Chapter 37 Escape Plan

Chapter 37 Escape Plan
David POV

The transport van's interior smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. I sat in the back, handcuffed to a steel bar, watching Bruno through the wire mesh partition. He thought he'd won. Thought Richard's death and my arrest meant the end.
He was wrong about both.
Richard wasn't dead. The counter-sniper had hit him—I'd heard the shot, felt it in my chest like it had struck me instead—but Richard had positioned himself wearing body armor under his maintenance coveralls. The shot had knocked him down, maybe cracked ribs, but it hadn't killed him.
I knew this because Richard and I had planned every detail over three weeks of coded messages through his lawyer. The arrest at the DA's office. The jail "escape" that was actually a sanctioned release coordinated with compromised guards. The rooftop position that would draw sniper fire while making it look like he'd died buying me time.
Richard wasn't dead. Richard was in the wind, following his own extraction route while everyone assumed he'd been neutralized.
And I wasn't actually in custody. Not really.
The transport van stopped at a red light. Broadway and 74th, according to the street signs visible through the windshield. The driver—Officer Henderson, according to his nameplate—drummed fingers on the steering wheel. His partner, Martinez from the siege, sat passenger side scrolling through her phone.
Neither of them noticed when Henderson's coffee began to steam slightly more than it should.
Richard had positioned assets everywhere. The lawyer's son at Con Edison. A lab technician with access to pharmaceutical supplies. And Henderson, a patrol officer who'd been taking bribes from Richard for seven years.
Henderson's coffee contained a carefully measured dose of sedative. Enough to make him drowsy within ninety seconds. Not enough to make him pass out completely—that would be too obvious. Just enough to make his driving erratic. To make him pull over for "safety."
I watched the clock in my head. Sixty seconds since the light turned green. Henderson would start feeling it soon.
"You okay?" Martinez asked him. "You look pale."
"Just tired. Long night." Henderson rubbed his eyes. "Actually, I'm not feeling great. Can you take over?"
"We're three blocks from the precinct. Can you make it?"
"I should—" Henderson's words slurred slightly. The van drifted right, then over-corrected left. "Sorry, I don't know what's—"
"Pull over. Now." Martinez was already reaching for the radio. "Dispatch, this is Unit 47. Officer Henderson is experiencing medical distress. We're pulling over at—"
The van lurched to the curb. Henderson slumped forward against the steering wheel, unconscious now. Martinez unbuckled, reaching for him, her back to the partition that separated the transport area from the cabin.
She never saw me slip the handcuff key from where I'd tucked it behind my ear during the siege. Richard had passed it to me during the chaos, a brush of hands that looked accidental but placed the tiny piece of metal exactly where I needed it.
The cuffs clicked open. I was through the partition's access panel—designed for officer safety, ironically—before Martinez could turn around.
My hand covered her mouth. My other arm around her throat. Not to kill—I didn't kill cops, it was inefficient—just to render her unconscious with pressure on the carotid arteries.
She struggled for eight seconds. Then went limp.
I lowered her gently to the seat, checked her pulse. Strong and steady. She'd wake in ten minutes with a headache and a lot of questions.
Henderson was already snoring, the sedative pulling him into chemically-induced sleep.
I climbed into the driver's seat, pulled the van back into traffic. The handcuffs went into my pocket—might need them later. Martinez's radio went out the window. Henderson's phone I powered off and tucked into the glove compartment.
Three blocks from the precinct. Everyone would assume I was almost there. Would assume Martinez was handling Henderson's medical issue and would call for backup when ready.
I had maybe fifteen minutes before anyone realized the transport van had vanished.
The vehicle Richard had positioned was two miles away, parked in a residential garage we'd rented under a shell company three months ago. I drove carefully, following traffic laws, looking like just another cop transport moving through the city.
My phone—Richard's burner, actually, slipped to me during the building chaos—buzzed with a text: Package is secure. Awaiting your arrival.
Package. Morgana. Richard had taken her during the final moments of evacuation, when everyone was focused on me being loaded into the transport. She'd been checked by medical, cleared by Bruno, then walked toward a waiting ambulance that wasn't actually an ambulance.
Richard's planning had been exquisite. Every detail choreographed. Every contingency mapped.
Including his "death."
I reached the garage, pulled the transport van inside. The vehicle waiting was a nondescript SUV, New Jersey plates, registered to a name that existed only on paper. In the back seat, Morgana sat next to Richard, who looked pale but alive despite the body armor visible under his torn shirt.
"You're late," Richard said. "I gave you fifteen minutes."
"Traffic." I climbed out, moved to the SUV. Morgana was handcuffed but unharmed, her expression cycling between shock and fury.
"You're supposed to be dead," she said to Richard.
"I'm supposed to look dead. There's a difference." Richard winced, touching his ribs. "David, we need to move. Bruno's going to realize you're gone within ten minutes, and then—"
"And then they'll establish roadblocks, check traffic cameras, mobilize every resource." I slid into the driver's seat. "Which is why we're not taking highways. We're taking backroads Richard mapped six weeks ago. Routes without cameras or easy checkpoint positions."
I pulled out of the garage into an alley that led away from major streets. The city was waking up fully now, morning rush building. Perfect cover. Just another SUV in thousands.
"Where are we going?" Morgana asked. Her voice was controlled despite the handcuffs. Despite sitting between a serial killer and his accomplice brother. That analytical thinking, even under duress. It was why I'd chosen her.
"Somewhere we can talk without interruption," I said. "Somewhere that matters to me. To us."
"There is no 'us.' There's a kidnapper and a hostage. That's what this is."
"Is it? Or is this a continuation of the conversation we started in your apartment? The conversation Bruno interrupted before you could give me your real answer."
"My real answer was no. I'm not helping you rationalize murder as research."
"Your immediate answer was no. But you didn't reject the fundamental premise—that understanding predatory behavior has value. That my documentation could save lives if analyzed properly." I navigated through side streets, following Richard's mapped route stored in my memory. "You need time to process. Time to see the data without law enforcement pressure or media hysteria. Time to understand what I'm actually offering."
"You're offering to make me complicit in twelve murders."
"I'm offering to make you the analyst who prevented murders thirteen through infinity. The person who took eighteen years of data and transformed it into actionable protection strategies." I glanced in the rearview mirror. Her eyes met mine. Still angry, but thinking. Always thinking. "You said it yourself—I studied you like equations instead of humans. But what if that clinical approach is exactly what's needed? What if removing emotion from the analysis is how we finally stop predators?"
"By becoming one?"
"By understanding one. Deeply, completely, without the moral filtering that prevents honest assessment." I turned onto a road that led out of the city. "Morgana, you survived because you saw me clearly. Saw what I was without romanticizing or demonizing it. That clarity is rare. That clarity is valuable. And I'm asking you to apply it to the broader question of predatory psychology."
Richard coughed, a wet sound. "David, we need to get out of the metropolitan area. State police will have alerts out within the hour."
"Then they'll find an empty SUV abandoned at the state line while we've already switched vehicles. You planned three vehicle changes, remember?" I met his eyes in the mirror. "Are you okay? That shot looked—"
"Cracked ribs. Maybe internal bruising. Nothing immediately life-threatening." Richard pulled out a pill bottle, dry-swallowed something that was probably both painkiller and antibiotic. "But I can't drive. You'll need to handle all three transfers."
"I can handle it."
We drove in silence for a while, the city falling away behind us. Morgana sat very still, but I could see her mind working. Cataloging details, planning escapes, analyzing options.
"The flash drive," she said finally. "You gave me eighteen years of documentation. If I'm so valuable as an analyst, why leave evidence with Bruno?"
"Because the evidence exists regardless of whether Bruno has it. Those files are backed up in six locations across three countries. The question isn't whether the research becomes public—it's who controls the narrative when it does." I took an exit Richard had marked, heading toward backroads. "I gave you that drive because I want you to be the one who analyzes it first. Who shapes how it's understood. Who determines whether it's viewed as a monster's journal or a researcher's documentation."
"It's both."
"Exactly. And that ambiguity is what makes your role crucial." I glanced at her again. "I'm not asking you to absolve me, Morgana. I'm asking you to understand me. And then to use that understanding to prevent others like me from succeeding."
"By helping you avoid prosecution?"
"By helping transform raw data into protective strategies. The prosecution will happen eventually—I'm not delusional enough to think I can evade law enforcement forever. But in the time between now and inevitable custody, we can do something meaningful with the research. Something that honors the victims by ensuring their deaths contribute to preventing future deaths."
She was quiet for a long time. Then: "You actually believe that. You genuinely think kidnapping me and forcing me to analyze your murder documentation is somehow noble."
"I think refusing to extract value from tragedy is a greater moral failure than the tragedy itself. Those women are dead, Morgana. I can't change that. But I can ensure their deaths weren't meaningless. That their patterns, their vulnerabilities, their final moments—all of it becomes data that saves the next woman who crosses a predator's path."
"That's not noble. That's narcissism. You're trying to make yourself important instead of evil. You're trying to frame murder as contribution to humanity."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm the only person honest enough to admit that evil can be studied productively. That monsters can provide value precisely because they understand predation in ways normal people can't."
Richard coughed again. "David, you're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you intellectualize instead of acknowledging reality. She's handcuffed in the back of a stolen vehicle being driven to an unknown location by a serial killer. Maybe save the philosophy lecture for when she's not actively terrified."
I looked at Morgana in the mirror. She didn't look terrified. She looked angry and calculating and very, very alert.
"Are you terrified?" I asked.
"I'm evaluating," she said. "You've taken me hostage, but you haven't hurt me. Richard's injured badly enough that he's a liability, not a threat. And you're driving to somewhere specific—somewhere that matters to you emotionally, which means you're compromised by sentiment." Her eyes held mine in the mirror. "So no, I'm not terrified. I'm analyzing my options. Just like you taught me."
God, she was perfect. Even now, even kidnapped and handcuffed, she was thinking three steps ahead.
"We're going to Connecticut," I said. "The family estate. The place where my father first understood what I was and decided I needed managing instead of help. The place where Richard learned to be my keeper. The place where everything that led to this moment originated."
"Why there?"
"Because if you're going to understand my research, you need to understand its genesis. You need to see where I came from. Where Richard and I became what we are." I took another turn, following Richard's route toward the state line. "And because it's the one place that's truly mine. The one location where I can show you the complete documentation without interruption. Where you can analyze eighteen years of work and make an informed decision about whether it has value."
"And if I decide it doesn't?"
"Then I accept your assessment. Release you. Turn myself in." I watched her face. "But I don't think that's what you'll decide. Because you're too analytical to reject data just because its source is unpalatable. You'll look at the patterns. The predictions. The methodology. And you'll see what I see—that understanding predators is the only way to stop them."
"You're assuming I'll have a choice. That you'll actually let me go if I say no."
"I'm assuming you're intelligent enough to recognize when someone is being genuine. I didn't take you to kill you, Morgana. I took you to show you. To prove that my research has value. To demonstrate that sometimes the people society calls monsters are the ones who understand darkness well enough to fight it."
We crossed into Connecticut. Richard guided me toward secondary roads, routes that avoided tolls and cameras. The landscape changed—urban sprawl giving way to suburban corridors giving way to rural expanses.
My phone buzzed. Text from Richard's other burner: State police establishing roadblocks on major highways. APB issued for stolen NYPD transport and suspects. Media coverage extensive.
"They know we're gone," I said. "Bruno probably figured it out the moment the transport didn't arrive at the precinct."
"Then we need to switch vehicles soon," Richard said. "First cache is in Stamford. Twenty minutes."
"We'll make it."
Morgana was looking out the window, watching Connecticut roll past. "You grew up here," she said. "This is where your father was sheriff."
"You've been reading the case files Bruno shared."
"I've been trying to understand how someone becomes what you are. Whether it's nature or nurture or some combination." She looked at me in the mirror. "Your father knew. That's in the files. He knew you were different, dangerous. And instead of getting you help, he paid Richard to manage you. To contain you."
"To enable me," Richard corrected quietly. "Dad didn't want me to manage David. He wanted me to make sure David's nature never became public knowledge. Family reputation mattered more than morality."
"And you went along with it."
"I was eighteen. Dad was paying for college. And David was my little brother who needed protection, even if what he needed protection from was himself." Richard's voice was heavy. "By the time I understood what I'd become—accomplice, enabler, criminal—I was too deep to escape. The first coverup led to the second led to the third. Thirty years of choosing family over everything else."
"That's not choice. That's complicity." Morgana's voice was hard. "You helped him kill twelve women. Probably more. You destroyed evidence, corrupted investigations, enabled murder. You don't get to frame that as family loyalty."
"I'm not framing it as anything except what it is: the worst mistake of my life, repeated consistently until it became my identity." Richard met her eyes. "I know what I am, Ms. Gaius. I'm a monster just like David, just wearing a badge instead of killing directly. But unlike David, I recognize it as monstrous. And unlike David, I'm trying to end it."
"By faking your death and helping him escape? That's ending it?"
"By ensuring David survives long enough to be prosecuted properly. To have his research analyzed by people like you who can determine if it has value. To transform eighteen years of horror into something that might prevent future horror." Richard coughed again, wincing. "I'm not seeking redemption. There is no redemption for what I've done. But I can seek utility. Purpose. Some small measure of good extracted from an ocean of bad."
We reached Stamford. I pulled into a parking garage, found the vehicle Richard had positioned—a Honda Accord, unremarkable and invisible. We transferred quickly, leaving the SUV on the third floor where it would sit undiscovered for hours.
Morgana didn't fight during the transfer. Didn't scream or try to attract attention. She understood that in a public garage with security cameras, any attempt to escape would result in me being caught immediately.
But also that my being caught meant her being the key witness whose testimony would determine my fate. And she needed to understand the research first. Needed to see the data before deciding what it meant.
Or at least, that's what I told myself she was thinking.
In the Honda, with fresh plates and new vehicle profile, we continued toward the estate. Richard navigated, his breathing increasingly labored. The body armor had saved his life but the impact had done internal damage he wasn't acknowledging.
"How much farther?" I asked.
"Forty minutes on these roads. Hour if we take extra caution." Richard pulled out his phone, checked news feeds. "Media's covering the escape. They're calling it a coordinated criminal operation. Showing footage of the siege, the transport van found abandoned, me supposedly dead on that rooftop."
"Supposedly?"
"The body they recovered was wearing my tactical vest and jacket. But the actual corpse was a John Doe from the morgue Richard's contact substituted." Richard smiled grimly. "Everyone thinks I'm dead. Which means they're not looking for me. Only for you and Morgana."
"Clever."
"Expensive. And unsustainable. But it buys us time to reach the estate and complete this." Richard looked at Morgana. "I'm sorry you're caught in this. You shouldn't be here."
"But I am here. So tell me—when we reach this estate, what happens? David shows me his research, tries to convince me it has value, and then what? Releases me? Kills me? Keeps me prisoner until I develop Stockholm syndrome?"
"I release you," I said. "After you've had adequate time to review the documentation. After you've seen the patterns and understood the methodology. After you've made an informed decision about whether the research contributes to preventing future predation or is simply a killer's rationalization."
"And you'll accept whatever I decide?"
"I'll accept your analysis because you're the only person qualified to make it. You've survived predation. You understand the psychology from inside. You're analytical enough to separate data from emotion. Your assessment will be honest in ways law enforcement's won't be."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're going to kill me. Whether you admit it or not, whether you believe it or not—this ends with me dead. Because I'm the only one who saw you clearly, who broke your pattern, who survived when I shouldn't have. And you can't let that stand. Your research demands completion, and I'm the incomplete data point."
"No." I met her eyes in the mirror. "You're the proof that my methodology can fail. That predators can be recognized and resisted. That's more valuable than any kill data. You're the variable that proves the research isn't perfect, which makes the research more scientifically valid."
"You don't want to kill me because I'm more useful alive as proof your system has flaws?"
"I don't want to kill you because killing you would corrupt the data. Would make me no different than the predators I've been studying. Would reduce eighteen years of research to mere serial killing instead of systematic analysis of predatory behavior."
Richard laughed, then groaned from the pain it caused. "Listen to yourself, David. You're a serial killer trying to pretend you're a researcher. There's no difference between you and any other murderer except that you write it down. That doesn't make it science. It makes it documentation of atrocity."
"Then why did you help me for thirty years?"
"Because you're my brother. Because Dad made it my job. Because by the time I understood what I was enabling, I was already culpable enough to face life in prison." Richard's voice went quiet. "And because some part of me wanted to believe you. Wanted to think that maybe your clinical approach meant something. That maybe understanding you could prevent others like you."
"And now?"
"Now I know I was lying to myself. You're a killer, David. Smart, methodical, disciplined—but still just a killer. And I'm the fool who spent thirty years pretending otherwise."
We drove in silence after that. The Connecticut landscape rolling past, morning sun making everything look clean and innocent. We were an hour from the estate. An hour from the place where everything had started.
Where everything would end, one way or another.
My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number: State police have roadblocks on Routes 7, 8, and 15. They're closing the net. Whatever you're planning, do it fast.
Richard's contact, probably. Someone still feeding us information from inside law enforcement.
"They're establishing roadblocks," I told Richard. "Major routes."
"Then we take minor routes. I planned for this." He pulled up a map on his phone, showed me a route through residential roads and farm country. "It'll add thirty minutes, but we avoid checkpoints."
"Morgana," I said, watching her in the mirror. "When we reach the estate, you'll have access to complete documentation. Eighteen years of research, including subjects law enforcement hasn't connected to me yet. Patterns, predictions, methodology. Everything."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want you to understand what you're going to see before you see it. I want you to approach it analytically instead of emotionally. I want you to look at the data the way you'd look at any research project—with professional assessment of validity and utility."
"You want me to review twelve murders—probably more—and treat them like a case study."
"I want you to review systematic documentation of predatory behavior and determine if it has preventative value. That's not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing. You're just using different words."
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was rationalizing. Maybe Richard was right and I was just a killer pretending to be a researcher.
But the documentation existed. The patterns were real. The predictions had been accurate ninety-seven percent of the time.
That had to mean something.
We reached the estate at 10:47 AM. The property looked exactly as I remembered—main house set back from the road, surrounded by forest, isolated enough that screams wouldn't carry. Dad had chosen well.
I pulled into the garage, cut the engine. Sat for a moment in silence.
This was it. The place where I'd killed my first victim at nineteen. Where Richard had helped me hide the body. Where thirty years of criminal partnership had begun.
"Welcome home," Richard said quietly.
I looked at Morgana in the mirror. She was pale but steady.
"Last chance," I said. "I can drive you back to the city right now. Drop you at a police station. End this."
"No you can't," she said. "Because if you could do that, you already would have. You're compelled to show me your research, to prove it has value, to make me understand what you are. That compulsion is stronger than any ethical hesitation."
She was right. God help me, she was right.
"Then let's see if eighteen years of documentation can change how we understand predation," I said. "Or if Richard's right and I'm just a killer who takes notes."
I opened the car door and stepped into my past.
With Morgana Gaius as my final subject.
Or my first partner.
Time would tell which.