Whatever the reason, I could only pray that Fenniger got out of that car and walked into that vacant lot, with the nearest neighbors a half kilometer away…
A flare of light as Fenniger opened his door. For a second, he stood illuminated in the glow. Then he eased it shut, trying to be quiet, the click still loud enough to carry through our closed windows. A moment of darkness. Then a second ball of light, smaller, as he flipped on a flashlight and headed for the fence.
I smiled. "Talk about a lucky break."
"Not luck. Wait long enough? Chance will come. Just gotta be patient."
"Evelyn's right. You are an optimist."
He met my grin with a level look. There was no rebuke in it, but no smile, either.
I rubbed my hands over my face, pushing back the lick of giddy excitement. "Okay, I'm fine."
"Never said you weren't."
"You don't have to – it's all in the look."
I massaged my neck, working out the kinks from a long day of sitting, while trying to forget that my prey was walking straight into a trap as perfect as any I could have set.
Too perfect?
What if Fenniger was the one setting it?
That slowed my thumping heart.
"Do you think he could have made us?" I said. "If he knows we're tailing him, this is the perfect place to get us out and separated."
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
"Thought about that. Was going to mention it."
"When? As I'm running after him? Were you going to shout after me, 'Oh, by the way, this could be a trap'?"
"Nah. Hate shouting."
I shook my head as Fenniger scaled the eight-foot fence.
Jack continued, "Could always be a trap. Any stakeout. Any chase. Any hit. You think you're in control? Never count on it."
Fenniger was at the top now, dimly silhouetted against the overcast night sky. There were two lines of barbed wire across the top. As Fenniger cut it, Jack cracked down his window. I arched my brows.
"Dogs," he murmured, meaning he was listening for guard dogs.
I suspected the barbed-wire fence was the only security. The cars inside didn't look like they'd have enough salvageable parts to make even fence climbing worthwhile.
Fenniger hit the ground with a thump. No thunder of running paws answered. Not a bark, growl, or whine, either.
"Toolbox?" Jack whispered as he put the window up.
I pulled it from under my seat and checked for wire cutters as he outlined a plan.
When he finished, I laughed softly. "An oldie but a goodie."
"Think you can manage?" he asked.
"I do believe I'll be a natural."
I turned off the dimmer so we could open the doors without the lights going on. I waited for Jack to step out, then crawled across his seat. The fewer doors opening, the less noise.
We searched for a good spot to scale the fence. Clip ping the barbed wire at the top was a noise we couldn't eliminate, so we'd make our cut under a tree, where I couldn't be seen.
After last night's warm evening, the temperature had dropped again in typically unpredictable spring fashion. I could see my breath hanging in the air. Cold always seems to make every noise louder, as if the sound waves bounce off the frozen surfaces. More likely, it's just the absence of competition – on nights like these, most living things hole up.
I helped Jack over the fence – one time he didn't pull the "I can handle it" routine. Then we stood in the dark patch under the tree. After a moment, I picked up the faint scratch of metal on metal – the wind rubbing parts together deep in the yard. A furious rustle erupted to our left. Rats or other night animals. A rhythmic plinking from the direction of the building would be rain gutter runoff or fluid dripping from a car. A cow lowed in the distance. A dog answered, a trio of hopeful barks trailing off in a mournful howl.
Jack's fingers brushed my hip, and he directed my attention to a faint glow behind the wreck mountain closest to the office. The light bobbed, then swung across the building. Fenniger's flashlight.
Was he heading for the office? Junkyards and auto wreckers were popular businesses for both petty criminals and crime organizations – a legitimate business on a big piece of property in an isolated location.
There was unlikely to be anything of value in the office, but Fenniger wasn't a thief. More likely there was a drop box here where he could pick up weapons, fake ID, or other equipment he'd bought.
Only a guess, of course. He might be moving closer to the building to lure us in. Or he might be searching the parts heaps for that carburetor he needed. As Jack would say, it didn't matter. Consider the possibility his target was the office, consider the possibility it wasn't, and give neither the dangerous weight of expectation.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I motioned to Jack that I'd loop around the two intervening junk piles, letting him take the straightaway along the dark fence. Again, he didn't argue. With his cast, he was in no shape to creep through a minefield of rusting metal. He was in no shape to be hunting a killer at all, but there was no sense trying to tell him that.
I picked my way through the part-strewn strip between the fence and the first heap. As I circled behind it, the going got tougher. In the city, "darkness" means you have to squint to read signs. In the forest, you're almost guaranteed a "can't see your hand in front of your face" black. But in a rural area? Conditions can change by the minute. With a full moon and stars, it's brighter than any city street. Once those astral illuminations sneak behind the clouds, though, every source of light makes a huge difference. By the fence, the office floodlights had been more than enough. But when I passed behind that first mound, the building disappeared, and so did the light.
I waited ten seconds, hoping my eyes would adjust more, my racing pulse reminding me that with each passing moment, I could be losing my best shot at Fenniger. I gave up, started forward, and knocked my knee against a tire. The rubber absorbed the sound, but it was lesson enough – better a dim light than a loud crash. I turned on my penlight, holding it under my hand, the beam lighting only the ground at my feet. Then I continued through the automobile graveyard.
There was an eerie unnaturalness to the place that made my hackles rise. It looked like something from a postapocalyptic nightmare, the wrecks like mutilated corpses, front ends hacked off, tops peeled away, empty headlight sockets staring blindly. The stink of gasoline and rust and vinyl blocked any natural scent. The wind carried only an icy, metallic chill that seared my lungs. When I rounded the last heap, the office light opened up a landscape of fields and fences and barns – a natural view that eased my nerves.
I turned out my light and crept along in the shadows. Finally I had a clear view of the building. Fenniger was less than ten feet ahead, stepping away from the very parts heap I was using for cover. I stopped. He kept going, cutting across the dozen empty feet between us and the office door.
I eased forward for a better view. To the left of the door was a lit window. Did that mean someone was inside? If so, Fenniger was exposed now. Either he was taking a huge chance or he expected to find someone there. Not a blind pickup but a meeting.
I should have considered that. Jack would have.
Damn.
A second party meant a potential witness.
Unless…
I lifted my gun, my fingers automatically adjusting their position as I analyzed my target. Shoulder shot. The right – No, his left hand was poised by his open jacket, ready to grab his firearm. I shifted my target.
A single silenced shot. Take him down. Drag him away from the building before whomever he was meeting knew he was there.