At the rear kitchen door, he didn’t look back.
He let himself out the back as quietly as he could. No scraping, sliding door noises. No hurried footsteps on the deck. Stealth. This was the only moment he truly feared. He doubted the visitors would have the sense to cover the rear exit. Any professional would know to do this-but not a history student and his ex-girlfriend. They’re not killers. Nor are they cops. The Prosecutor might know-if she was arriving at the trailer with an army of policemen. But she wasn’t.
Across the yard. Into the brush. Stick to the right. Stay low. Stay quiet. Stay concealed. He remembered the bear he’d seen in the yard. None of that noisy lumbering about, he told himself. Tree branches and thorns plucked at his clothes, but he fought his way forward. Find the kayak where you hid it in the bushes by the river’s side. Paddle downstream to the picnic area where you parked the rental car. Rub yourself down with perfumed cleaning wipes-eradicate any lingering gas smell. Put all your clothes and especially the shoes into a double-sealed plastic bag. Remember to drop it into the big McDonald’s Dumpster close to the interstate highway that gets picked up every day. Change into the blue pinstriped business suit in the suitcase on the backseat. Drive away nice and slow and remember to wave at the volunteer fire department trucks that will be flying by in the opposite direction.
Goodbye, Mister Munroe. You were a good person to be for many years, but your time has come. You’ve been used up. Passed the “sell-by” date. Turned the last page on your story.
Goodbye, old, sad trailer, and goodbye, Nephew, Girlfriend, and Prosecutor. Out of the old forever.
Hello, new.
39
In the car, Susan Terry chambered a round in her pistol.
She was filled with righteous fury, half-derived from the way the man inside the ramshackle trailer had screwed up her life, half from the burgeoning sense that she was close to a killer who’d gotten away with multiple crimes and that she was about to corner him.
“Stay behind the cars,” she said. “Keep low, whatever happens. If this guy has done what you’ve said he has, then he can shoot distances accurately. Don’t give him a clean look.”
“What are you going to do?” Andy Candy asked. Her voice was dry.
“Find out who he really is,” Susan replied. “And after that, take him into custody. And then the pressure will get to him.”
If this was not exactly a plan, Moth still felt swept up in something that he had started. Now that it was about to become much more real than he’d ever envisioned, he was unsure what to say or do. He began sorting through moments of decision for great men, trying to see how a Washington or a Jefferson, a Lincoln or an Eisenhower, might react. This was absolutely no help and no reassurance whatsoever.
“One more thing,” Susan said. Her voice was edgy, chilled. “If everything goes to hell, use the cop’s radio and call for help. Whatever happens, don’t let this guy get away.”
She looked them both in the eyes. “Got that?” she asked in a way that meant it wasn’t really a question, it was a command.
They exited the rental car.
Donnie the cop was already standing outside his patrol car, looking across to the front door of the double-wide trailer. It seemed quiet, and his first thought was, Abandoned and empty. He immediately replaced this with an Afghanistan-born sense of alertness. He pivoted toward Susan-and saw the pistol in her hand.
“Whoa,” he grunted out. “What the hell…”
“This man may be dangerous.”
“I thought you said witness…”
“Yeah. That. And maybe more.”
Donnie immediately removed his own service weapon. He too chambered a round. “I should call for backup if you’re expecting trouble. Do you have a warrant?”
Susan shook her head. This is my show and I’m not willing to share it. In a few minutes, everything in my life will be back on track. Or something else.
“We’re going to knock. See what happens. But be damn careful.”
Donnie looked a little wide-eyed and shook his head. “I don’t know about this,” he said.
“We’re here. We’re going to do this,” she replied firmly. “We walk away, and we might never have this chance again.”
In her experience, killers rarely believed in shooting their way out of a situation when they could just as easily talk their way out. This thought was buttressed by the notion that this killer knew there was little evidence against him. And this, she believed, would make him arrogant.
And talkative.
She was further armored by the belief that he would never expect them there in front of his house. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Susan glanced back and saw that Moth and Andy Candy were crouched behind the rental car. She could not see the.357 Magnum in Moth’s hand-but she expected it was there.
Donnie the combat vet was suddenly aware that there seemed to be no cover anywhere, and he wasn’t happy about this. He was accustomed to clear-cut, well-defined missions, being led by highly trained professional military men, and suddenly everything he was doing seemed small-town stupid and wildly inexperienced.
He also didn’t see an option. He knew he wanted to impress Susan Terry and act like he imagined a veteran Miami cop would act. So the only thing he did that made sense was to call his sergeant back in the tiny town offices.
“Sarge? Donnie here…”
“Go ahead.”
His shoulder radio was tinny, and crackled with static, which hid some of the nervousness creeping into his voice. “This might be a little more complicated than just talking to a reluctant witness,” he said.
“You asking for backup?”
“Let’s go,” Susan said impatiently. She was staring at the trailer, looking for any signs of activity.
Donnie nodded and spoke into his radio: “Just stand by.” He was a man who followed orders, and he was being given one.
The two of them cautiously approached the front door. Susan wondered whether there was a rifle aiming directly at her chest. She expected death, and a part of her was absolutely okay with that. Moth’s uncle, she thought, would recognize her rash behavior for the suicidal impulse that it was. But that was as far as she got in reflection. She replaced all these thoughts with a single-minded focus on the man inside. Killer. End of the line. For someone.
She was far more composed than she had any right to be.
Donnie, on the other hand, felt cold sweat beneath his arms and half-imagined he was back in combat and approaching some dusty clay-and-brick hut in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, not knowing whether some smiling kid would poke his head out the door wanting a piece of candy or an AK-47 would suddenly open up. But with each step he took forward, Donnie grew more collected, each nerve end on edge, every sense he had-hearing, sight, smell-sharpened. You’ve been trained, he told himself. This isn’t any different. This gave him some confidence.
He huddled to the side of the front door-Don’t let someone fire through the woodwork into your chest-and was about to knock when he heard: “Help me! Help me, please!”
The words were faint, but unmistakable, coming from somewhere within. He looked at Susan Terry. She too had heard the plea. She craned forward, and heard it again.
“In here! Please help!”
“Son of a bitch,” Donnie said.