Karl breathed deep of the fresh air, feeling thankful and optimistic. When he could see Judge Moore’s home, he found a park bench and sat down. He had stopped at a busy deli on his way over and gotten himself a roast beef sandwich with mustard, and a bottle of Coca-Cola. Now he took his lunch out of the bag and began to eat.
All around him, he could hear snatches of conversation. A woman complaining about her daughter-in-law, a woman complaining about her lumbago, a woman complaining about her husband, two men brainstorming some kind of a business deal, a young couple in a serious discussion about the future of their relationship.
Everyday life was walking past him, he thought. People caught up in their own little dramas, unaware that the woman on the park bench they walked past was, in fact, the most wanted man in the city. Maybe in the whole country.
Karl enjoyed the joke that he was hiding in plain sight. It gave him a sense of accomplishment. As Karla Neal (Neal, after Christine Neal, as a little tribute to the woman who had supplied him with his new identity), he was viewed as harmless, just another person going about her life on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Not worth taking notice of.
As he watched the people around him-children feeding the ducks and Canada geese at the water’s edge, mothers chitchatting, lovers fighting, old men talking about the escaped murderer, old women going on about whatever old women went on about-Karl imagined standing up in the midst of them, peeling off the wig, and revealing the monster they all believed he was.
He could imagine the sense of horror as something palpable in the air, brushing against him, washing over him. He would breathe it in and convert it to power. The power would make him feel like a giant. Invincible.
Of course, that would never happen. He would remain as he was: a quiet woman enjoying the lovely day, looking at the lovely home across the way, thinking of the lovely woman inside.
26
STAN DROVE CAREFULLY, observing the speed limit and all traffic laws. The fact that what he was planning in his head was against the laws of God and man registered in his mind in only an abstract way. The only law he was operating under was an eye for an eye.
That was his job now, his mission. To take the guilty parties and make them pay for what had been done to Marlene Haas and those two little children, for what they were allowing Karl Dahl to get away with. As if a piece of crap like Karl Dahl should have rights. What about the rights of the victims?
If the system wouldn’t give them justice, then that was Stan’s purpose. That would be his last job here on earth. He had no other reason to be here. His career was gone, and he had nothing else. If he ceased to be a cop, then he ceased to be at all.
In a way, that had already happened. The Stan Dempsey people thought they had known was gone, not that anyone had ever really made an attempt to know him. That part of his being had shut down, leaving him numb in some ways, but more alive than ever in other ways.
This is what it’s like to lose your mind, he thought, but there was no emotion attached. No fear, no panic, no despair.
Kenny Scott, Karl Dahl’s attorney, lived in an unremarkable house in an unremarkable neighborhood. The house was not unlike Stan’s own, built in the fifties, a story-and-a-half rectangle like every other rectangle on the block.
The juniper shrubs were overgrown, and the grass in the yard looked poor, as if Scott never fertilized or aerated it. Stan shook his head as he parked the truck down the block. Yards needed tending. If a person let their yard go, that spoke to their lack of character as far as Stan was concerned. But then he’d already known Kenny Scott lacked character.
He got out of the truck, taking a small duffel bag with him, and walked down the sidewalk toward Scott’s house. Across the street there were some boys playing with a football in a front yard. They paid no attention to Stan. A woman struggling with a baby stroller was at the side of a minivan in the driveway of the house two doors away from Scott’s. She didn’t even glance at Stan as he walked past. He had always been a person no one noticed. A lot of times that had worked to his advantage.
He turned down Kenny Scott’s driveway and walked around to the back of the house. There was a small concrete patio with a black Weber grill, a glass-topped round table with an umbrella sticking up through the center of it, and four metal chairs with green cushions.
Stan put his duffel bag on the table, unzipped it, and chose a handgun. A.22. Small, quiet. A lot of criminals thought they had to carry big guns,.44s,.357s. That was just crap. That was ego, idiots trying to look like big men. A.22 did the job close range, very little mess, very little noise, and it was easy for the shooter to pocket and simply walk away from the scene with.
He zipped the duffel bag and slung it over one shoulder and across his chest, shoving the bag itself behind him, out of his way. Then he went to the back door and knocked.
A television was playing somewhere inside. Kenny Scott was watching a college football game. Stan himself was a lifelong fan of college football, the Michigan Wolverines in particular. But as with everything in Stan’s life, that was something only he knew about himself, because no one else had ever bothered to ask.
He knocked on the door again.
The attorney came through the kitchen, looking puzzled. Stan could see him through the glass in the back door. Scott looked out through the glass, still confused.
“Detective…?” he asked as he opened the door.
“Counselor,” Stan said. “Can I have a moment of your time?”
Scott still didn’t know what to think, but he took a step back, because Stan was, he thought, a known quantity. Stan stepped inside and pointed the.22 in Scott’s face.
Scott’s eyes went round. “What the hell?”
“Turn around, Mr. Scott.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Stan said flatly. “Turn around. Up against the wall.”
The reality of the situation was starting to dawn on the lawyer. Fear flashed in his eyes.
“What do you want with me?” he asked. “I haven’t done anything to you.”
Stan wanted to laugh out loud, but he didn’t. How could Kenny Scott think his actions as Karl Dahl’s attorney hadn’t had any impact on anyone else?
“Turn around. I won’t say it again, Mr. Scott.”
Kenny Scott didn’t react. He didn’t believe this was happening.
Stan backhanded him across the face with the.22, snapping his head sharply to one side. Blood splattered sideways and hit the dingy beige wall. Stan thought he could see the individual droplets fly in slow motion, changing shape and dimension as they went, skittering along sideways as they hit the surface of the wall.
Sound came to him slightly delayed, then quickly caught up like some kind of strange special effect in a movie, the sound of the gun connecting with Kenny Scott’s cheekbone, the attorney’s grunt of pain, the thump of him hitting the wall.
Stan held him there with his gun hand, pulled handcuffs out of his left jacket pocket, and cuffed one wrist and then the other behind the lawyer’s back.
“Why are you doing this?” Scott asked again.
This time Stan could hear the fear in his voice. Scott could tell this situation wasn’t going to go well for him. He was probably already imagining what Stan might do to him.
Stan felt a rush of power that was exciting. This was what Karl Dahl had felt gaining control of his victims.
“Down the stairs,” he said, jerking Scott away from the wall and shoving him to the right, toward the head of the basement stairs. Blood ran down the wall from where Scott’s face had been. His nose was bleeding, as well as the gash on his cheek from where the sight of the.22 had cut him.