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“Nah,” Easton said. “It’s just that you only ever notice when it is.”
Martin gave him a look. “I know the psychology behind it, kid.”
Easton just shrugged and leaned back in his seat. He’d been on edge, heavily on edge, ever since they’d pulled up outside the totally boring suburban house. They’d been sitting there for a few hours, “Where the hell are they?” Martin said after a long stretch of silence.
“They’re coming,” Easton replied.
“We called over an hour ago. There’s no reason they’re not here yet.”
“We did say that it wasn’t important,” Easton said.
“So? We’re the fucking FBI. When we call, you come running.”
“Could be something else happening. It’s a small town, after all.”
Martin just cursed and crossed his arms.
Easton knew what that look meant, and he had a bad feeling. The years had not tempered Martin’s impatience or his hatred of murderers. In fact, as far as Easton could tell, Martin was one of the most intense and passionate agents in his section.
Still, it was his case. Easton had tracked this scumbag, had gotten so obsessed that he began to think like that guy. He had found the new body, had found the extra evidence. It was his operation.
But that never mattered to Martin.
“We have to wait,” Easton said. “We need backup before we talk with this guy.”
“Come on, kid, haven’t I taught you anything?” Martin said. “This is just some old, fat fucking guy. We’re not even here to arrest him.”
“Still,” Easton said, “he’s dangerous.”
“Maybe. We’re not sure he’s the killer.”
“He is. DNA doesn’t lie.”
“Okay,” Martin said, “maybe he is. How do you think he’ll react when a cop car pulls up outside his house?”
Easton sighed, shaking his head. “Come on, Mart. Forget it.”
“Fuck it,” Martin said, opening the door. “I’m going.”
“Martin, fuck you. Wait!”
But Martin had already climbed out of the car.
Easton had no other choice. He followed quickly, his nerves flaring. They were about to come face to face with a killer, and Martin barely seemed to care.
He caught up with Martin, and they ascended the front steps together. Martin opened the screen door and knocked a few times on the thick, green wooden door.
They waited, Easton leaning back on his heels. He subtly checked his gun, heart pounding.
The door opened a crack. “Yes?”
That voice. Those eyes. Easton’s heart was hammering like crazy. It was him. It had to be him. It was the killer Easton had been tracking for so damn long, had put so much energy into capturing.
“Lester Seed?” Martin asked.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Mr. Seed, my name is Special Agent Rodriguez, and this here is—”
The door slammed shut and Easton heard running inside the house.
“Shit,” Martin said. “Probable cause?”
Easton didn’t have a chance to reply, because Martin was already shoving open the door. Seed hadn’t locked it in his rush.
The rain started coming down heavier.
They moved into the house.
The first thing that struck Easton was how normal it looked. The man that lived there, Lester Seed, was a long-time serial killer. He was one of the most successful and sickest killers out there, and yet his home looked like any other middle class, white collar worker’s.
Clean living room. Clean kitchen. Pictures on the walls. There was a sound toward the back of the house.
“Seed, we just want to talk,” Martin called out, moving forward.
Easton put his hand on his weapon, unstrapping the catch. He was ready to draw.
“Hold on,” he said, but Martin wasn’t listening. He strode forward, toward the noise.
“Mr. Seed, we just want to chat.” Martin’s hand was on his weapon also, but he hadn’t made a move to un-holster it.
Easton caught sight of Seed. His face was maniacal, a huge grin. He bolted toward the back, and Martin followed.
“Stop!” Easton yelled, but he was talking to Martin, not Seed.
Martin didn’t listen. He ran after Seed through the house, turning blind corners. Easton followed, chasing fast, his heart hammering.
It happened in an instant. They turned a corner without checking first, and Seed moved way quicker than Easton would have guessed. The knife flashed out, catching Martin, cutting deep. Blood welled up, and Martin made a sound that Easton would never forget.
And then the gun was in his hand. Seed’s knife flashed again, cutting Martin again, and then he turned toward Easton.
