He got out of the car, locking it using the key remote, and walked toward the gnarled knot of buildings. It was cold, and there was a light but nagging breeze. He felt the oversized clothes flap around his body like some kind of gown.
He passed the diner and stopped at the convenience store, pushing the glass door inward and hearing a little bell toll at his entrance. At the far end of the store was a female clerk behind a counter. She was small and doughy and frumpish — could have been anywhere between twenty-two and fifty. Her gaze lingered on Wardell for a second longer than average. Which was about right for somebody looking at a man with clothes three sizes too big, a bum’s beard, and DIY bandages made from clothing strips on his wrists and forearms.
Wardell watched her for signs. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t look down to compare his face with a recently received police wanted sheet.
He nodded to her and moved into the store. He made his way from section to section, efficient but not hurrying. He selected a first aid box and a men’s grooming kit, which included a pair of nail scissors, and also a razor and a can of shave gel for sensitive skin. He found the section that sold souvenir clothing to tourists and selected a pair of jeans in his size, together with a lime-green T-shirt with a hot-pink motif. Lastly, he stopped by the chilled section and chose a sandwich — tuna on rye — and a caffeine-free Diet Coke. He didn’t like any substance that affected his moods, coordination, or reaction time.
He was turning toward the counter when a red and black jacketed book, one of many similar paperbacks on a swivel stand, caught his eye. He grinned and plucked it from its slot. It was called Summer of Terror: On the Trail of the Chicago Sniper, by Sheriff John Hatcher. He thumbed through it, smiling at the memories evoked by the glossy pictures in the middle. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the picture of the house Hatcher had bought with the proceeds of his celebrity. He wondered how much Hatcher would relish a rematch, given that he appeared to be taking all the credit for stopping him the first time.
Wardell shelved the idea for later and put the book back. His ultimate goal was still the same, but it wouldn’t do him any harm to line up some warm-up targets, aside from the one he already had in mind.
He approached the counter, letting the clerk see him up close now. She was trying not to stare, but was plainly curious. No doubt about it: He’d be identified later. If he hadn’t been already, that was. If he had been, there was a cheap ballpoint pen tied to the counter with a length of string, and that would be all he’d need to resolve the immediate problem. Wardell studied the clerk’s face until she looked away. He was reasonably convinced he hadn’t been recognized. That was good. Wardell hated a mess.
She scanned the items he placed on the counter, raising an eyebrow at the green shirt, and told him how much it came to. He took four tens from a brown leather ladies’ wallet and paid, giving her a knowing smile. That puzzled her.
You’ll be telling the grandkids about this moment, girlie, Wardell thought as the woman returned his smile with visible unease.
7
The truck stop’s public bathrooms were cold and filthy and they stank. But they were also deserted, and they had sinks and running water. Real mirrors again, too.
Wardell stripped to the waist and washed up in one of the sinks. It was porcelain, not stainless steel like the one in his cell. There was a choice of chilled or scalding water, but he managed to achieve a balance by blocking the drain with paper towels and filling the sink. He ducked his head in, soaking his face and beard and holding his breath. He held it for two minutes, enjoying the sensory deprivation.
After years of holding his memories in check, he let them flood back in. Toward the end of his submersion, as the pounding in his temples rose to a crescendo, he could almost hear the gunshots echoing across the years. He remembered blood and heat and dirt. He remembered pulling the trigger again and again, seeing the blood spray up close, hearing the cries of pain and fear. And he remembered being interrupted.
Slowly, he raised his head out before expelling a long, slow breath. He’d been thwarted twice now. Once over there and once in Chicago. He felt like a bowstring, pulled taut and then held interminably. This time, no one would stop him.
Some target practice first — and target practice was an end in itself, as far as pleasure went. And then some scores settled, to send a message as much as anything else. And then the finale. Before they’d caught him, he’d planned on hitting a mall or a movie theater or a subway station — the venue didn’t really matter, as long as there were lots of people in a confined space. And then? Then he’d keep shooting until he ran out of ammunition or was cut down himself.
He looked into his own eyes again, fascinated with the reflection. Had incarceration made him vain, or would the novelty wear off soon?
The face had to change, along with the clothes. That death row mug shot would be everywhere once the story broke — and it would, sooner rather than later. But equally, he couldn’t simply trim his hair and go clean-shaven either, because they’d also run his service photo — twenty-two-year-old Caleb Wardell in his BDUs, seated demurely in front of the Stars and Stripes. They’d be looking for him both ways: bearded serial killer, or clean-shaven, buzz-cut Captain America. A happy medium was required. He lifted the nail scissors he’d bought in the store and began hacking away at the beard, laying the groundwork for the shave.
Ten minutes later, he’d been transformed. He hadn’t cut the hair, but had instead pulled it back tightly from his forehead, tying it in a short ponytail using an elastic band he’d found in the Ford’s glove box. The straggly beard had vanished, trimmed down to a neat goatee with razor edges. He looked a little pale, a little gaunt, a little older than he remembered, but otherwise pretty good. The hair and the goatee was an entirely new look for him, and he thought it made him look a little like an indie movie actor, or perhaps a beat poet. The important thing was that he looked nothing like a convict or a soldier.
So what’s the next step, soldier?
He knew what the next steps were: target practice and scores settled. He had a list now, having had time to think about it. It was a list he could keep in his head — there were only four names on it so far. But that was okay; there was plenty of room for more.
He put the sunglasses back on and went back outside. There was a pay phone on the wall. It was the kind with rudimentary Internet access, which gave him an idea. He inserted some quarters and set up a basic webmail account with an anonymous name. Then he put in some more change and made a five-minute call to a number he’d memorized.
When he was done, he looked around, surveying his position. The restrooms were out of the line of sight from the gas station, so the clerk wouldn’t be able to see his new look, but he kept his head down and walked away quickly anyway. He crossed the parking lot in the direction of the blue Ford. He opened the rear door and reached inside to grip the handles of the black duffel. He’d found it in the trunk earlier, and it was surprisingly roomy. After some thought, he’d left the original contents — a towel and athletic clothes — inside, to add bulk and to prevent the bag settling around the rifle. He hauled the bag out and closed the door. There was no need to lock it this time. He walked away from the Ford and climbed the steep grassy slope to the tree line, emerging on the side of the highway. He squinted east into the sun and saw the glass and aluminum of the small provincial bus station glint in the light two miles distant.