Page 32 of Her Last Escape

A flash of movement caught her eye as she came around a tall stack of crates – Dewalt's vest, visible through gaps in the shelving. He was heading for the far wall, where emergency exits gleamed with reflected light from overhead fixtures. Rachel cut diagonally through the aisles, her footsteps echoing off the concrete and just barely able to slip between two stacks of boxes. A forklift sat abandoned, its warning beeper still chirping plaintively. She had to dodge around a pallet jack, losing precious seconds.

Dewalt knocked over a stack of boxes as he ran, sending them cascading into her path. Rachel vaulted over them as a strange assortment of goods spilled out—toothbrushes, batteries, roll-on deodorant— her muscles burning with the effort, but the obstacle had given him precious seconds. She could hear his ragged breathing ahead, the sound of desperate fear. More boxes tumbled, forcing her to weave and dodge. Her lungs burned, but she pushed harder.

"FBI! Stop right there, Mr. Dewalt!" Her voice boomed through the space, but Dewalt just ran faster. He darted between two tall shelving units, disappearing from view. Rachel followed, only to find herself facing a mess of toppled inventory. She had to scramble over it, feeling valuable seconds slip away and trying not to give in to the surreal nature of this chase that had her sprinting through spilled household goods. The newest pile consisted of dishcloths, bed sheets, and an assortment of plastic cutlery.

Ahead of her, Dewalt slammed through the emergency exit, triggering an alarm that wailed through the warehouse. Rachel caught the door just before it closed, bursting out into daylight. She had a split second to register the loading dock area, the rows of semi-trailers, the chain-link fence in the distance—

And then Novak appeared from behind a trailer. He came rushing toward Dewalt with a football player’s stance and Dewalt didn’t see him until the last minute. Novak took Dewalt down with a perfectly executed tackle. Dewalt yelled out in surprise, but it was cut off when they hit the concrete hard, Dewalt's breath leaving him in a whoosh. Rachel was on them in seconds, helping to secure Novak and get the cuffs around his wrists as their suspect thrashed and cursed.

"I haven't even done anything!" Dewalt shouted, his face pressed against the pavement. Sweat darkened his shirt, and Rachel could feel him trembling beneath her hands – from exertion or fear, she couldn't tell.

Rachel caught her breath, the adrenaline still coursing through her system. "Yeah? Most innocent people don't run at the sight of FBI agents." She looked up at Novak, who was slightly winded but looking satisfied. "Looks like we're going to be making a trip to the closest police station….have a word with Mr. Dewalt."

As they hauled Dewalt to his feet, Rachel couldn't help but wonder what kind of grief had driven him to run. What darkness was he carrying? What was it he was worried about? She'd been on both sides of this equation now – hunter and hunted, justice-seeker and vengeance-taker. The line between right and wrong should have been clear, marked in bold black and white. But experience had taught her that it was always more complicated than that.

Some people ran because they were guilty. Others ran because they were scared. And some ran because they'd been running for so long, they'd forgotten how to stay still. The weight of her own past decisions pressed against her thoughts, reminding her how close she'd come to crossing lines she couldn't uncross.

The question was: which kind was Jason Dewalt? And more importantly, what would they find when they started digging into whatever he was running from?

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The closest police precinct by the warehouse was just four miles away. It was an older building, and Rachel was pretty sure it had once been a bank…from maybe as far back as the 1950s if her guess was right—an old bank repurposed into a law enforcement outpost. Rachel noticed the old brass fixtures still adorning the walls when they entered, though they'd been painted over multiple times in varying shades of a very drab beige. The marble floors, too weathered to shine anymore, echoed under their footsteps as she and Novak led Jason Dewalt through the lobby. The sound reminded her of empty churches, that hollow resonance that made every movement feel significant.

Dewalt's handcuffs clinked softly in front of her and Novak as they walked, each with a hand on one of Dewalt’s arms, currently behind his back. Rachel had insisted on them, despite his cooperation—too many years on the job had taught her that compliance could flip to violence in an instant. Still, she kept her grip on his arm light. No need to bruise someone who might turn out to be innocent.

The air inside carried that distinct mix of stale coffee, printer toner, and desperation that seemed universal to small-town precincts. Different building, same smell. A wall-mounted HVAC unit rattled in protest against the late afternoon heat, pushing warm air around without actually cooling anything. Rachel could feel sweat beginning to form at the base of her neck.

No sooner had they come into the building than they were met by a very large man. He met them at the front desk, his massive frame filling the space between two support columns. He had to be pushing six-foot-five, with shoulders broad enough to make his standard-issue uniform look custom-tailored. But his face, with its ruddy cheeks and earnest eyes, belonged on a mall Santa. A badge that looked tiny against his chest identified him A. Dunphy.

"Agent Gift? Agent Novak?" His voice matched his appearance—deep but gentle, like distant thunder without the threat. "I'm Deputy Al Dunphy. I was told you called, and I have your room ready. Follow me." He moved with the careful grace of someone who'd spent a lifetime being conscious of his size, each step measured and precise. He was a bear of a man for sure.

Rachel noticed how Dunphy's heavy boots barely made a sound on the floor, like he'd spent years learning to move quietly despite his size. She appreciated that kind of attention to detail in a law enforcement officer. It spoke to self-awareness, to conscious choice rather than just following procedure.

He led them past a row of desk clusters where three officers worked in various states of concentration. One was speaking quietly into a phone, shoulders hunched as if to create privacy in the open space. Another typed with two fingers, muttering under his breath at whatever report demanded his attention. The third officer, a woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, looked up briefly as they passed, her eyes sharp and assessing before returning to her work.

A dispatcher's voice crackled through someone's radio, all codes and static: "Unit 14, respond to a 415 at Carson and Main..." The rest faded as they moved deeper into the building.

"Watch your step here," Dunphy said, gesturing to a slight lip in the flooring where the old bank lobby met what must have been the vault area. "Building's got character, that's what the chief likes to say." He chuckled, the sound warming the sterile space. "Though between you and me, 'character' is just what we call all the things the budget won't let us fix."

“Was it once a bank?” Rachel guessed.

Dunphy looked back to her, impressed. “Yeah, it did. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

The hallway narrowed as they approached the back. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one of them flickering in an arrhythmic pattern that made Rachel's eyes hurt. The walls here were cinder block, painted the same tired beige as everything else, but someone had made an effort to brighten the space with a corkboard full of community notices and children's artwork. Rachel caught glimpses of crayon thank-you notes from a local elementary school, a flyer for an upcoming police charity basketball game, and what looked like a decades-old newspaper clipping about officer awards.

The temperature dropped noticeably as they entered the former vault area. The thick walls that had once protected money now served to contain suspects and secrets. Rachel felt Dewalt shiver slightly under her hand.

"Right in here." Dunphy unlocked a door that looked sturdy enough to survive a small explosion. "Interview Room Two. Best ventilation, newest chairs." He gave them a proud smile, revealing a slightly crooked front tooth that somehow made him seem more trustworthy. "Just holler if you need anything. Coffee machine's down the hall if you want it, though I wouldn't recommend it unless you're desperate.”

The room itself was small but well-maintained. A metal table bolted to the floor dominated the center, with three chairs arranged around it. The observation window reflected their movements like a mirror, and Rachel knew the recording equipment behind it was already running. The room also held a chilly note, which was intentional. The chill would help keep their suspect alert, uncomfortable enough to want to end this quickly.

Novak guided Dewalt into one of the chairs while Rachel took position opposite him. She studied their suspect as he settled in, noting how his fingers drummed against his thighs, how his eyes darted between them like a spectator at a tennis match. He was practically vibrating with the need to speak, but he was holding back. Smart. The restraint suggested someone who thought before acting—not typically the profile of a killer.

Rachel let the silence stretch, watching Dewalt's reactions. His right hand kept moving to his left wrist, where he’d suffered a scratch and slight abrasion from Novak’s tackle. It had been bleeding a bit when they put him in the car, but she’d tended to it with the small first aid kit in their trunk.

"Do you have any idea why we're here today, Mr. Dewalt?" Rachel kept her voice neutral and professional. The room's acoustics gave every word weight, bouncing them back from the concrete walls.

---