94 hours
A green jeep that looked like something from the set of M*A*S*H took Fallon and Robbins out across the track and pulled up in front of the infield garage. Thurman and Book had stayed behind, though Book had provided her with an iPad that contained the video clips and all of his files on Light. Of course, it wasn’t connected to the Internet, and even if it had been, it wouldn’t have mattered since the only people in the Phoenix metropolitan area who were able to access the web were back in the room she’d just left. She already knew she wouldn’t be able to take it away from the track, for the same reason they’d confiscated her phone.
“He’s in there?” she asked, a little surprised. The low-lying building was just a long collection of bays for cars to lounge in until the race began. Sure, they had electricity, but that was about it. From what she’d read, Gitmo had better accommodations.
Then again, the Crazy 8s virus made 9/11 look like a road-rage incident, so she imagined prisoner comfort was not high on the government’s priorities list at the moment.
She wondered if they were even taking prisoners.
“For now,” Robbins answered. “Until you tell us if he is what we think he is.”
Of course, Fallon was almost a hundred percent sure he was just that: a psychopath. But . . . if he really was immune to the virus that had taken out one of the largest urban centers in America in a matter of days, he wouldn’t just be an angel of death. He’d be the country’s savior.
First things first, though.
“I want to talk to him alone.”
Robbins frowned, but he nodded. “ ‘Alone’ is a relative term. The place is wired. Someone’s always watching him.”
Fallon didn’t know if that was an observation or a threat. She supposed it didn’t really matter, either way. “Noted.”
One of the bays had been repurposed into a holding area, and Light was inside, in a barred, freestanding cell that Fallon was able to walk around as she made her observations.
He wore handcuffs and ankle bracelets, both connected to a chain around his waist. There was a chair in the cage, which had been bolted to the floor; Light had been sitting, but he stood when she entered the bay.
Polite, probably charming one-on-one. That would help explain how he was able to go from job to job without raising eyebrows—a silver tongue was a classic hallmark of psychopathy.
He watched her curiously as she walked around the cage, not making notes on the tablet, just taking him in. He turned his head to track her progress as she went around behind him, not giving her the satisfaction of moving his body to follow but obviously uncomfortable with her being out of his sight. She stopped directly behind him, just out of his peripheral vision unless he really strained his neck, which she knew he wouldn’t do.
She waited. If he spoke first, he’d be giving up a measure of control, however slight, and that would tell her much about him.
His not speaking would tell her even more.
Fallon watched as a single bead of sweat rolled down from his blond hair, down his ear, hanging from the lobe like a crystal on a chandelier before crashing down to the bloody collar of the EMT uniform he still wore. And that told her something, too.
She resumed her stroll, tapping at the screen of the iPad as though she were taking notes now, but more interested in his response to her assessing him than in recording it for posterity. Besides, Robbins said the place was wired, which meant he was watching her watch Light. Plenty of time to review the video later.
When she stood in front of him again, she cocked her head to one side.
“Why’d you kill her?”
Light looked surprised, then puzzled, which might not actually have been feigned. She hadn’t been very specific, after all.
“The woman in the ER at St. Luke’s. She was dead already. If not from her wounds, then when those brain-eating crazies got done with the bodies that could move and started in on the ones that couldn’t. What did you gain? Compared to what you could have lost, taking those few extra seconds to kill her instead of fleeing?”
She knew, of course. He gained the knowledge that it was his choice when the woman died, not nature’s or some Infected’s, or even that of some doctor or insurance company. Or the woman’s herself.
His decision to allow her those last moments, or to steal them away. Him, the only god who could answer or ignore her prayers as the light faded from her eyes.
Ultimate control over another person’s fate. There was no headier ambrosia for the psychopath.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? Maybe this will refresh your memory.”
She tapped a few icons on the screen for real this time and brought up the video of Light kneeling next to the woman in the ER. She turned the tablet so he could see the screen, let it run once, then played it again, watching his reaction.
He couldn’t keep his eyes off it. If anything, he paid more attention the second time than the first. She wondered if he was becoming aroused. Many serial killers used murder as a substitute for sex, often because they lacked the capacity to achieve satisfaction any other way.
She made as if to play it a third time, watching his eyes follow her finger. His fingers flexed unconsciously at his sides, and he swallowed.
Definitely aroused.
Instead of playing the video again, she turned the iPad back around and gave him a quick, tight smile when his eyes flew up to meet hers. Letting him know she’d seen and knew his secret. Anger flashed in his blue eyes for an instant, then he had control of himself again.
“I want a lawyer.”
“Lawyer’s not going to do you any good. You’re not walking away from this one, and now that they’ve discovered your little predilection for playing God, your life is going to be under a microscope all the way back to the womb. It won’t be long before they pin a half a dozen or more murders on you. And, since you’re fairly new to the Grand Canyon State, you may not know that we’re big on capital punishment here. Can’t imagine you’re going to like it too much when the roles are reversed, and you’re the one lying there, helpless, with the moment of your death being determined by someone else’s whim.”
Light smiled, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t think I stuttered.”
Fallon shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you have to know you’ll be better off if you cooperate.”
“I . . .”
Fallon kept talking. “You can’t think they’d have hauled you out here and trussed you up like Hannibal Lecter just because of some woman in an ER.”
“ . . . want . . .” Light enunciated the words carefully, every syllable sharp enough to slice a throat.
“Or even a dozen women in a dozen ERs.”
“ . . . a . . .”
“You have something they want. If I were you, I’d be thinking about how to capitalize on that.”
Fallon thought she detected the briefest hesitation before Light finished up, the cold smile never leaving his face.
“ . . . lawyer.”
She shrugged again.
“Suit yourself,” she repeated, turning away, hiding a smile of her own as she did.
She’d planted the seed. It wouldn’t be long before it sprouted and bore fruit.