The anger wouldn’t let him alone. Rage was steadily building, gnawing at his gut like hungry maggots. He couldn’t let it get out of control, not now. He took a deep breath and ordered himself to think about something pleasant.
Little Tiffy had been as easy as she’d advertised. No challenge at all. He didn’t even have to sweet-talk her into getting into his van. No, she’d just strutted over to the door and scrambled right on up inside, with her tight little skirt hiked up above her crotch. She’d wanted him to see she wasn’t wearing panties. No modesty, that one. God only knew what diseases she’d been carrying. He’d had to wash three times just to get rid of the stench of her.
He made a mental note to remember to tell his buddies on the Internet that killing whores wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.
She couldn’t dirty talk her way out of what was happening to her. No, sir. Killing her had been a kick, but it hadn’t given him the rush he craved these days. He knew why of course. She hadn’t been clean.
“Green-eyed girl, won’t you come out to play . . .”
Oh, how he hated to start all over again. Such time! Such work!
“Calm down, calm down,” he whispered. “You’ve done it before, you can do it again.”
It wasn’t a project he was ready to undertake just yet. If he’d learned anything over the years, it was that you finished one job before you took on another.
The exit off I-35 leading to Holy Oaks loomed up ahead. An exemplary driver, he turned on the blinker and slowed the van.
“Green-eyed girl, I’m coming for you, coming for you, coming for you . . .”
He had a secret name for Holy Oaks. He called it “unfinished business.”
CHAPTER 15
The game was on.
A team of FBI agents swarmed into Holy Oaks to prepare the trap. Jules Wesson, their section leader, set up his command post in a spacious, well-appointed cabin owned by the abbey and located just eight blocks south of the town on the tip of Shadow Lake. Wesson, a Princeton graduate with a masters in abnormal psychology, was rumored to become Morganstern’s replacement if and when Wesson completed his doctorate, and if and when Morganstern retired—rumors most of the other agents believed had been started by Wesson himself. He was a by-the-book, hard-nosed, pain-in-the-ass boss, surprisingly arrogant given the fact that the agents under his direction had far more experience in the field than he did.
Joe Farley and Matt Feinberg, one a field agent from Omaha, Nebraska, the other an electronic surveillance specialist from Quantico, were sent into town ahead of the others to scout Laurant’s neighborhood and secure the premises. Both had been ordered to treat the property as a crime scene.
They knew they were going to have trouble blending in. In a town the size of Holy Oaks, everyone knew everyone else, and everyone else’s business, and the two agents didn’t want to stand out like a pair of red shoes in a funeral procession. They had been told that there were other strangers in town working at the abbey on the restoration, and so both of the agents dressed in work clothes. Farley wore a baseball cap and carried a black duffel bag. Feinberg carried a toolbox.
No one paid them the slightest attention. No one, that was, but Bessie Jean Vanderman.
While Agent Feinberg slowly circled the perimeter of Laurant’s two-story clapboard house, checking for possible hiding places, Agent Farley carried his bag up the front steps. He crossed the porch and paused at the door to put on a pair of gloves. An expert at getting in and out without leaving a trace, he used a very simple tool, his American Express card—he never left home without it—to open the door. It took him less than five seconds.
Sheriff Lloyd McGovern showed up five minutes later and burst in on Farley. Bessie Jean, Laurant’s neighbor and unofficial watch-dog now that Daddy had passed on, had called the sheriff when she spotted a squat-necked, square-framed man going inside Laurant’s house.
Farley was more concerned about the sheriff messing up his crime scene than the gun the man was waving about.
Lloyd, scratching his balding head and still brandishing his gun—which, the agent could plainly see, had the safety on—shouted, “You put your hands up, boy. I’m the law here in Holy Oaks and you’d best do what I say.”
Feinberg came inside the front door without making a sound. He walked up behind the sheriff and poked him in the back to get his attention. The sheriff mistakenly thought he had a gun. He dropped his weapon and put his hands up.
“I’m not resisting,” he stammered, the bluster and hostility gone from his voice now. “You boys take whatever you want, but leave me the hell alone.”
Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Feinberg moved to the side and waved his palms in front of the sheriff. Lloyd realized he was unarmed and scrambled to get his gun off the floor.
“All right now,” he began, pleased he was once again in charge. “What are you boys doing here? You’re just plain stupid if you think you’re going to steal anything of value. Look around you, and you can see Lauren don’t have much at all worth taking. I know for a fact that she doesn’t have a VCR, and her television set is at least ten years old. It can’t be worth more than forty dollars, and that sure ain’t worth going to jail for. As far as I can tell, she’s as poor as a church mouse. She ain’t got much in the bank, and she had to take out a loan to pay for her store.”
“How do you know how old her television set is?” Farley asked, curious.
“Harry told me. That’s Harry Evans,” he explained. “He’s my cousin twice removed. He tried to sell Lauren a brand-spanking-new television a while back. You know the kind with the picture inside the picture? She didn’t want it, and she asked him to fix up an old television she bought at a garage sale instead. She was throwing good money away if you ask me. And that’s how come I know how old her television is.”
“And you’ve got a relative working at the bank too?” Feinberg asked. “Is that how you know about the loan?”
“Something like that,” Lloyd answered. “I might remind you boys I’m the one with the gun here, and you’re gonna start answering my questions. Are you robbing Lauren?”
“No,” Feinberg answered.
“Then what are you doing in her house? Are you foreigner relatives of hers from France?”
Farley had been born and raised in the Bronx and hadn’t been able to rid himself of his thick street accent. He sounded like a thug in a bad gangster movie.
“That’s right,” he managed to say with a straight face. “We’re from France.”
The sheriff liked to be right. His chest puffed up like a peacock. Nodding as he put his gun away, he said, “I thought as much. You talk funny, so I figured you boys had to be foreigners.”
“Actually, Sheriff, we’re both from the East, and that’s why we have accents. My friend here was just joking when he said we’re French. We’re friends of Laurant’s brother,” he explained. “We’re doing some work up at the abbey, and Father Tom asked us to stop by and fix her sink.”
“It’s clogged,” Farley added to the lie.
The sheriff noticed the black bag near the front door. “Are you boys planning on spending the night here?”
“Maybe,” Farley answered. “Depends on how much work the plumbing needs.”
“She doesn’t own the house. She’s just renting. Where is Lauren?”
“She’ll be here soon.”
“And you think you boys are going to sleep here in the same house with her, and you’re not related?”
Feinberg’s patience was wearing thin. “Quit calling me boy. I’m thirty-two years old.”
“Thirty-two, huh? Then answer me this. What’s a grown man doing wearing braces? I never heard of such a thing.”
The braces were the last step in the reconstruction of a shattered jaw Feinberg had suffered four years ago during a raid that had gone sour, but the agent wasn’t about to impart that information to a man he had already surmised to be a complete moron. Besides, no one was supposed to know the truth,
that they were FBI agents.
“We do things different in the east.”
“I reckon you do,” he agreed. “But you still shouldn’t be staying here.”
“Why? Are you worried about Laurant’s reputation?” Feinberg asked.
“No, everyone knows Lauren’s a good girl,” the sheriff replied as he settled his broad rear end on the arm of the sofa.
“Then what’s the problem?” Farley asked. “Why does it bother you if we sleep here?”
“Oh, it won’t bother me none at all, but it’s going to bother someone else you boys don’t want to be messing with. I’m warning you. You’d best find some other accommodations because he isn’t going to like hearing that Lauren’s got two men living with her, even if it’s just for a couple of days. No, he won’t like hearing it at all.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Yeah, who won’t like it?” Farley asked as he shut the door. The sheriff wasn’t going to leave until they had an answer to that question.
“Never you mind who. I’m going to have to tell him though. Why don’t you boys go on up to the abbey? They’ve got rooms you can use for free if you tell them you’re here for retreat. You know what that is, don’t you? You spend your time praying and contemplating.”
“I want to know who’s going to be upset about us staying with Laurant,” Farley persisted. “And I also want to know why you think you have to tell him.”
“ ’Cause if he found out that I knew and I didn’t tell him . . .”
“What?” Farley demanded.
“He can get real mean,” the sheriff said. “And I don’t want to make him angry.”
“Make who angry, Sheriff ?”
Lloyd pulled a stained handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow. “It’s close in here, isn’t it? Lauren’s got herself a window air conditioner, and I don’t think she’d mind if you boys turned it on. The living room will be nice and cool by the time she gets home. She is coming here today, isn’t she?”
“We’re not sure,” Feinberg said.
Farley wouldn’t give up. “We’re still curious to hear that name, Sheriff.”
“I’m not giving it to you, and I can be right stubborn when I want to, and I’m feeling stubborn now. I wouldn’t get myself worked up about it if I was you, because you’re going to be meeting my friend real soon. He’ll come over here lickety-split as soon as he hears you’re here. I guarantee it. He’s a powerful man around these parts, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be real respectful to him. I wouldn’t make him mad, that’s for sure. The law can only do so much.”
“Meaning we’re on our own?” Farley asked.
The sheriff lowered his gaze. “Something like that.” Shrugging, he added, “It’s just the way things are around here. Progress comes with a price.”
“And that means . . .?” Farley asked.
“Never you mind.”
“You can tell your friend he has nothing to fear from us,” Feinberg said. “Neither one of us is romantically interested in Laurant.”
Farley guessed where Feinberg was heading and immediately nodded. “That’s right,” he agreed.
“Well, now, that’s good to hear because my friend is planning to marry Lauren real soon, and he always gets what he wants. Make no mistake about that.”
“He’s talking marriage, huh?” Feinberg remarked.
“It ain’t just talk. It’s only a matter of time before she comes around to understanding that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Sounds like your friend thinks he owns Laurant,” Farley said.
“He does own her.”
Feinberg laughed.
“What in tarnation’s so amusing?”
“Your friend,” Feinberg explained. “He’s in for a real disappointment.”
“How’s that?”
“When he finds out . . .” Farley deliberately let the sentence trail off.
“Finds out what?”
“Laurant met someone while she was in Kansas City.”
“It was love at first sight,” Feinberg interjected.
“That’s not completely true.” Farley spoke to Feinberg now as the agents continued to play the sheriff and feed him information.
“She’s known Nick all her life.”
“No, she’s known about him, but she never met him until last week.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Nick.”
“Nick who?” the sheriff demanded, his frustration apparent.
“Nicholas Buchanan.”
“The man Laurant’s in love with,” Farley explained.
“The funny thing is . . . ,” Feinberg began.
“What?”
“This guy . . . Nick . . .”
“What about him?”
“He’s Father Tom’s best friend. Guess it was meant to be.”
“And this Nick lives in Kansas City? Long-distance relationships don’t work out.”
“Oh, he doesn’t live in Kansas City. He lives on the East Coast.”
“Then I don’t think Brenner has anything to worry about. Like I just said, long-distance relationships rarely work.”
The sheriff had unknowingly just given them his friend’s name, but neither Feinberg nor Farley let him know it.
“Nick must have figured that too,” Feinberg said.
“Which is why he’s moving here to Holy Oaks to be with Laurant,” Farley added.
The sheriff ’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s coming here . . . with her?”
“That’s right,” Farley said. “Guess he doesn’t want to take the chance of losing her.”
“And it was love at first sight,” Feinberg reminded him.
“Where’s this fella going to stay?”
“Here with Laurant, until they get married. Then I’m not sure where they’ll live,” Farley told him.
“Get married, you say? Who’d you hear this from?”
“Laurant told us,” Feinberg answered.
“People will talk.”
“I imagine they will.”
“I got to get going now.” The sheriff hastily shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket and headed for the door.
For all his considerable bulk, the lawman could move fast when he wanted to. Farley and Feinberg stood at the window and watched the sheriff run to the car.
“What a piece of . . . ,” Farley muttered. “He didn’t even ask us our names or ask to see our identification.”
“He’s got places to go, people to see . . . ,” Feinberg began.
“And a friend named Brenner to tell,” Farley concluded as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
The phone was answered on the first ring. “You got him?” Farley asked. He listened for another minute, then said, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.
Feinberg squatted down by the black case. “Let’s get started,” he said as he handed the other agent a pair of gloves. “This could take us all night.”
Farley was the eternal optimist. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
An hour later, they did get lucky. They found the video camera tucked high in a corner of the linen closet outside of Laurant’s bedroom. The camera lens was pressed against a hole in the wall and was pointed toward Laurant’s bed. He’d been watching her sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Nick wasn’t talking to her. Laurant assumed he was still furious because she had insisted upon returning to Holy Oaks. After she’d taunted the madman to come and get her, Nick had gone a little crazy. And that was putting it mildly. Tommy heard all the commotion and came running, with Noah hot on his tail. As soon as Nick told her brother what she’d done, Tommy joined in the shouting match, but she held her own and stood up to them. Pete and Noah came to her assistance, flanking her sides like protective guardians. They defended her plan, and after what seemed like an hour of battling, Tommy finally caved. The phone call convinced him that the man wasn’t going to forget Laurant, and if the FBI didn’t set
a trap and catch the animal, then she would be on the run or in hiding for the rest of her life.
And while the unsub was playing his hide-and-seek game with her, he would, no doubt, be preying on other women.
They had no other choice.
Unfortunately, Nick hadn’t seen it that way, and thus far she’d been unsuccessful in penetrating his anger. Pete had once again suggested that Nick step aside, repeating his earlier argument that he was simply too close to the situation and couldn’t be objective. Nick refused to listen, but when Morganstern threatened to take the choice away from him and have him removed from the case, Nick saw Tommy’s stricken expression, and then he too caved.
Pete made a call to Frank O’Leary to get the ball rolling.
Now, she was finally on her way home, sitting side by side with Nick on a US Air Express plane that was taking them from Kansas City to Des Moines. They would drive the rest of the way. Pete told her a car would be waiting at the airport. Her automobile was going into the shop for repairs in Kansas City, and as soon as the work was finished, Tommy and Noah would drive it back to Holy Oaks.
She didn’t want to think about what was going to happen once she got there. She nervously flipped through the pages of Time magazine, even tried to read an article about inflation, but she couldn’t concentrate, and after rereading the same paragraph three times, she gave up.
How long was Nick going to give her the silent treatment? He had stopped talking the minute they’d entered the airport.
“You’re being childish.”
He didn’t respond. She turned to look at him and noticed how gray his complexion was.
“Are you sick?”
A curt shake of his head was her only answer. Then she noticed his grip on the armrest. “Nick, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me?”
“We’ll talk later, after the plane lands . . . unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“We crash and die in a fiery ball.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not.”
She couldn’t believe it. Macho Man was afraid of flying. He looked like he was going to throw up. His fear was real, and no matter how funny she thought it was, she forced herself to be sympathetic.