Her ears roared with the wild pumping of her little roebuck’s heart.
If you give into the panic, your heart will go wild and you’ll have a heart attack, and after that . . .
She struggled to lift a hand to her wound. She pressed it, and pain shot through her. But instantly the pain lessened.
Amaia wormed her way across the floor, pushing herself forward with her elbows and heels, spurred by the boy’s shouts and the women’s screams. She sensed the world darkening and ebbing away. The huge surge of adrenaline constricted her vision and imposed a partial blindness that was like peering through an ancient telescope.
She reached the sofa. She needed to get to her feet, but she knew she had to keep pressure on the chest wound. She put her pistol hand over the back of the sofa and struggled to her knees. Lifting her head was a mistake. The attack of dizziness almost knocked her over. Sweat poured out of her. She knew she couldn’t make it to her feet. She advanced on all fours, then leaned on the sofa, dizzy and lurching and resisting the urge to breathe deeply. Inhaling the oxygen she so desperately needed would double her up in pain and make it impossible to regain her vision. Even in her feverish haze, she knew a deep breath would kill her outright.
Lenx was astride his son, holding him down, trying to aim as they struggled for control of the revolver. The mother and sister screamed hysterically. Amaia raised the Glock toward Lenx. In normal circumstances, that would have been the time to squeeze the trigger. But she didn’t have a clear shot; she might hit another member of the family. She hunched to the floor, trying to refine her aim, but her straining muscles gave way. She fell forward, next to Lenx, who was still struggling with his son. The baby cried. Amaia gave up on her chest wound and put that hand to the floor for support. A wave of nausea hit her, and her stomach heaved. Unable to raise her pistol, she pushed herself forward, pressed the Glock against Lenx’s lower leg, and pulled the trigger.
Martin Lenx howled, thrashed like an animal, and grabbed his exploded calf. He fell to one side, and she saw shattered bone fragments and white tendon tissue bloom in blood like a horrid flower through the hole she’d blasted in his carefully pressed trousers. He dropped his revolver.
Forget the weapon; handcuff him first!
She crawled on top of Lenx, squatted astride him, savagely twisted his arms, and cuffed him. She fumbled blindly in search of the revolver, which Thomas was regarding, transfixed. She jammed it into her own waistband and waved the boy away. Only then, shaken and soaked in sweat, did she collapse next to Lenx.
The family had fled. She heard their voices from somewhere far away. They were calling the Lakeway police. Lenx glared at her, silent, motionless, lying face down with his hands cuffed behind his back. He radiated that moral superiority of his, even covered in blood.
“For the love of God, that stink . . . is piss!” he said, recognizing the stifling reek of ammonia.
Dizzy, gasping, she stared at him. She was about to faint.
“You idiot!” she managed to say. She refused to faint.
He was right. It stank in the room. She raised the hand she’d had pressed to her wound. The blood was as black as a moonless night or a long-dead corpse. That was a bad sign. But her breathing had begun to ease. She pushed aside her blouse, probed the entrance wound, and was astonished by her discovery. With a jerk she pulled out the little goatskin bag, perforated, with a foul black liquid seeping from it. She sniffed it and it filled her nostrils with the disgusting odor of putrefaction and death. The bullet, a dark, copper-colored slug, gleamed in its center like a precious gem in a pool of petroleum waste. Astonished, Amaia touched the bruised and aching spot on her chest. She was unharmed.
She turned toward Lenx and was amazed by the accuracy of her own prediction. His hair was the same, and he wore an unremarkable suit tailored with the same fussy precision as eighteen years earlier. He hadn’t even changed the style of glasses he wore, which were now hanging askew from one ear.
A man of fixed habits.
Evil habits.
She spoke. “Martin Lenx, I arrest you for the murders of your mother, your wife, and your children in Madison, Wisconsin, eighteen years ago; for the murders of the Andrews family in Galveston eight months ago; for the murders of at least six families in different locations across the country; and for the attempted murder of your family today in Lakeway, Texas. You have the right . . .” She finished advising him of his Miranda rights and then, with some difficulty, savagely twisted a lamp cord around his thigh to keep him alive. Minutes later, the Lakeway police entered the room.
77
A REGULAR GUY
Washington, DC
Friday, September 16, 2005
Amaia sat in the visitor’s chair in CJIS director Jim Wilson’s office, working her way through a pile of statements and case summaries. The director had chosen a navy-blue suit for the occasion. Not a good idea; too little color. Verdon, leaning on the full-length window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, was far more impressive than his boss. He had the self-assured air of a military officer. Agent Johnson sat beside Amaia in the other visitor’s chair.
Amaia initialed pages and scribbled her signature at the end of each of a dozen documents, put down the ballpoint pen, and glanced over at the packed suitcases she’d left just inside the office door.
The CJIS director followed her gaze. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and stay with us?”
She handed over the documents. “One hundred percent sure.”
“I really must insist. It would greatly benefit the Bureau if you’d reconsider our offer and agree to stay.”
“My father died in Spain while I was in New Orleans,” she said, offering no further explanation. That was the first time she’d put it into words, and perhaps for that reason, it carried sufficient weight and emotion to put an end to the negotiation.
Wilson studied her thoughtfully. He decided she’d turned the Bureau down because she’d been under terrific stress and affected by her father’s death. “I understand. Maybe later. But we’ll need for you to consult with our forensic psychologists. For them, having a type like Lenx—alive—is a godsend for behavioral analysis.”
“Naturally.”
Wilson checked her initials on each page and her signature at the end of each document. The shit had hit the fan within the Bureau when the media hailed her as a lone-ranger vigilante. He faced down the critics, emphasizing that the operation had resulted in the apprehension of a killer who’d been on their most-wanted list for a long time. They hadn’t even dared to complain that the collar was made by a temporary agent handpicked by Aloisius Dupree for his elite special operations team.
The greatest challenge had been trying to talk her out of returning to Spain. He’d done his best, trying directly and indirectly to impress upon her the vital importance of presenting her to the media as a regular FBI operative.
She’d refused to hear of it, so they made a deal. She’d agreed to appear at the press conference with Johnson, who had his arm still in a sling, and Verdon, the director of the Criminal Investigative Division. In a dark suit with an FBI lapel pin, she was the very image of the no-nonsense professional.
The television at her back now was playing the video of the press conference on a continuous loop.
The arrest of Martin Lenx, dubbed the Family Executioner by the press, was the lead story on news programs, and Amaia knew that a number of producers were trying to dig up enough information for a documentary about the case that had riveted the whole country. There was global interest because of the cold-hearted murder of his first family and his obsession with re-creating every aspect of his former life.