THE FUGITIVE
The call came on a Tuesday.
Maya was in her apartment — a new one, small and bare, far from the places Vance used to walk. Danny was at school. Kaela was at work. The silence was heavy.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Ms. Cross? This is Agent Torres with the FBI.”
Maya’s heart raced. “You found him?”
“We have a sighting. In Canada. Vancouver. Someone matching his description checked into a hotel under a fake name.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“The desk clerk recognized him from the news. Called it in. We have agents en route.”
“What can I do?”
“Stay put. Stay safe. We’ll handle this.”
“I want to be there.”
“Maya—”
“I’ve been chasing him for months. I’ve been shot at, burned, thrown off a bridge. I’m not going to sit in my apartment while you bring him in.”
A pause.
“The hotel is called the Pacific Crest. I’ll have an agent meet you at the airport.”
Maya hung up.
She called Danny.
“He’s in Vancouver. I’m going.”
“Mom—”
“I’ll be careful. I’ll check in every hour. And I’ll come back.”
“You always say that.”
“This time I mean it.”
She packed a bag.
She drove to the airport.
She was on a plane within three hours.
THE CHASE
The Pacific Crest Hotel was on the waterfront, all glass and steel and expensive silence.
Maya arrived at 11:00 PM. Agent Torres met her in the lobby. He looked tired and tense.
“We almost had him,” he said. “He checked out twenty minutes before we got here.”
“Did he leave anything behind?”
“A fake ID. A suitcase full of clothes. And this.”
He handed her a piece of paper.
A note.
“Tell Maya I’ll see her soon.”
Maya’s blood ran cold.
“He knows I’m here.”
“We think he’s been tracking your movements. Your phone, maybe. Your car.”
Maya pulled out her phone. Turned it off. Pulled out the battery.
“Do you have a secure line I can use?”
Torres handed her a burner.
“Call your daughter. Tell her to go somewhere safe. We’ll have an agent pick her up.”
Maya called Danny.
“Mom?”
“Listen to me. I need you to pack a bag and go to Rachel’s apartment. An FBI agent will pick you up there. Don’t ask questions. Just go.”
“Mom, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m scared too. But I’m not alone. I’ll call you when I can.”
She hung up.
She looked at Torres.
“Where do we start?”
They searched the hotel room.
The suitcase was full of Vance’s clothes — expensive, understated, the uniform of a man who wanted to blend in. The fake ID was in the name of “Michael Cross.”
Maya’s stomach turned.
“Cross is my last name. He’s using my last name.”
“He’s trying to provoke you.”
“It’s working.”
They found a receipt for a car rental. Enterprised at the Vancouver airport. Vance had rented a black sedan.
Torres called it in.
“License plate is BX7-4K2. BOLO to all units.”
They waited.
Twenty minutes later, a call came back.
“The car was found at a trailhead in Stanley Park. Abandoned. He’s on foot.”
Torres looked at Maya.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Maya—”
“He’s not going to hurt me. He wants to talk to me. That’s why he left the note.”
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t go.”
“He killed four women that we know of. Probably more. I’m the only one he’s ever wanted to talk to. That means I’m the only one who can get him to surrender.”
Torres stared at her.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably. But I’m also right.”
She walked toward the door.
Torres followed.