so you can—"

"I don't actually care, Michael," Faith snapped. "Damn it, I'm going to kill that woman!"

She shifted into neutral and then moved the transfer case shifter to two high. This time, when she shifted into drive, the truck lurched forward with something resembling actual speed. Faith managed to get up to forty-five miles per hour when it occurred to her that she probably couldn't swing this thing around corners the way she could a nimble police sedan.

She took a deep breath and released it slowly. She turned onto the highway, and even at those relatively low speeds, the truck lurched sickeningly. The tires scrabbled at the pavement for a couple of seconds before hooking up and launching the truck forward.

That, again, was a relative term. The truck was about as heavy as a dump truck and about as fast. It took a solid thirty seconds for the vehicle to reach seventy-six miles per hour, at which point, the truck's governor kicked in and prevented them from moving any faster. Faith got to enjoy the wonderful experience of being passed on the right by a minivan in the middle of an emergency response.

"How far to the scene?" she asked Michael.

"Twelve minutes," he replied.

She sighed and resisted the urge to smack the steering wheel. It would be just her luck she'd accidentally put the truck into extra-slow mode or something.

She knew a decent amount about cars, but she was never much into trucks. She realized why now.

The radio crackled, and Wanda's triumphant voice echoed through the cabin. "All units, stand down. The suspect is in custody. Repeat, suspect is in custody."

Faith had to admit she felt a rush of relief and even excitement when she heard that their suspect was in custody. "Roger that, Detective," she said. "Any casualties?"

"Negative, Special Agent. The suspect was apprehended alone. No casualties, civilian or police."

"Outstanding work," Faith replied. "Good enough that I won't have your badge for leaving us at the precinct."

There was a brief pause. Then Wanda said, somewhat defensively. "It was a time-sensitive situation, Special Agent. I'm sorry for what happened to your cruiser, and obviously, Redmond PD won't be pressing charges since it was used to apprehend a fleeing suspect, but—"

"I'm in a good mood right now," Faith interrupted. "Up until thirty seconds ago, I was in a very bad mood. Let's try to keep the good mood, yeah?"

After another brief pause, Wanda said, "Yeah. Sounds good."

"Outstanding. We'll see you soon."

***

Five police vehicles remained on the scene when Faith finally allowed the groaning truck to rest. The engine sighed with relief when its crazy driver finally turned it off and stopped insisting on treating it like a racecar. Faith, Michael, and Turk hopped off and joined Wanda in front of her own cruiser. Inside the car, a tall, muscular man with chiseled features and hard green eyes sat with his arms and legs bound. The uniform he wore wasn't military, but to the uninformed eye from a distance, animal control khakis might look military.

The man alternated between shouting and grousing at the officers."Damn it, you have to tell me what I did!"

"We told you already," a uniform replied. "You're under arrest on suspicion of murder. Not to mention resisting arrest with violence, six counts of battery on a police officer and assault with a deadly weapon."

"It's a damned dog whistle!" the man snapped. "How the hell is that deadly?"

"You jabbed it into my sergeant's neck. She had to be rushed to the hospital. Fortunately for you, you missed the carotid this time, so she'll make a full recovery. Not that one more murder will make things that much worse for you."

"What do you mean, one more? I haven't killed anyone since the Marine Corps paid me to!"

Turk growled at the man, and he growled back at Turk. "Thank doggy-Jesus I'm tied up right now, buddy, or I'd wreck your shit." Faith's eyes narrowed at him, and he turned to her. "I'd wreck your shit too, bitch." A leer spread across his face. "You'd probably like it."

Faith's lip curled up in contempt. She turned to Wanda, who wore a wry smile. "That lovely bundle of joy is Adrian Clarke. I took the liberty of running his ID while we waited for you guys. Turns out Mr. Clarke has quite the record. Dishonorable discharge from the Marine Corps due to unauthorized use of force against enemy prisoners. Six counts of assault in the ten years he's been out, four aggravated. One attempted murder when he beat a guy badly enough the gentleman had to spend eight weeks in the hospital."

"Sounds like a peach," Michael said. "Any weapons on his person?"

Wanda shrugged. "Well, you heard my officer. He put three inches of a dog whistle into a police sergeant's neck."

"No knives?" Faith asked.

"No knives, no guns. A can of bear spray, which he says he uses when he's hunting a particularly dangerous animal."

Faith frowned. All four of their victims were stabbed with a double-edged knife. The absence of such a weapon on Clarke's person didn't necessarily mean he wasn't their killer, but it did suggest that he wasn't out killing today, and it shed some doubt on whether he was their guy at all.

"What did he say when you arrested him?" she asked Wanda.

"Well, the arrest was mostly over when I got here," she replied. "According to Officer Birch, most of what he said was a variation of ‘fuck you,' with the occasional, ‘you asshole' thrown in."

Faith's frown deepened. "Wanda, this is serious. We can't just assume he's our guy because he happened to be outside with a dog whistle."

Irritation flashed across the detective's face. "I make it my business to never make assumptions, Special Agent. What I've done is arrested a suspected serial killer who fits the profile you created and who has a record of violent assault, including a very spirited attempt to resist arrest. He might get attempted murder for the whistle-stabbing of my sergeant."

"That's outstanding, Wanda, but…" Faith sighed. It wasn't worth arguing with her. "Officer Birch."

Wanda glared. "Excuse me? I can talk to you. You don't have—"

"Talk to me," Michael said, stepping in between the two women. "Trust me, this will save time. We'll want to hear from both of you anyway."

While Michael pacified/debriefed Wanda, Faith asked Birch, "Did Mr. Clarke give a reason for being out here."

Birch hooked a thumb to a parked Animal Control van a few dozen yards down. "Says he's out here hunting a Rottweiler that was reported missing by its owner yesterday. The dog's trained to be a guard dog, and the owner's afraid that it might hurt someone. According to Clarke, anyway. Between you and me, I'd rather face a Rottweiler than fight that dude again. I was five seconds away from shooting him."

Faith nodded. She looked uneasily back at the truck. Clarke's story made sense. It was a legitimate reason to have a dog whistle, and he wasn't carrying a knife.

But he did have a history of violence, and she had seen enough former Marines with untreated PTSD lose their cool that she couldn't rule out the possibility that he might be their killer.

"All right," she said. "Go ahead and take him."

Birch nodded and got into his cruiser. Faith approached Wanda and Michael as Turk joined her.

"Give me your keys," she told Wanda.

"Excuse me?" Wanda snapped.

"I think I've excused you enough. Thank you for catching my suspect. You can drive the truck back."

Wanda glared at her a moment, then called, "Rennick!"

A young uniform trotted over to her. "Yes, Detective?"

"Give Special Agent Bold your keys. You're driving the BearCat back to the precinct."

The young man turned to the truck. His eyes lit up like Christmas. "Really?"

He quickly gave Faith his keys and snatched the keys to the truck from her hand. "Hell yeah!" he cried, running to the massive diesel truck. "Thank you!"

"Sure," Faith said drily. To each their own, I guess.

"That work for you?" Wanda said cattily.

"Sure. We'll see you back at the precinct. Don't worry. I'll give you full credit for the collar."

Wanda reddened a little but chose not to argue further. The three agents walked toward Rennick's cruiser, a perfectly normal sedan with street tires and no four-low, four-high, four-semi-medium-on-Sundays-only bullshit.

She knew she should be excited, but something didn't sit right. The absence of that knife might seem like a small thing, but it raised serious questions with her.

Adrian Clarke was an asshole, no doubt. But was he their killer?

Faith looked out the window at the crescent moon and wondered who else could be lurking in the darkness.