After years of being the hunter, it was strange being pursued--and by cops, no less. I felt an uncomfortable inkling of shame, not unlike when I was nine and Amy talked me into swiping a candy bar from the store. I hadn't been caught. I'd even snuck back later and returned it, without her knowing. Running from these agents, I felt the same twinge, mitigated only by the reminder that I wasn't committing a crime, but trying to solve one.
My ruse with the first-floor door wouldn't stymie the FBI for long, but it had bought us a few critical minutes. We made it to the delivery loading dock without incident. From there, escape was a simple matter of unlocking the exit door and walking out.
We stepped into the fading light and found ourselves at the foot of a small flight of stairs.
"I'll look. Wait here."
I nodded. Though I was quite capable of scouting, I was the lawyer who'd snuck out. No one was looking for a janitor.
Jack climbed the steps and disappeared. By the time I'd slipped my shoes back on, he'd reappeared at the top. He waved me up. I was just high enough to peek over ground level when two men in maintenance jumpsuits walked around the corner. I ducked so fast I nearly fell backward down the steps. Jack started to follow, then let out an obscenity.
He turned to me, said, "Wait," then strode off.
* * *
TWENTY-SIX
Had the maintenance men seen Jack, noticed his janitor's uniform shirt and called him over to help with something?
A moment's silence. Then a man's voice, raised just loud enough to carry.
"Drive where?"
"Just drive," Jack called back.
I walked up a few steps and stood on tiptoes to peek over the top. Jack and the two men were about twenty feet away, on the other side of a storage shed. I darted over to it.
"Not good enough," one man said. "Tell me where the hell I'm driving, Jack, or..."
I didn't hear the rest of it. My brain snagged on Jack's name.
Jack walked past the storage shed. Hearing the other man still talking, I swung back, trying to get out of sight. I stepped on a branch, the crack of breaking wood loud enough to make Jack turn. His gaze met mine. He looked away quickly, but it was too late. The two men in maintenance suits were behind him, now both staring right at me.
One of them was around Jack's age, average height and lean to the point of bony, with thinning ginger hair, a sparse beard and glasses.
The other man was closer to my age, a little over six feet with a solid build, light brown hair, and a face that was pleasantly handsome but no cause for second glances. Nothing about him screamed "cop"--no mustache, no brawny forearms, no steel-eyed glare of perpetual suspicion. But I knew that's what he was, the same way I'd know a Beretta from a Glock with a split-second glance.
The cop looked from me to Jack. "Your new partner, Jack? Either that's one hell of a disguise or there's something you forgot to tell us."
"Drive," Jack said. "North. First rest stop."
The cop opened his mouth to argue, but the red-haired man said, "We'll be there." He smiled at me, then shooed his partner toward the parking lot.
"That was Quinn, wasn't it?" I said as we got into the car.
"Yeah."
I fought the first bubble of panic rising in my gut. "Okay. Presumably, Quinn got the same message those Feds did, and came by hoping to find out what was going on. Bad timing, but now we have to deal with it. This meeting at the rest stop. Should I stay in the car?"
He pulled out of the parking lot. "Up to you."
"My first instinct is to stay out of their way. But he already got a good look at me, and he obviously figured out I'm your mystery partner. So if I stay in the car, that's going to arouse suspicion. They'll wonder if it's more than rookie nerves."
"Yeah."
I looked over at him. "Can I get some advice? Please?"
He drove for at least five minutes without answering, then did so slowly, as if with great reluctance. "Safer to meet them. Get it over with. You're in disguise. Quinn's a blowhard but..." A long pause, as if he'd rather not finish. "He's good. Trustworthy. You'll be fine."
Quinn and his partner were waiting when we pulled into the rest stop. Jack drove past them, circled to the rear of the building and parked on the far side. He looked around, then got out and headed for the picnic area that, given the cool season and the late hour, was understandably empty.
He gestured at the table in front of us. "Here good?"
"Seems okay. We're far enough from the buildings that no one should overhear if we keep our voices down. Watch the body language, though."
When I looked up, Quinn was bearing down on us, jaw set, fists balled at his sides.
"So much for body language," I murmured.
Jack stood, shoulders squaring. Quinn's partner headed our way, as if to intercept, but he was too far to reach us in time.
"What's this?" Quinn said, gesturing at me. "When you said you had a partner, we all figured you meant Evelyn or someone we knew. That"--his finger jabbed my way--"is neither."
"I'm vouching for her," Jack said.
"That's very nice. But we're taking a big risk, working with a stranger--"
"I said, I'm vouching for her."
They stared at each other. Last time I'd seen that look it'd been on a pair of feral dogs, in a battle for control of the lodge's garbage bins--right before I turned the hose on them. Some guys...you can teach them to walk upright, put them in nice clothes, but it still comes down to a good ol'-fashioned pissing contest. And me without my hose.
"Hey," I said, inching between the two. I fixed my smile on Quinn and upped the wattage. "What's a club without initiation rites? How about a test? Make sure I pass muster."
"You don't have to--" Jack began.
I put up a hand to stop him, never breaking eye contact with Quinn.
"Test me," I said. "Can't say I was ever any good at pop quizzes in school, but what the hell. Give it a try."
Quinn's gaze locked on mine. "You any good at distance shooting?"
"Got a rifle on you?"
The barest hint of a smile lit his eyes, but didn't reach his lips. "Not right now. So, what's the best silencer for Remington 700?"
"None."
His brows rose a quarter-inch.
"First, it's a suppressor. You can't silence a gun. Ignoring that, a real distance shooter wouldn't use one unless absolutely necessary. Most times, you're taking the shot from far enough away that a suppressor isn't necessary, and using one means you run the risk of throwing off your MOA."
"Minutes of angle," the red-haired man said with a smile. "She's right. I've told you that before, but you never listen."
I continued. "If you have to use a suppressed rifle, you'd be better off with a McMillan M89 or Steyr SSG. Their suppressors work okay, but personally I prefer--"
"All right, all right." He extended his hand. "Quinn."
"Dee."
The red-haired man took my hand with a smile. "Felix."
Quinn turned back to Jack. "So what the hell was that fuckup at the hospital?"
"Following a lead. Same as you."
"Well, that shit wouldn't have happened if you'd listened to me and we actually tried a little teamwork on this job."
Jack glanced my way, as if expecting a "told you so." I looked away before I gave him one. As I scanned the rest stop, I slid between Jack and Quinn again.
"We have an audience," I said.
Quinn followed my gaze. Next to the building a middle-aged couple stood beside their car, watching us.
"May I make a suggestion?" I asked.
Quinn nodded.
"How about we sit down, I'll grab some cans of pop and we'll have a picnic."
"Good idea," Felix said. "You stay here, Dee, and I'll get the sodas." A wry smile my way. "You make a better referee."
Quinn waited until Jack was halfway seated, then picked up the argument where he'd left off. "I'm getting sick of this, Jack. I might not have the career you a
nd Felix have, but on something like this, I'm the expert. You don't handle a criminal investigation by having all the teams chasing whatever lead catches their fancy. It's a cooperative effort, not a competition."
Jack's gaze slid my way. "Yeah. You're right. Time to team up. On strategy. Investigate separately. But plan together."
I expected Quinn to find a way to argue, but instead he smiled and relaxed.
"Thank God," he said. "And thank you. Now maybe we can make some progress, because Felix and I are just spinning our wheels. What about Sid and Shadow? I tried calling them yesterday, but they aren't answering the page."
"Same here."
Felix was approaching the table and overheard. "So either they've been arrested or they've changed their mind about doing this. Either is equally likely, I'm afraid, and little we can do about it, whichever it is. We'll continue trying to contact them, but for now we'll have to presume our investigation is down to four."
"Five," Jack said. "Evelyn's in."
Felix handed out our cans. "So you did manage to secure her participation. Excellent. Can we contact her with research questions?"
Jack nodded. They talked for a moment. As they did, I realized Jack sounded...odd. Had since we'd first met Quinn and Felix at the hospital, though it was only really obvious now, as he spoke more. It took a second to figure out what was different. Then it hit. The accent--or lack of it. Since meeting the others, he'd swallowed that trace of a brogue, as he did whenever we were out. With Evelyn, he let himself fall back into it. Everyone else got a standard undefinable American accent.
Quinn popped open his can. "Back to the case. The DNA is a match. That's confirmed, so the question is, how did Moreland do it?"
"He didn't," Jack said.
I could see Quinn's hackles rise, and jumped in. "It's unlikely Moreland did it. He's a diagnosed disorganized schizophrenic. If he did commit the murders, they'd be more like Manson's. Of course, that doesn't mean he's an ironclad 'no way,' but combined with the problem of getting out of the hospital for each murder..."
"Damned near impossible," Quinn said, nodding. "Feds are bound to figure that out soon."
"So the hair was a plant," Felix said. "Quite clever. Exceedingly clever, in fact, requiring only a hospital visit, and a plucked arm hair, strategically placed as trace evidence. I'll have to remember that one. So, I suppose this puts us back to the proverbial square one. Shall we compare leads and set out again, then?"
"Not yet," Jack said. "Wait for the fallout. See which way it blows. Shouldn't take long."
To Jack, "waiting for fallout" did not mean waiting as a group. He wanted to separate, then discuss leads by phone after Quinn found out what the Feds were doing about Moreland. Felix seemed inclined to agree, but Quinn argued that it made little sense when morning--and news--would be here soon enough. We should separate for the night, but reunite at breakfast so we could discuss our next steps together.
I understood Jack's concern. Spending as little time together as possible made sense. But after mulling it over for a few minutes, he agreed that breakfast--in our hotel room--should be safe enough. He'd contact them later with the address.
* * *
HSK
He stood in the stand of trees, binoculars trained on the front entrance to the psychiatric hospital. The agents had gone in that way, so he presumed they'd exit there, too, but every few seconds, he'd scan over to the other doors as well, just to be sure.
He'd taken the hair from Moreland months ago and stored it. Then he'd planted it on a scene, to support his later claim to be the son of Charles Manson. Whether it went further than that was supposed to depend on whether he'd need Moreland as a scapegoat. If he did, Moreland would die, in an apparent suicide, but not before confessing to the crimes. As for how a psychiatric patient had managed to commit them, that would be up to the Feds to puzzle out, formulating a theory to fit the evidence.
But now he'd had to use Moreland in a very different way, and couldn't help feeling a twinge of regret. He'd liked the Manson angle. It had served him well.
Back in 1969, when the Manson murders hit the news, he'd been just starting as a hitman, making the transition from stealing goods to stealing lives. Like most people, he'd followed the case with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Yet in his case, it was revulsion at the killer's mistakes, and fascination at the uproar he'd caused.
The murders were a work of genius carried out by an idiot. How many times had he worked through Manson's crimes himself, imagining how much more panic they could have caused if they'd been done right...if the killer had left so little evidence that it looked as if he'd never be caught.
When he'd come up with this plan, he'd thought of the Manson killings. He'd considered reenacting them, but he didn't have the stomach for that kind of bloodbath. At his age, too, such theatrics seemed a tawdry way to get attention. So he'd done the murders his way, and added the Manson link to set people's minds and fears buzzing. It'd worked beautifully. But now the time for that game was past.
He'd tossed Moreland to the Feds early, so they'd know the whole Manson angle was a crock. Then they'd concentrate on their theory that the killer was a hitman. He wasn't worried about that--his cover was secure--but the increased pressure on the profession should make his colleagues think twice about coming after him. They'd turn their attention to protecting themselves, which was what they did best anyway.
Yet after he'd made his decision, he'd realized the tip-off could prove even more useful. It was all a matter of how the Feds played the hand he'd dealt them.
As he was considering this, the agents left the hospital. Disappointment thudded into the pit of his stomach. They were alone. He'd hoped they might have Benjamin Moreland with them. Not that he'd expected them to arrest Moreland, but he'd thought they might remove him for questioning, perhaps even take him into protective custody. That would have made things easier.
He shook off the disappointment. No matter. He could still use this. The Feds had been here, and staff could confirm that. Good enough.
In his letter, he'd promised a demand, but hadn't planned to make one. Just part of the game. Game...A week ago it had been a mere plan. A simple plan for a simple, practical purpose. Now it had become so much more. A huge, intricate game, the patterns, possibilities and plays becoming evident only as it unfolded before him.
What if he made that demand? He wouldn't ask for much. Just a small token from the people of America. One that could never be paid, no matter how insignificant it might seem. But payment wasn't the point. It didn't matter. What mattered was the game, and this would take it to a whole new level.
* * *
TWENTY-SEVEN
"Very nice," I said, looking around our hotel room.
The living room of the suite was bigger than my bedroom back at the lodge. Better furnished, too. It even came with flowers--the kind that need water. The last time I had a hotel room with live flowers was...well, never. I was impressed all to hell.
"And a kitchen. Wow. Fridge, stove, microwave. Is this a hint about dinner? I should warn you right now, the only thing I cook is microwave popcorn. And I usually burn that."
I crossed the room and opened the door. Inside was a bed. One bed.
"For you," Jack said. "Couch folds out in here."
I opened the other door. "A Jacuzzi tub? Hot damn."
I walked to the counter, took the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion and mouthwash from the basket they'd haphazardly been tossed into, and arranged them on the counter as Jack laid my bag on the bed for me to unpack.
"You like those?" he said, motioning at the tub. "You should get one. Use some of the money."
I laughed. "How big of a paycheck am I counting on?"
He shrugged. "Big enough."
I started refolding the towels, which had been put on the rack crooked and seam-side out. "I've considered a hot tub for the guests. Nothing fancy, but it would add to the 'romantic getaway' allure. The only drawback is h
ygiene. They don't strike me as the most sanitary things."
"Use chemicals, don't they? Keep 'em stocked. Change the water. Should be fine."
"We have plenty of fresh water, so that'd be easy enough."
"Then get one. For your room, too. A tub. Not the guest rooms. Yours."
I grinned. "I must be looking at a real windfall here."
"Just a job." He turned to leave. "Pizza okay?"
I said that it was, and he went to order while I washed up.
We spent a couple of hours discussing the case over the pizza, laying out scenarios and theories. There was lots of fodder for theorizing now, as if there hadn't been enough before. Why create a fake Manson connection? Had someone tipped off the Feds? Or had they figured it out, too? How was the killer going to react?
We debated the possibilities into the wee hours, and I loved every minute of it, like those nights with my dad. Not that Jack reminded me of my father--far from it. But it was nice to go back to that memory place again, and to have someone to go there with.
The next morning, I walked to my bedroom door and listened for Jack. Was he still asleep? I hoped so. I wasn't ready to face him yet.
I'd awoken in the aftermath of a dream. I'd been back in that closet in the hospital. Someone had been coming down the hall, and Jack had been whispering for me to stay still and quiet, and I'd been straining to hear footsteps, heart thumping, adrenaline racing. His hands had slid down my hips and under my skirt, lifting it and--
The dream hadn't ended there, but that was as far as I planned to remember it.
I knew where the dream came from--being stuffed into that closet with Jack, in the midst of what had been a rather long dry spell. Still, knowing where it sprang from wasn't going to make facing him this morning any easier.
So I'd dressed as quietly as I could, and now I was hoping to sneak past him and head out for coffee before he awoke. Yet when I cracked open the door, Jack was gone.
There was a note on the table. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, then squinted down at the precise, black strokes. "Getting coffee. Back soon. Wait."
I could wait. Or I could take a cold shower. But there was something else I could do, too, something my body was screaming for almost as much as it'd been screaming for that dream. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my jogging pants and T-shirt.