The survivor of abusive marriage, Special Agent Karen Vail has become hard and uncompromising in her work as the FBI’s lead profiler. Follow her now as she trails brutal killers across the country and then across the pond . . .
Inmate 1577: When an elderly woman is found raped and murdered in San Francisco, Vail heads west to team up with SFPD inspector Lance Burden and her former task force colleague Det. Roxxann Dixon. As they chase the killer around the city, his rampage continues, leaving behind clues that lead them to Alcatraz Island, whose long-buried, decades-old secrets hold the key to their case . . .
“A powerful thriller, brilliantly conceived and written.” —Clive Cussler, New York Times–bestselling author of Havana Storm
No Way Out: After a massive bombing in London, Karen Vail is dispatched to England to work with the Scotland Yard on drafting a threat assessment to head off future attacks. Only, their work uncovers a trail leading to a centuries-old manuscript, the radicals bent on destroying it, and a rogue covert operative with explosive plans. Soon both assassins and British authorities are chasing the beleaguered FBI agent in a race for her life, and there’s no telling who will come out on top . . .
“Jacobson knows how to throw in plot twists that are shocking but logical.” —Library Journal
Praise for Alan Jacobson
“Karen Vail is as compelling a character as any created by Patricia Cornwell, or yours truly.” —James Patterson, New York Times–bestselling author
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
January 29, 1955 8:39 PM
37 W. Rosedale Avenue Northfield, New Jersey
Henry sat deathly still in the corner watching the life drain from his mother's body, knees drawn tight against his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. He stared at the blood seeping from her pulpy head wounds, poking forth from between strands of matted hair.
The seven-year-old boy had told the policeman in so many words about the man in the black knit mask who came up from behind and struck his mother several times, then disappeared out the back door. Afterwards, Henry had sat frozen, unable to move, unable to comfort her in her last seconds before her body stilled, her eyes rapt in death.
A bottle of maple syrup, the lone weapon his mother had grabbed to fight off her attacker, lay shattered on the floor, oozing across the kitchen linoleum. In halting sentences, with shock-laden tear-filled eyes, Henry described how the masked man had knocked it from her hand before she could raise it.
It now sat impotent on the ground, like a cold revolver stuck in the deepest reaches of a holster, never given the opportunity to be of service.
Henry had finally eased forward, inching across the floor until the tips of his toes were a fraction of an inch from the pooled blood that encircled his mother's head. He reached over and touched her ashen face, then poked it, despite the policeman's admonishment to stay back from her body.
At his tender age, the finality of death was little more than an innate concept, like when an animal in the wild knows that one of its own kind is no longer among the living.
THE POLICEMAN, AFTER HAVING WAITED in the living room with Henry, walked outside into the winter evening. Moments later, he pushed open the door and then stepped aside so another man could enter.
Walton MacNally's eyes instantly settled on the center of the kitchen floor, taking in the violence laid bare before him. A grocery bag dropped from his hand, glass bottles within shattering as it struck the hard floor.
"Doris?" He rushed to her side, caressed her face, felt for a pulse, couldn't stop staring at her head wounds.
"Sir!" the cop said. "Mr. MacNally. Don't touch the body —"
MacNally's Adam's apple rose sharply, then fell. Ignoring the cop's directive, he lifted Doris's hand and brought it to his lips, kissed it, and then started whimpering. He became aware of his son and pulled his gaze from his wife's irreparably injured and abnormally still body.
"Henry — what ... what happened?"
The boy's eyes coursed down to his mother. His lips made an attempt to move, but no sound emerged.
But there was little doubt as to what had transpired. His wife had met with severe violence, the overt damage to her head and brain unquestionably fatal.
A parched "Why?" managed to scrape from MacNally's throat. "Who?"
"A detective should be here any minute," the policeman said.
MacNally scooted over to Henry and took the boy into his arms. His life had been turned upside down, destroyed ... his mother, his maternal presence, ripped from him like a doe taken down by a lion while her fawn watches.
MacNally swallowed hard. A whimper threatened to escape his throat, but he fought it back. A pain unrecognizable to him, unlike anything he had ever felt, emerged from deep in his soul and manifested as a plaintive, silent moan. He balled a fist and shoved it between his front teeth. He did not want to further traumatize his son by losing control.
Now more than ever, Henry needed him. He needed him to be strong.
A DETECTIVE ARRIVED TWENTY MINUTES later. Dressed in a charcoal suit with a narrow tie and a black fedora tipped back off his forehead, he stepped into the kitchen through the back door and surveyed the room.
Henry was seated in his father's lap on the floor, against the far wall. The side of the boy's head rested against his dad's chest, a gathering of shirt stuffed into the palm of his left hand.
"I'm Detective George O'Hara. You're Walton MacNally?"
O'Hara knelt carefully beside the woman's body and felt for a pulse. "So what happened here?"
"I came home about, about twenty-five minutes ago. Henry —"
"No," O'Hara said. "Your son. I want to hear from your son." O'Hara took a knee in front of the boy. "You okay, Henry?"
Henry's eyes moved about the room, then finally came to rest on the detective. "My mom's not gonna wake up."
"I know. I'm sorry, son." O'Hara glanced at MacNally, then swung his gaze back to Henry. "Did you see what happened? Did you see who did this to her?"
Henry sucked on his bottom lip. Dropped his gaze to his lap. Nodded.
"Did you know the person?"
Henry spoke without looking up. "He had a mask."
"What kind of a mask?" O'Hara asked. "Like the Lone Ranger?"
"Bigger. All over his face."
O'Hara nodded. "Did he say anything? Did you know his voice?"
Henry shook his head. "He didn't talk."
"How big was he? Was he — was he as tall as your dad?"
Henry twisted his lips. "Same."
"Close your eyes for a second, son. Go on." He waited for Henry to comply, then said, "Imagine the man is right here, right now. I'm here, so he can't hurt you. Picture him, look right at his face. Can you tell me anything more about what he looks like?"
Henry kept his eyes shut but shook his head.
"If your dad was wearing a mask, would the man look like that?"
"What kind of a —"
"Quiet, Mr. MacNally," O'Hara said. He rose, sucked on his teeth a second, and then looked over at the woman's body.
Henry tightened his grip on his father. MacNally shifted his weight and cuddled the boy. It was now just the two of them. Henry had been such a blessing that he and Doris had started discussing another child. But times were tough, and he had lost his job as a welder for a commercial building contractor three months ago. They were existing solely on Doris's lean secretarial salary, so they decided to put off the idea of another child, at least until he had found employment. He began drinking to escape the pressures and feelings of inadequacy.
Then came a break: a week ago MacNally heard of a shipping company that needed an able-bodied man to work the docks unloading cargo. It was a waste of his artistic talents, but he needed the money. Though it had only been six days, he hadn't had one drink and his boss took notice of his work ethic. Tonight he was going to tell Doris they should consider that second child.
Those plans were now gone. Forever lost, like the life that had drained from his wife's body.CHAPTER 2
O'Hara pulled a long, narrow pad from his vest pocket and jotted some notes. He clicked his pen shut, and then stole another look at the body of Doris MacNally. "I'll be right back. Gotta go find out what's keeping the coroner. Don't touch anything. Best if you two go wait in the living room."
The door swung open and closed, a blast of frigid air blowing against MacNally's face. The police officer who'd been there earlier stepped back inside and folded his arms across his chest.
MacNally did as he was told, taking Henry into the adjacent room and waiting on the couch. He cradled Henry against his perspiration-soaked body, oblivious to the chilled draft that swept through the house ... the cold emptiness mimicking what he was now feeling.
"What's in your hand?" MacNally asked softly.
Henry splayed open his fingers, and an opal brooch stared back at him. It was the only keepsake Doris's grandmother had left her, and it was something Doris cherished and wore often. MacNally knew it was Henry's attempt to be close to his mother, to have something of hers that he could hold onto. Emotionally, MacNally could relate: he wasn't prepared to let go of his life companion yet either.
O'Hara was gone for several minutes, during which time MacNally numbly stared ahead at the wedding photo that sat in a wood frame on the fireplace mantle across the room. He stroked his son's back, an action that felt pathetically inadequate. But he didn't know what else to do. He had just turned twenty-four — what could he possibly know about helping a young boy deal with the loss of his mother?
In the space of mere seconds, the lives of Henry and Walton MacNally were shattered beyond repair.
But MacNally did not — could not — know just how much of a difference his mate's death would make in their lives.
DETECTIVE O'HARA WALKED BACK INTO the house. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were red from the blistering cold, and his face was stern. The creases were more prominent, the brow rigid, the lips taut.
But it wasn't until O'Hara was fully inside the kitchen that MacNally realized that the man had his service revolver in hand, at his side, poking out from behind his thigh. Concealing it.
"Mr. MacNally, can you please let go of your son and come over here for a moment?"
MacNally's gaze was fixated on the tip of metal peeking from behind O'Hara's leg. Whatever the detective had in mind, it was not good. But MacNally had nothing to hide, so he gave Henry a gentle pat on the back. "Son, I need to get up for a second."
Henry unfolded himself and flopped down beside his father as MacNally pushed up off the sofa. He walked over to O'Hara.
"Sir, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Doris MacNally. Please put your hands behind your back."
MacNally leaned back. "Arrest? For — Are you out of your mind? I loved my wife. We were going to —"
"I'm just following orders, sir. Now turn around and give me your hands."
"How could you th — What could possibly make you think I did this?"
"Once we get to the station, we can talk about it in more detail, get it all straightened out."
MacNally did as instructed. As he turned, he locked eyes with his boy. "Everything's going to be okay, Henry. I'm going to clear up this misunderstanding and be back home as soon as I can. I promise."CHAPTER 3
Walton MacNally soon learned not to make promises he could not keep. Because as it turned out, all would not be okay. MacNally was questioned at the station for hours. His alibi was thin at best — he repeated what he had told O'Hara outside, when he first arrived at the house — that he had gone shopping for groceries but then made a stop somewhere. He claimed it was a bar for his first drink in nearly a week to celebrate his new job — but couldn't recall which establishment he'd visited.
O'Hara questioned the owners of local taverns in the vicinity, but none recalled seeing MacNally during the hours in question.
That lent credence to the prosecutor's theory that the defendant had hired a prostitute, had sex with her in his car, then drove home and killed his wife when she confronted him with some form of evidence — errant lipstick, foreign perfume, or suspicion brought on by a pattern of such behavior.
Although Henry — the sole witness to the murder — had stated to O'Hara that the attacker did not speak before beating his mother, the prosecutor pointed out that it was only natural for a young boy to "cover" for his father, particularly once he realized the weight of the situation facing him: with his mother gone, his dad was his only remaining family.
And making the defense even more difficult was MacNally's history — his father's, to be exact — convicted of murdering a woman with whom he was accused of having an affair. That trial had made the newspapers, too, nineteen years earlier. And although MacNally's defense attorney objected to the prosecutor's mention of that old case during his opening arguments, it was a seed planted in the jury's minds. More importantly, however, it brought his father's legacy once again to the front pages of the newspaper and painted the MacNally family name with such distrustful strokes that it became a dirty image the public could not easily discard.
Henry MacNally, living temporarily in a local orphanage, was unable to provide any further description of the assailant ... a description that could very well have been his father. Or — as the defense attorney claimed — it could have been thousands of other men of similar build.
Ultimately, Walton MacNally was found not guilty. But the job that MacNally had won in the days before his wife's death was long gone. A man whose face had graced the local papers was a pariah, despite the prosecution's failed bid to build a convincing case against him.
MacNally and Henry packed their belongings into two large suitcases and headed south. Where it would lead MacNally did not know. But perhaps it was better that way. Because had Walton MacNally known the turn his life would eventually take, he might very well have committed suicide. At least it would have eliminated years of incomprehensible pain and suffering.CHAPTER 4
Present Day July 26 11:01 PM
The Marina District San Francisco, California
San Francisco Police Inspector Lance Burden greeted the first officer on-scene with a firm nod. "What's the deal?"
The man tipped back his cap and shifted his weight. "Pretty disgusting, if you ask me, Inspector."
Burden yawned wide and hard, then said, "I did ask you. Can you be a little more specific?"
"Victim is an old woman. I didn't want to mess up the crime scene and shit, so I'm just eyeballing it, but she looks like she's in her eighties."
"Okay. Go on."
"Kind of looks like my grandmother."
"She's old. I got that. What else?"
"Her pants and underwear are pulled down to her knees. She's ... uh ... she's been penetrated."
"Penetrated — how? You mean sexually?"
The officer rested both hands on his utility belt and hooked fingers around the gear. "Yeah. There's something rammed up her, up her anus." He looked away, shook his head, then continued. "Like I said. Disgusting. I mean, who'd want to rape and sodomize an old woman?"
Burden's eyes widened. "Wait here."
"Don't worry. I'm not goin' back in there," the cop said with a sardonic chuckle.
Burden lifted his two-way and got an ETA on the criminalist: fifteen minutes, best case. His partner was en route, as well, but he decided not to wait. He pulled a pair of blue booties from his pocket — he'd learned first day on the job as a detective years ago to carry the things with him. And they'd come in handy on more than one occasion.
He walked into the townhouse. A sour-stale odor flared his nostrils. It was a scent he'd experienced a number of times over the years — the way homes of elderly individuals can sometimes smell, particularly when mixed with the putrid cologne of death.
The place was well kept, orderly, and clean. Oil paintings and dated knickknacks betrayed their age about as blatantly as the yellowing black-and-white photographs that sat on a bureau in the living room.
And then, in the bedroom ... two bare feet visible from the doorway. Burden walked another couple of yards and had enough of a view to get a sense of what he was dealing with. He bit the inside of his lip.
Burden did not look away from the body. "What is it?"
"The criminalist made better time than he thought. He'll be here in five minutes."
"Yeah. Right. Send him in when he gets here."
"See what I mean?" the officer asked. "What kind of monster would do that to a poor old woman?"
Burden sighed deeply. "I think I know just the kind of monster we're looking for. And I know who to call to help find him."CHAPTER 5
July 27 12:07 PM
George Washington University Hospital 900 23rd St., NW Washington, D.C.
FBI Profiler Karen Vail walked the hospital hallway with her son, Jonathan, and DEA Special Agent Robby Hernandez. Vail and Robby were both off duty, a rare Saturday when they had time to decompress, grab lunch at Charlie Palmer's, and then a late afternoon movie. They left their case folders on their desks, their problems neatly tucked away in a file drawer, and all concerns of serial murders and drug cartels out of reach of their collective consciousness.
Robby's shoulder was still in a sling, recovering from a gunshot wound he had sustained two months ago. But the injury had an unforeseen, nonmedical side effect: Jonathan got a kick out of handily beating the one-armed Robby in every video game in the teen's arsenal, so they played together at every opportunity. Robby represented the positive male presence Jonathan lacked, and Jonathan gave Robby the father-son relationship he had wanted but not yet experienced.
With various bruises and lacerations now healed and a knee that finally felt whole following recent surgery, Vail had found peace being at home after a tenuous two weeks in the Napa Valley. What started as a dream vacation had degraded into a recurring nightmare that, for a while, Vail had difficulty awakening from.(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Inmate 1577 and No Way Out"
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