He glanced back toward the mouth of the oven. The SS Pride had sailed.
Tory decided to confront the crisis head on. “Come out, Murdoch! This is no time for games.”
30
Tough Choice
WATCHING TOM’S MERCEDES whisk Skylar away, I found myself wishing that I’d opted for less surveillance and more sleep. I had spent much of the night going back and forth between the Brown Pelican and The Williamsburg Inn, alternatively spying on Skylar and Tom.
It had been unproductive, but not entirely uneventful. I returned to the Brown Pelican shortly after sunrise to find that Skylar was neither in her room nor in any of the neighborhood restaurants. She returned three hours later, covered in sweat from what must have been a very long run.
My time spying on Tom had started with hope but was soon filled with frustration. His laptop employed a privacy screen. It could only be viewed by a perpendicular observer. I drilled a second hole with the proper perspective, but then Tom’s body blocked my view. The two glimpses I stole when he rose to stretch and use the restroom were of Facebook pages, not documents or, better yet, email.
The blue Facebook banner proved to be another tease. Tom was not logged in. He wasn’t checking his own feed. He was doing anonymous research. In one case on a woman called Sandy Wallace, in the other on a man named John Maxwell.
That was all I got. The sum total of a dozen hours’ worth of surveillance was two Facebook profile sightings.
With the moon and stars again above, I was back behind the wheel of my BMW. I shifted into drive but waited for Tom’s Mercedes to disappear from sight before accelerating in pursuit. My plan was to remain half a mile behind since I could follow the red GPS dot just as easily as the car itself—with no risk of being seen.
As I pressed the gas, my knee reminded me that it was time for another pain pill. I pulled one from my pocket and swallowed it dry. Then I thought about what likely lay ahead, and took another.
I’d altered my appearance from the various versions Tom had glimpsed. The me he’d brushed past while leaving the bar. The me he’d seen sitting on a bar stool. The me he’d encountered exiting the elevator. And the me he’d tried to kill on a motorcycle. Gone now was the entire mustache I’d worn as a biker at the bar and a guest at the hotel. Gone also were my do-rag and side-parted hairstyle. I’d slicked my hair back with pomade and donned lensless horn-rimmed glasses, producing an entirely different look. Somewhere between Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko and Agent Smith from The Matrix.
About ten minutes after exiting the parking lot, Tom pulled off the main road onto a private drive. I zoomed in on the tracking map to identify the destination. The Good Graces Chapel and Mortuary.
I had not seen that twist coming.
An icy finger traced the length of my spine. Was I too late? Had Tom blown Skylar’s brains out in the car? Should I have confronted the killer last night? Would I ever forgive myself if she was dead?
I tried consoling myself with logic. A bullet hole in the windshield or blood spatter on the upholstery would attract all kinds of unwanted attention. He was too polished to make an amateur mistake like that.
The answer struck as I pounded the wheel. Pretending that the mortuary was the FIFO HQ was part of Tom’s con. He’d told her he would take her there.
So what was his plan? Drug her in the car, then dump her body in the bottom of a freshly dug grave? Toss some dirt on top and hope nobody noticed before she was covered by a coffin? It was a possibility. But that scenario would be a clunky conclusion to the symphony of subterfuge Tom had been conducting. I expected more from him.
Anxious as I’d just become, and eager as I was to intervene before he severed her head with a shovel, I couldn’t risk following them up the mortuary drive. I parked on the side of the road and proceeded on foot, knowing the next few minutes would be a tightrope race. I had to move quickly but quietly and carefully, balancing the downside of detection against the consequences of a late arrival.
I stayed in the shadows while sprinting as best I could around the building. The mortuary was the size of a small elementary school, sans playground. I stopped and dropped as soon as Tom’s car came into view. It was one of seven.
While counting the cars, I looked down at the Sig Sauer P320 in my hand. “Seventeen rounds.”
There in the grass, I saw no movement and heard no activity. I studied the Mercedes to be sure they weren’t still inside. It appeared empty, but I made a low dash to confirm the fact with direct visual inspection. The other cars were also empty, but a common detail caught my attention. All seven had rental car barcode stickers on their windshields. Only the Mercedes’s hood was warm. Interesting. Had Tom ordered a car company to deliver the other six as window dressing? Or was I about to wish I had more than seventeen rounds?
And now what?
I could call the police and report an abduction. But how long would they take to arrive, and what would happen to Skylar in the interim?
I took a deep breath and ran for the back door.
It proved to be a typical industrial contraption, with a metal skin and a lever handle. Would it be unlocked? For Tom’s ruse to work, he would have needed either an unlocked door—presumably picked and left open in advance—or a key. Fifty-fifty. Except he would have wanted the lights inside to be on to augment the appearance of activity. Assuming, of course, that the drivers of the other six autos were back at a rental car office rather than waiting inside with shovels and duct tape.
I put an ear to the door and heard nothing. I pressed the lever, slow and steady. It yielded.
I slipped inside and froze. The hall was arched with a metal detector of the airport variety. A green LED indicated its operational status. That added quite an extravagant touch of authenticity to the HQ ruse. And it meant the mortuary owner was in on Tom’s plan.
Metal detectors like the one before me didn’t act like Geiger counters. Proximity didn’t matter. They only detected disruptions to the field directly between their sensors. While the installation sealed the hallway so as to prevent one from slipping a firearm around the arch, I was able to wedge enough of my Sig into the shelf-like crevice between detector and ceiling to hold it in quasi-concealment until I left. I slid my car key, cell phone, and watch up over the lip as well, both to be certain it wouldn’t beep, and to remind me to retrieve my gun.
I slipped past the detector without audible protest and found myself faced with half a dozen choices. There were doors to the left, right, and straight ahead. I strained my ears but heard nothing. That was both good news and bad. The odds that the other six cars were window dressing had just improved. A large group would be hard pressed to remain so silent. But the lack of noise left me without any auditory clue as to which way to go.
I could see lights coming from beyond the glass double doors at the back but knew there might be lights on behind the solid side doors as well. I cracked each, smooth and slow, just enough to check for a lack of lighting. After confirming that each was dark, I pushed through the double doors.
They dumped me into a covered glass walkway that left me totally exposed. I ran to the outbuilding on the opposite side and quickly but quietly slipped inside.
What I found was more doors. Double doors to the left, double doors to the right, a double door straight ahead. The central one had a curtained window beside it, and lights shining on the other side. I’d been in a place like this before. It was the observation room for a crematory.