CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Jenna pulled the cruiser behind Spelling’s vehicle and cut the engine. She and Jake were out of the car in seconds.
“Just arrived,” the colonel told her, pointing. “Garage door was already open when I got here. There’s a car inside.”
Just then, a sound cut through the suburban quiet—an engine roaring to life, tires squealing against pavement. Jenna’s head snapped toward the source: the narrow alley running behind the row of houses.
“There!” Jake shouted.
A white panel van burst from behind Sarah’s garage, accelerating down the alley. Jenna caught the briefest glimpse of the driver’s face—wild-eyed, panicked—before the vehicle disappeared from view.
“Greenwich,” she breathed.
“I’ll call it in,” Jake called as the three of them ran back to their own vehicles.
He slid into the passenger seat as Jenna jammed her key into the cruiser’s ignition.
The engine roared to life beneath her hands.
She threw the car into reverse, tires protesting as she executed a tight turn.
Spelling’s SUV followed, its grill almost kissing her bumper.
Jake had the radio in his hand. "This is Deputy Hawkins. Suspect Daniel Greenwich is fleeing the scene at 1437 Wildflower Court in a white panel van, heading east. Requesting immediate backup from vehicles already near the scene, and roadblocks at the following intersections..."
“If he’s smart, he’ll head for the highway,” Jenna said, taking a sharp right onto a parallel route that might intercept him. “But he seemed panicked, not calculating. I think he’s running blind.”
“Which makes him more dangerous,” Jake replied, bracing himself against the dashboard as Jenna swerved to avoid a parked car. “Dispatch says units are converging from the north and west. They’re setting up barriers on the main roads out of town.”
They spotted the white van two blocks ahead, careening around a corner, its tires squealing.
“He’s heading for Oakridge Drive,” she said. “That leads straight to the interstate. Jake, tell dispatch to prioritize the on-ramp at Exit 17.”
Jake relayed the information while Jenna floored the accelerator, the cruiser’s engine growling as it closed the distance between them and the fleeing van. Through the rear windows, she could make out movement inside the van.
“There’s someone else in the van,” she said. “He has Sarah.”
Spelling’s SUV appeared in her side mirror. He pulled into the adjacent lane, giving her a tight nod through the window. The coordinated pursuit was now a pincer, squeezing Greenwich between them as they approached a busier commercial district.
“We can’t let him reach the highway,” Jenna said. “Too many variables, too many innocent people who could get hurt if this turns into a high-speed chase on the interstate.”
The van swerved suddenly, cutting across three lanes of traffic and sending a delivery truck skidding sideways. Horns blared, drivers shouted, but Greenwich plowed ahead, desperation making him reckless. Jenna followed, weaving through the disrupted traffic, never letting the van escape her sight.
“He’s heading for the old industrial park,” Jake realized aloud. “Those access roads are a maze.”
***
Daniel’s hands trembled against the steering wheel.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
This was supposed to be clean, merciful—a gift.
Now those police cruisers were transforming his sacred work into something criminal, vulgar.
Sarah Fleming deserved better than this chaotic, undignified end.
He had wanted to preserve her, to spare her the inevitable decline.
He had planned it well, positioning himself in the alley behind Sarah’s house.
When she finally stepped outside, heading toward the garage where her car waited, the syringe was already in his hand, uncapped and ready.
Her back was to him as she fumbled with her keys, and he closed the distance between them in four silent steps.
“Excuse me, Miss Fleming?” he’d said, his voice carefully modulated to sound like that of an eager fan. Before she could react, he’d plunged the needle into her neck, his other hand covering her mouth.
“It’s okay,” he’d whispered as the drug began to take effect. “This is a kindness. You’ve reached your peak. Everything after this would be disappointment.”
But then he’d seen it—a police cruiser rolling slowly down the street toward Sarah’s house.
Panic … his hands suddenly clumsy. The syringe had slipped from his grasp, clattering to the concrete with at least a quarter of the dose still inside.
Sarah’s body had begun to go limp, but her eyes remained alert, terrified.
Not enough relaxant to fully paralyze her, just enough to weaken her resistance.
He’d dragged her to the van, one hand still clamped over her mouth. The mannequin sat propped up inside, waiting to serve its purpose. He’d shoved Sarah in beside it, slammed the doors, and scrambled to the driver’s seat.
Now sirens wailed behind him, their pitch rising and falling like accusations. They must have already been looking for him. But how? How could they have connected him to the others?
The industrial park appeared ahead, its maze of access roads and abandoned warehouses offering a slim chance of escape. Daniel yanked the wheel, the van’s tires squealing as he cut across traffic. Horns blared around him, drivers shouting obscenities.
“This isn’t right,” he muttered, his voice strange in his own ears. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.”
Behind him, Sarah made a soft sound. She was regaining control faster than he’d anticipated. The cruisers were closing in, one on either side of him now, boxing him toward the industrial park’s main entrance.
Without the ritual, without the careful positioning and explanation, the mannequin he’d created would remain an empty vessel, a hollow mockery of his philosophy.
“It’s all for nothing,” he whispered, the truth of it crushing him. “All of it.”
***
Sarah’s world returned in fragments—first sound, a high-pitched wailing that rose and fell in the distance; then sensation, the cold metal floor beneath her cheek; finally, memory, the horrifying realization of what had happened outside her garage.
She tried to move her fingers, panic surging when they responded with only the faintest twitch.
The muscle relaxant still gripped her body, not completely, but enough.
The van lurched violently to one side, throwing her against the metal wall. Pain struck her shoulder, sharp enough to cut through the chemical fog clouding her mind. She forced her eyes open wider, blinking to clear her vision.
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat.
Directly across from her sat... herself. No—not herself. A life-sized figure with her face.
Another sharp turn sent the mannequin sliding across the floor toward her, its limbs clacking against the metal, its face—her face—inches from her own.
Sarah would have screamed if her vocal cords had obeyed.
Instead, she managed only a weak moan, the sound lost beneath the wail of sirens growing louder outside.
Sirens. Police. Someone was in pursuit.
Hope flickered to life inside her chest. She wasn’t alone in this nightmare.
But rescue would only come if she survived long enough for them to reach her.
The man driving the van—she remembered his face now, the intense eyes that had watched her with reverence as he’d plunged the needle into her neck—was driving erratically, desperately.
He might crash. He might kill them both before help arrived.
Sarah concentrated, focusing all her will on her right hand.
The fingers responded with a tremor, then a twitch, then finally curled into a weak fist. The drug was wearing off, its hold on her body diminishing with each passing moment.
She tried her left hand next, then her arms, each movement slightly stronger than the last.
The van swerved again, and Sarah used the momentum to roll herself onto her stomach.
The effort left her gasping, but now she could see the driver—a thin man hunched over the steering wheel, his shoulders rigid with tension.
He was muttering to himself, words she couldn’t make out over the engine’s roar and the distant sirens.
She needed to move, needed to act before he realized she was regaining control. Slowly, painfully, Sarah dragged herself forward, pushing with her toes and pulling with her elbows in a clumsy military crawl. Each inch required monumental effort, her muscles still sluggish and uncooperative.
The mannequin’s vacant eyes watched her progress. The sight fueled Sarah’s determination. She refused to become whatever this man had planned. She refused to be reduced to an object, a doll, a thing.
Her podcast had taught her that survivors made choices, took action, even when terrified.
Now she would apply that lesson to her own life.
She thought of her listeners, the community she'd built, the stories she'd told of resilience in the face of darkness.
She would become one of those stories, not a tragedy.
The sirens grew louder, accompanied now by the sound of engines racing alongside the van. The driver cursed, the van accelerating with a lurch that nearly sent Sarah sliding backward. She gripped the grooved metal floor, anchoring herself, refusing to lose the precious ground she’d gained.
Her legs were responding better now, strength returning in inconsistent waves. She could feel her toes, could bend her knees. Not enough for standing, not yet, but perhaps enough for what she needed to do.
The van made another sharp turn, tires squealing against pavement. The driver was shouting now, his words becoming clearer as Sarah inched closer to the front of the vehicle.
“It’s all for nothing,” she heard him say. “All of it.”