Page 57 of So Lethal

No answer. Faith pounded again, called again, and when there was still no answer, she said into her radio. “We’re going in. Breach in three”—Michael positioned himself in front of the door—“two”—he holstered his weapon and spread his feet shoulder-width apart—“one!”

Michael kicked in the door with a grunt of effort. Instantly, Turk shot through the opening, barking and snarling. Ferris and the agents followed, guns drawn. Another crashing noise sounded as Cooper broke through the back door.

The lights in the house were off, but enough daylight filtered through the windows that they could see well enough. There was no sign of anyone in the living room, confirmed a moment later when Ferris called, “Clear!” He looked at Faith. “Should we go upstairs and leave the first floor to Cooper.”

Faith nodded. Ferris issued the command while she, Michael, and Turk scaled the stairs to the second floor. Once more, Turk was the first one up, growling and barking as he moved in and out of the rooms. Faith listened for the cry that would tell him Turk had found his target. Even if David was death, he would still make noise if he was bit.

No noises came. One by one, they cleared the rooms upstairs.

Faith’s excitement turned to fear. He wasn’t home.

That’s okay. He could be at work or at the grocery store or at a restaurant. Don’t freak out yet.

“He’s not in the house,” Ferris said.

Faith sighed. “Yeah. I figured. Do we have an APB out on his vehicle?”

“We do. Red mid-2000s Lincoln Navigator with a chrome trailer hitch, license plate 6TGY774. Nothing’s popped up so far.”

She nodded and tried not to let frustration and disappointment get to her. You’ve been here before. He’ll turn up. They always do.

She responded to herself with, yeah, but will he turn up alone or with a dead body?

“Make sure that APB is high priority. Michael, do we have a workplace for him?”

“Negative. Looks like he’s been living off of his Army disability pay and veteran stipend since the accident.”

Faith sighed. “Okay. Ferris, let’s stay here, but let’s have cruisers parked at the street corners on either side of the house. If he sees us here, he’s going to run, so I want to see him first and pursue as soon as possible after that happens.”

“On it. Don’t worry, Agent. This kind of shit happens all the time. He’s gonna turn up eventually.”

Faith nodded meanwhile her mind came up with every possible scenario where he didn’t turn up. The vehicle could be found, but he could have ditched it and stolen another. He could have a friend they don’t know about and live in his basement until his beard and hair grew out. He could be halfway to Mexico.

“Call customs and border patrol,” Faith told Michael. “Give them Harrison’s description. Just in case.”

“I’ll loop TSA into that as well,” Michael said, pulling his phone from his pocket. He started dialing, then slumped. “Shit. You don’t think he bolted after you almost caught him, do you?”

The blood drained from Faith’s face. She hadn’t considered that until just now.

She lifted her hands to the top of her head. “Shit.” She took a breath to steady herself, then said, “Just get the word out. We’ll have to hope he’s popped on someone’s radar somewhere, and we can go from there.”

“I’ll loop the San Francisco field office in then,” Michael replied. “In case he’s crossing state lines but not national borders.”

In case he’s stupid, in other words.

Faith shook her head and headed downstairs. Turk trotted next to her, watching her closely in case he needed to step in to calm her down. Cooper and his men were standing around, their focus replaced with the alert relaxation that Faith thought of as “cop standby.”

“Cooper, we’re making this our base of operations,” she told him.

His eyes widened. “We can do that?”

“The FBI can when hunting serial killers. We just can’t sleep here. That’s how we get around the Fourth Amendment.”

She saw something on the coffee table and did a double take. “Actually, scratch that. We now have some very good probable cause.”

She walked closer and picked up the photograph on the table. It was a picture of Monica Smith standing in the yard of her studio. Faith looked back at the coffee table but saw no other pictures. The killer had probably cleared the evidence from his home and accidentally left this one behind.

She started up the stairs again, nearly colliding with Michael. He flinched and said, “Upstairs or downstairs? Make up your mind.”

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