It gave into a long, narrow kitchen that ran the length of the cabin. The kitchen was a good match for Nolan’s apartment back in Lincoln. Dirty plates crowded the sink. A half-dozen large pizza boxes were stacked precariously in the corner. A glass ashtray lay on the countertop, vomiting ash and cigarette butts over the surface like a volcano in freeze frame. Next to that, there was a green cardboard box that had contained .300 Win Mag cartridges lying open and empty on its side. Like father, like son.
I heard the sound of whistling from the adjacent room, accessed by a closed door at one end of the kitchen. I moved to close the back door, then changed my mind, pulling it open wide. I went to the blind side of the interior door. The whistling continued. “Moon River.” The performer was flatter than unassembled IKEA furniture. He was definitely in the room behind the door, a room that probably covered the entirety of the remainder of the ground level.
I reached out my left hand and gently swiped the glass ashtray off the countertop. It bounced once on the tile floor, disgorging its contents, and then shattered as it landed for the second time.
The whistling stopped. I heard movement, a fumbling. The sound of something metal and heavy being moved from a wooden surface. Then I heard labored breathing on the other side of the door.
“Hello?” The voice was cautious, a little scared-sounding. Then, “Caleb?”
The handle turned down and the door swung open.
I stayed put. Waited. I sensed wary eyes taking in the scene: the broken ashtray, the wide-open door. I guessed Nolan was weighing up two likely scenarios: He’d left the door open himself and a light breeze had dislodged the ashtray; or else an intruder had entered and quickly fled.
The muzzle of a rifle appeared at the edge of the door, pointing at the open back doorway. After a pause, more of the rifle appeared. It was a Remington Model 700. It was followed by a hand, then by a blotchy forearm covered with wiry hair.
I reached out and grabbed the wrist holding the fore-end of the rifle with my right hand, pinching the necessary pressure points. As the fingers sprang open, I turned the pinch into a grip, yanking the man all the way into the kitchen. I put my left arm across his throat and put the muzzle of my Beretta against his cheekbone. My grip was tight enough to discourage movement without rendering the subject unconscious. He tensed and dropped the Remington to the floor.
From this position, I could see only the back of my captive: The man was middle-aged, overweight, had dirty-blond hair, and was naked except for a dirty gray vest. His lips sputtered something that sounded like an attempt at What the fuck?
“Good morning, Eddie,” I said quietly. “If you’re willing to cooperate, I’d like to save your life.”
32
“You were expecting Wardell.”
The older man looked back at me for a moment, then nodded. Contempt in his eyes. A you-wouldn’t-understand look.
We were in the front room of the cabin, and it was every bit as well kept as the kitchen. Fast-food containers and crushed cigarette packs were strewn everywhere, mingling with old issues of Soldier of Fortune and survivalist pamphlets with titles like “Life After Doomsday.” Nolan had been using a big cast-iron stove in the corner for storing his collection of empty beer cans. The owner would probably want their spring-cleaning money back.
At my insistence, Eddie Nolan had donned a pair of sweatpants. We were sitting opposite each other on matching couches. I still had my Beretta drawn, but I held it loosely, safety on and pointed at the ground. I didn’t really need it. We’d already established who was going to come out second in a fight. I’d left the Remington where it had fallen in the kitchen.
“You won’t find him,” Nolan told me. “He’s too good for you.”
I didn’t see the point in debating the issue. “He’s coming to kill you, you know.”
The corners of Nolan’s mouth curled up. I had seen that smirk before: in one of the news shots of Wardell being escorted into court. It said I know something you don’t know. Somehow, it was less convincing on the father.
I feigned surprise. “You don’t believe me?”
The smirk stayed in place.
“Here’s the thing,” I continued. “You’re operating under a classic narcissistic delusion: You’re assuming that, just because you feel a certain way about somebody, they feel the same way about you. I bet it’s pretty common in difficult parent — child relationships. But, of course, you’re not really a parent, are you?”
The smirk disappeared. “That boy is my flesh and blood,” Nolan said sharply, responding to the barb just as I had known he would.
“Sure,” I said, letting the word hang in the air for a moment. “Anyway, it must have been something when you found out who your son was. What he’d done. Would have been too much for most parents, even ones who’d been around to raise their kid. But you were okay with it. No, you were proud of it.”
The knowing smirk was back. Nolan was shaking his head from side to side, not denying what I was saying, just dismissing it as anything worthy of his interest.
“So you keep news clippings. You give interviews. You write fan letters to your son.” This last was a guess. Wardell had undoubtedly received letters while in jail — notorious killers always did — but there had been no specific examples in the files. The twitch of irritation provoked by “fan letters” told me I was on the money. “Yeah, that’s what they were, Eddie. Fan letters. You’re like one of those guys who takes an interest in one of the unwanted pregnancies he was responsible for only when it ends up starting for the Lakers.”
“Caleb is my son.”
“Did your son ever reply to any of those letters?”
Nolan got up from the chair and took a step forward. I left the gun pointed at the ground and stayed exactly where I was, not acknowledging the attempted intimidation.
“I want you out of here, you little prick,” Nolan said, sounding like he was struggling to control his fury.
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re going to help me find your son. And then I’m going to stop him.”
Nolan let out a bark of strained laughter. I didn’t know which part he found so amusing: that I expected to catch his son, or that I expected him to help. Nolan moved his head from side to side again and this time I saw something in those eyes that told me that maybe I didn’t quite know everything, that there was an angle I hadn’t considered.
Anything you don’t know, Blake?
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said softly. “Caleb got the brains from his mother. I guess he got the crazy from you.”
Nolan grinned at the slight. “You were right about one thing, punk,” he said. “My boy’s coming, and when he gets here, we’re gonna start with you.”
I shook my head. “You think he wants company? You think the two of you are just going to bond over a little spree killing? You’re even more deranged than he is. When did he call you? Yesterday?”
Nolan shook his head. “Day before. He’s a good boy. I told him to look me up if he ever got out, and that’s exactly what he did. Got things all ready for him coming home.”
Something about that worried me. The Remington and the survivalist literature indicated a personality that interpreted “getting ready” in a very specific sort of way. Nonetheless, I doubted the homecoming would be what Nolan expected. He had started to back away from me slowly, moving in the direction of the cabin’s front door. I jerked the Beretta up, flicked the safety off with my thumb.