The Last Victim by Karen Robards

world, and he was about to slaughter another terrified seventeen-year-old girl unless he could somehow be stopped in time. Charlie’s heart turned over just from thinking about it. Dear God, how was it possible that such evil could exist in the world?
    I can help the FBI just as much from here .…
    “Your hands,” Bartoli prompted. Jolted back to the present, Charlie nodded.
    There was a staff restroom nearby. Summoning every bit of willpower she possessed in an effort to mask how bad she really felt, Charlie started walking toward it, carefully averting her eyes from Garland’s body and the uproar that continued to surrounded it. Still, she couldn’t help glancing down the hall in the direction that Garland had looked right before he had vanished. Despite her effort not to think about it, the fear on his face lingered in her mind. What had he seen, in those first moments after his spirit had separated from his body? He had been a bad man who had done terrible things. At the moment of death, had he found himself facing divine retribution?
    She didn’t know. She never knew.
    Evil man or not, he was still deserving of pity: she said a silent, heartfelt prayer for his soul.
    “Were you talking to somebody back there?” Crane lobbed the question at her in an offhand way that was belied by the look he gave her. He and Bartoli were walking with her, like some kind of Praetorian guard. “You know, at the end, just after you had lifted yourhands up away from the wound but were still kneeling down beside the convict? Because it kind of seemed like you were talking to somebody, but nobody was there.”
    Bartoli gave him a sharp look that said shut up as plainly as words could have done.
    “I was saying a prayer,” Charlie answered with dignity, inspired by the one she’d just sent winging skyward for Garland. Crane frowned, but with Bartoli’s eyes on him, he let it drop.
    “Do you want one of us to come in with you?” Bartoli asked as they reached the restroom.
    Clearly, Charlie realized, she was not giving off the kind of I-got-it-together vibe she wanted to.
    “No, of course not. I’m fine.” This time it was almost true. She was feeling stronger, almost herself, almost normal, as she pushed through the restroom door. That is, until out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the guards heaving Garland’s body onto the stretcher. It took four of them, one latched onto each limb. His head dangled limply back in a way that simply wasn’t possible in life. Blood streamed from his chest, splattering as it hit the floor.
    As the door swung shut behind her, Charlie felt sick all over again. Barely making it to the toilet in time, she promptly vomited.
    After flushing, the first thing she did was wash her hands, carefully averting her eyes from the dyed-red water as it swirled down the drain. Then she rinsed her mouth, and her face. Finally, she sank down fully clothed on the toilet because it was the only place in the single-user restroom to sit, closed her eyes, and dropped her head to rest between her knees.
    In an effort to make the restroom stop swirling around her, she started on a series of slow, deep breaths.
    You wimp, you cannot faint in a bathroom with the FBI waiting outside. Get a grip .
    But almost as soon as she had the thought she realized that the strong smell of fresh blood she couldn’t seem to escape was real, and from a still-present source, and her eyes popped open again. Seconds later she catapulted to her feet.
    From her knees down, her pants were soaked with Garland’s blood.
    “Oh, God.” Quivering with horror, she kicked off her sneakers, then stripped off her pants. Her legs, which were toned and tanned and shapely from her running regime, were smeared with blood, too. Stomach once again churning, she instantly attacked them with wet paper towels. Her sleeveless blouse was okay, she concluded as, having finished with her legs, she checked herself out front and back in the mirror, but her