Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Mac
Eamon's knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel.
"You see it too?" I kept my voice low.
"Been following us since Ma's street." He signaled, took a right two blocks before the precinct. "I'm going to run a loop."
I caught the side mirror. Gray sedan. Three cars back.
We doubled back through a residential neighborhood. The sedan stayed through the first turn. Dropped back on the second. At the third, it peeled off.
"Lost interest or smart enough to know when we've spotted them?" I asked.
"Both." His hands loosened their grip. "Whoever it is knows what they're doing."
The weight of keeping me alive was carving new lines beside his eyes. All for me.
We pulled into the precinct lot. He scanned before killing the engine.
I tried for humor. "Just another morning in the Emerald City."
The joke landed flat.
He touched my knee and squeezed once. "Stay close when we go in."
Inside, fluorescent lights made everything sharp. Michael waited near the elevator. When he saw us, his expression confirmed what I'd been trying not to think.
This was going to be bad.
"They're upstairs," Michael said. "Marcus is already there."
The elevator lurched upward. Nobody spoke. I counted the ascending numbers. One. Two. Three.
We exited the elevator and turned a corner.
Detective Clairmont's office was at the end of a long corridor. Marcus stood just inside, arms crossed, face carved from granite.
When we walked in, he looked at me with an expression signaling both fury and fear.
The office was a war room.
Papers covered every surface. Maps with colored routes. Spreadsheets tracking dates and locations. And photographs. So many photographs.
All of me.
Detective Clairmont stood behind her desk. Mid-forties, gray threading through dark hair pulled into a pragmatic bun. Professional. Contained.
"Mr. McCabe. Mr. Price." She gestured to chairs. "Thank you for coming in early."
The room was too hot. Dry heat that stuck in my throat.
I sat. Eamon took the chair beside me. Michael remained standing. Marcus moved to the window—putting himself between me and the glass.
Clairmont pulled a manila folder from a stack. Set it down. Didn't open it yet.
"We executed a search warrant on Vanessa Kensington's apartment this morning at 0600 hours." She spoke with practiced calm. It was the tone you used when delivering news that would hurt. "What we found is extensive. I need to prepare you for that."
My hands were already sweating.
"Okay."
She opened the folder.
Photographs spilled across the desk. My face from dozens of angles. Hundreds. Cropped close enough to see the grain. Some zoomed in so close my features pixelated.
I picked one up. Me leaving the stadium in Phoenix. Someone had drawn red measurement lines across my shoulders. Annotated the margins with notes I couldn't read.
"Eight hundred forty-seven photographs," Clairmont said. "Organized chronologically in archival sleeves. Labeled, dated, cross-referenced."
The chemical smell of freshly photocopied paper hit me. Sharp and acrid.
Eamon shifted beside me. Close enough to feel the heat of him through his jacket.
"There's more." Clairmont pulled out a map. Seattle, marked with colored pins. "She tracked your movements. Daily routes. Where you run. Coffee shops. Your mother's address. Ma's house."
Red pins clustered around Ma's neighborhood. Blue ones near Claire's place on Beacon Hill. Green scattered around downtown.
My condo building had so many pins that it looked like a puncture wound.
"Damn," Michael breathed.
Clairmont spread more papers. Schedules reconstructed from surveillance. My flight records. Hotel receipts. Ticket stubs.
"She's been following you for eighteen months and started small—attending games, taking photos from the stands. Escalated six months ago when she began traveling to away games. By October, she was in Seattle. Waiting for you."
I gripped the desk edge to stop the room from spinning.
"We also found evidence of a rental property." Clairmont turned her screen toward me. "A cabin outside Concrete, Washington. Two hours north. Remote."
The listing showed a small structure set back in trees. Single story. Isolated.
"She paid cash for a three-month rental.
Began stocking it in early November." Clairmont's fingers moved across her keyboard.
"Based on credit card records and delivery confirmations, she purchased restraints.
Medical supplies. Non-perishable food. Photography equipment.
A climate control system. Everything needed for long-term containment. "
I blinked hard.
Eamon's hand landed on my back—steady pressure between my shoulder blades.
"Show him the journal," Marcus said quietly.
Clairmont hesitated. "Mr. McCabe, I'm not sure—"
"Show him." Marcus's voice was stern, unyielding. "He needs to know what's going on here."
She pulled a leather-bound notebook from an evidence bag. Set it on the desk between us.
The cover was expensive—hand-tooled leather.
"This was in her apartment," Clairmont said. "Hidden behind a decorative screen. She called it her conservation project files."
She opened the notebook. The first page was dated eighteen months ago. The handwriting precise. Almost architectural.
Initial observation: Subject exhibits classical proportions. Bone structure optimal. Natural aesthetic grace. Current condition: excellent. Baseline documentation begins.
Clairmont turned the page. Read aloud.
Month 3: Subject maintaining optimal condition. Performance quality high. Beauty consistent across varying environmental factors. No deterioration noted. Continue observation.
Another page.
Month 8: First signs of stress. Visible tension in jaw and shoulders. Sleep deprivation evident. Media pressure taking toll. Deterioration beginning.
The pages kept turning. Each entry colder. More clinical.
Month 12: Condition declining. Subject requires intervention soon. Current handlers inadequate. Professional expertise necessary.
The heat in the room was suffocating. I pulled at my collar.
Month 16: Decision made. Extraction necessary. Preservation protocol to begin December 18th. Subject will initially resist. Temporary restraint required until conditioning takes effect.
Clairmont's voice was flat, toneless.
Phase One: Remove from stimulation. Controlled environment essential. No media. No performance requirements. Begin restoration of optimal condition through proper rest and nutrition.
My knuckles were white as I gripped the chair's arms.
Phase Two: Stillness training. Subject accustomed to constant motion. Must learn proper display posture. Start with fifteen-minute intervals. Increase duration as conditioning improves.
Eamon's knee touched mine under the table. Pressure and warmth promising that I wasn't alone.
Phase Three: Remove non-original elements. Tattoos if present. Scars from improper handling. Damage from athletic career. Restore to optimal aesthetic presentation.
"Stop." The word exited my throat in a strangled cry.
Clairmont looked up.
"I need—" My hands shook. "Can I read it?"
She slid the notebook toward me. The leather was soft under my fingers. Well-cared for.
Phase Four: Documentation. Photograph from standardized positions. Catalog changes. Create permanent record of beauty properly maintained. Display conditions to be determined based on subject's cooperation level.
My vision began to blur.
Phase Five: Permanent preservation. Subject will understand his purpose. Beauty maintained through perfect stillness. No damage from use. No deterioration from time. A living exhibit. My masterwork.
I couldn't finish. The words swam before me. They coalesced into images I couldn't unsee—myself restrained, photographed, and studied.
Michael crossed the room. Took the notebook. Set it aside.
"She wrote this like a treatment plan." My voice sounded foreign to me.
"Like she already owned you," Marcus said from the window.
Silence filled the office.
"There's more," Clairmont said softly. "But I think that's enough for now."
"No." I forced myself to sit straighter. "Show me everything."
She studied me. Then nodded.
"All right, Mr. McCabe."
Clairmont pulled a blown-up calendar from the stack—December marked in red. The eighteenth had a circle around it. Underlined three times.
"Extraction date," she said. "She's been planning this down to the hour."
Marcus leaned forward. His shadow fell across the calendar. "One week before Christmas."
"Not random," Michael said. "She wanted the holidays. Wanted you emotional. Vulnerable."
My stomach turned.
"The field team is at the cabin now," Clairmont continued. "No one was there when they arrived. Early reports confirm what the receipts suggested. Fully stocked. Climate-controlled. Blackout curtains. Door locks reinforced from the outside."
"Restraints?" Eamon spoke in a calm voice. Professional. The tone meant he was three seconds from violence.
"Zip ties. Rope. Padded cuffs." Clairmont scrolled on her laptop screen. "Also sedatives. Purchased through veterinary supply contacts. Enough to keep someone unconscious for days."
"Was it—" I had to stop. Swallow. Start again. "Was it for me alive or dead?"
Everyone was quiet—like I'd lobbed a live grenade into the center of the room.
Eamon gripped my shoulder before anyone could answer.
Clairmont's expression softened. "Alive, Mr. McCabe. Everything we've found suggests she wants to keep you. Preserve you." She paused. "That's its own kind of horror."
Alive.
That might have been a relief. Instead, my mouth went dry.
Alive meant aware. Conscious. Knowing precisely what was happening to me.
My phone buzzed.
Everyone froze.
Michael moved his hand to his hip—muscle memory. Marcus turned from the window. Clairmont's expression hardened.
Eamon didn't move except to press harder against my collarbone.
I pulled out the phone with numb fingers.
Unknown number.
The preview text made my throat close: