Ilse faced her borrowed laptop back in Rudiger's RV. The jolly technical analyst in his Hawaiian shirt was staring through hooded eyes at his own monitor, yawning as he glanced at the printed list at his side, then typed in another name.
Ilse and Sawyer, sitting at the small, square table towards the front of the RV, were also busy typing away, each of them glancing at Sawyer's phone set between them.
“You're starting at the bottom, right?” Ilse said, glancing at the agent's screen where he'd entered the same name as hers. “Damien Shayn.”
He looked at her screen, then let out a long sigh, groaning as he did. “Thank God. It's over. Rudiger! We're done!” he called.
The large FBI techie waved a hand, flashing a thumbs up. “Send it to me—I'll compile it,” he groaned. “It's nearly nine. I should've been home two hours ago. Tommy, why do you torture me like this? Jealousy?”
“I'm too sleep-deprived to spar tonight, Rudy,” Sawyer replied. “Please. I sent the list.”
With an air of relief, though feeling far better rested than her two companions, Ilse slowly closed the lid to her laptop and watched where Rudiger fiddled with his keyboard for a moment. Then, he clicked his tongue. “Bingo was his name-o. Got it. Right—so what am I looking for now?”
Sawyer began to reply, but Ilse interjected. “I—sorry, you go ahead. No? Oh, okay. Sorry, but I was thinking about just that.” The two agents were now watching her. “There's still likely an element of trauma involved,” she said, carefully.
“That your professional opinion?” Sawyer asked.
She hesitated but nodded. “I believe so. The trauma would have taken place during formative years. Also, childhood trauma also correlates to under-performance in school. Which, now that we know the connection is a night class, there's every chance our student didn't graduate high school.” She nodded, carefully, and glanced to Rudiger. “Is there a way for us to check the names between the three lists by comparing students who never completed high school? Additionally, they would have perhaps spent more time in Elementary education. Maybe held back a grade. And they might not have passed Mr. Peltari's night class either. Essentially, I think we need to look for a poor academic performance.”
“By checking the years of attendance,” Rudiger said, sounding impressed. “I like it. One second...” His fingers clacked against his keyboard, leaning back in his ergonomic desk chair. He waited for a moment, frowning, and then, called out, “Nothing!”
Ilse felt her heart fall, her frustration mounting. “Can you try checking years of enrollment instead? Maybe since he didn't complete schooling, a time frame won't be as helpful.”
Rudiger looked reluctant, but with a sigh, he clacked away again. He began to shake his head as a small little circle spun on his screen, but then his eyebrows shot up. “Aha! Right here. One student who took seven years during Elementary education. Only spent two years in high school and dropped out of the night school after the first two months.”
Sawyer grunted, getting slowly to his feet. “This guy got a name?”
“Yes,” Rudiger said, turning, his eyes wide in the glow from the screen. “Also a record. He was released from prison a couple of years ago.”
“Bingo, aha, voila,” Sawyer said, pointing at Rudiger. “All of that stuff you say. Give me the name and address.”
***
Justin Lobo, aged twenty-five, lived on the south side of a small townhouse that smelled like car fumes. Ilse wrinkled her nose as they pulled into the parking lot. The two police cruisers behind them blocked entry and exit into the driveway as the officers hurried out of their vehicles. They didn't pass Sawyer's sedan, though, waiting, it seemed for the FBI agent to take the lead.
Sawyer had popped another caffeine pill and was busy struggling to figure out how to push open the door with a shaking hand.
“That stuff is bad for you heart,” Ilse said, pointing towards his tremoring fingers.
He glanced down, looked up and used the same hand to point at her. “Why are you unbuckling? You're staying right here.”
Ilse frowned, considering this. It had been her idea which had led to Mr. Lobo's home. She was tired of being told what to do. So, instead of answering Sawyer, she simply exited the vehicle, ignoring Sawyer's protests behind her.
He scrambled out of the front seat, scowling over the roof of the sedan. The reflection of blue and red lights from the cruisers behind him illuminated his features in colorful strobes.
“Wait in the car,” he said, more insistently. “This guy is dangerous.”
She crossed her arms, frowning. “I won't get in the way. But I want to be there.”
“You can sit in on the interrogation.” He groaned, glancing towards where a couple of officers were moving up the sidewalk, shooting him expectant glances. Another policeman, who looked in charge, was hastily directing the officers towards the door of Lobo's townhouse. “I don't have time to argue, doc. Sit in the car, please.”
But Ilse just shook her head, feeling a similar prickle up her spine when she'd spoken with Amos Crowder. A similar sense she'd had walking into her old home back in the Black Forest. The same feeling she'd had when in that antique store, all alone.
Fear. She was sick of it. Sick of cowering behind men with weapons. Sick of cowering because of men with weapons.
“No,” she said, with iron in her voice.
Sawyer rubbed a hand down his face, practically dragging his jaw. But then, he gave a little shrug, hands to the skies. “Stay behind me, then. I mean it—you're going to get in the way otherwise.”
Ilse wasn't trying to be unreasonable. She was just tired of hiding. And so at this request, she nodded primly. “I'm happy to stand back.”
The caffeinated agent turned back towards the waiting police officers and gestured towards the front door. A large, glass window frame settled on one side of the door. A garage occupied the space between the townhouse's door and the window to another unit.
The police officers approached the door first. Three of them, all with weapons in hand. Sawyer took a spot behind the window, while Ilse inched closer, stepping behind the policemen and peering up at the door.
Had it really been worth it? Standing twenty feet closer at the bottom step as opposed to watching from the car? It was essentially the same thing, wasn't it? Why put herself in unnecessary danger, anyway?
Three weeks was why... Three weeks after she ran away, only then did the police show up. She was tired of running. Tired of hiding while others did the dirty work. Perhaps it was the late evening, or the exhaustion from a long, emotionally taxing day. Perhaps it was the small porcelain doll Kat had given her, which, even now, she could feel pressed against her pocket.
“Mr. Lobo,” a voice suddenly resounded from the leading officer. “Open up, Mr. Lobo. Police!” A meaty hand knocked heavily on the frame of the townhouse's door.
Everyone paused for a moment. Ilse thought she heard movement from inside the unit. But he couldn't be home... He shouldn't be—should he? Not if he was out on another hunt. Not if he was really the killer.
“Mr. Lobo?” the officer shouted, louder now. “Open this door, now! Police!”
Another pause, more movement. Then, the sound of two gunshots. The bullets punched holes from inside the house, blasting fragments of wood and splinters out onto the stairs.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!” the officers shouted into their radios. All of them hit the deck, low, their own weapons raised, aimed towards the door. Sawyer was now crouched beneath the window, breathing heavily.
“Mr. Lobo—come out with your hands up, now!” shouted the officer. “Or we will return fire!”
Ilse was frozen to the bottom step, eyes wide, staring at where the bullet holes had blasted through the door. Thankfully, none of the officers had been hit. She glanced down at her own sweater, half-expecting to see a blood stain forming. But she was unhurt also.
“Get down!” shouted Sawyer, waving frantically at her from his crouched position beneath the window.
Ilse blinked, feeling confused for a moment, dazed. Shock, a small, rational portion of her mind said. You're in shock. Follow instructions. Slowly, without any sense of urgency, she obeyed Sawyer, lowering to her knees, behind the porch railing.
Sawyer peered out at her, over the edge of the stairwell; he nodded and began to point towards the car.
But just then, a flash of movement was visible through the two bullet holes. The curtain over the window fluttered. And, with a shout, someone flung themselves through the window, slamming into Sawyer and knocking him off the porch.