Double Blind (36 page)

Sam pulled him inside and then scanned the darkness behind the house, half expecting to see someone pursuing him. She closed the door and locked it.

“Is anybody behind you?” she asked.

“Nope.” He looked at Alyss. “Sorry to bust in on you like this.”

“That’s OK,” Alyss said.

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” Sam said.

Billy managed a weak smile. “It’s been a while since I heard a woman say that.”

Sam shook her head. “At least your sense of humor is intact.”

Alyss retrieved some towels from the closet while Billy stripped off his shirt and pants. A blood-and-rain-soaked bandage clung helplessly to his shoulder. Sam pulled it off.

“Jesus, you’re bleeding.”

“Not much,” Billy said, a shiver racking his body.

Sam touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “You have a fever.”

“Not bad.”

“The hell it isn’t. I’d bet that wound’s infected.”

“I’ll live,” Billy said. Another shiver danced through him.

“Come on.“ Sam said. “You need a hot shower. Then, I’ll take a look at it.”

She led Billy through her room and into the bath. She turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature to a steamy hot. “You stand under there and warm up. I’ll see if I can find something for you to put on.”

Alyss found a tattered XXL sweat shirt one of the carpenters who had worked on the house had left and hadn’t yet returned to pick up. She had no pants that would even come close to fitting.

After his shower, Billy wrapped a towel around his waist and sat in a chair at the kitchen table.

Sam cleaned the dried blood Billy’s wound and then held pressure over it with a stack of gauze until the fresh oozing stopped. Billy winced more than once and Sam offered him a sympathetic smile. She covered the wound with clean gauze, which she taped into place.

Alyss put the pot roast, potatoes, and cornbread in front of Billy and heated a pot of water for tea and coffee.

Shelby came in, a look of shock on her face when she saw a half-naked Billy sitting at the kitchen table. “What’s going on?”

“Your mom invited me to dinner,” Billy said. “My tux is in the cleaners.”

Sam and Alyss laughed; Shelby stood there, a confused look on her face.

“Billy came here for help,” Alyss said.

“Where are your clothes?” Shelby asked.

“There.” Billy nodded toward the wet pile in the corner. He tugged the sweatshirt over his head, grimacing as he wormed his left arm through the sleeve.

Shelby sat down across from Billy, eying him. “So, what happened to you?”

Billy tore off a piece of cornbread, shoved it in his mouth, and talked around it. “Had a little problem with our police chief and his buddies.”

“Did you kill Mr. Varney?” Shelby asked.

“Shelby!” Alyss said.

“It’s OK,” Billy said. “I suspect most people think I did. But no, I didn’t.”

Alyss gathered up Billy’s clothes and carried them into the pantry, where she kept the washer and dryer.

Billy cut off a slab of beef and layered it inside a piece of split cornbread and took a bite.

“Hmm. This is the best thing I’ve had to eat all day. In fact, it’s about the only thing.”

“I’m going to call the doctor,” Sam said.

Billy looked up from his plate. “No.”

“Why not? Do you think she’ll tell Wade you’re here?””

“No. Beth Hartsman’s OK. I just don’t want to drag her into this. When are the state boys coming?”

“Not until tomorrow,” Sam said. “Said they were understaffed.”

“It’s usually that way,” Billy said, biting off another hunk of the cornbread and beef. “Whatever happens out here in the backwoods is a pretty low priority.”

“What’s that got to do with you seeing a doctor?”

“Wade may figure I just might do that. Maybe not. Regardless, it’s better to let him and Burt think I’m up there running around someplace. My only hope of getting through this in one piece is if the State Patrol gets involved. Especially since I now know the truth of what happened.”

Billy devoured the last of his cornbread and beef sandwich. He washed the bite down with a gulp of coffee.

“So,” Sam said. “What is the truth?”

“Thanks to you, I slipped away from Burt and Wade. Haven’t seen them boys since. I’d suspect this storm ran them on home, but you can bet they’ll be back at it at first light. By the way, Morgan said he’s sorry he scared you.”

“Morgan?” Sam said.

“Big, ugly. Scared the hell out of me.”

“That was Morgan? Edgar Locke said he was kind of scrawny.”

“He was. Last time Edgar or any of us saw him anyway.” Billy forked another slice of beef on to his plate, cut off a bite, and shoved it into his mouth. “He told me about the dogs.”

“He saved my butt,” Sam said.

“He took me to where he’s been holed up. In one of the mines. Been there for over two months. Ever since Burt tried to kill him.”

Sam raised a palm to him. “OK. Slow down and tell me what’s going on.”

Billy drained his coffee cup and accepted the refill Alyss offered. “Remember, I told you somebody else was up there? Seen his tracks and all? It was Morgan. Seems he came back a year or so ago to do some fancy research for Burt and Hollis.”

Sam shook her head, “That’s exactly what Edgar suspected.”

“Well, Morgan got stupid and injected himself. What you saw up there is the result.”

“Good God,” Sam said.

“It gets nastier,” Billy continued. “After Burt saw what Morgan had done, he panicked. Afraid Morgan’s transformation would expose the whole deal.”

“The illegal research?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. Something to do with genetic engineering, hormones. Morgan didn’t really have the time to explain it all. Anyway, Burt got Walt Packer and Ted Smyth and they let Morgan loose in the mountains and hunted him down.”

So, Niki was telling the truth.

Sam then flashed on her conversation about hunting with Burt and Hollis. And on Niki’s reference to “The Most Dangerous Game.” Out of the mouth of babes, she thought again.

Billy told them of Morgan’s survival efforts, the break-ins, and the killings of Lloyd Varney and Burt’s men.

“He the one that torched Burt’s stables?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Anger. Frustration. To piss Burt off. Show him he wasn’t safe. Even at Casa Grande.”

“And he’s been living up there for two months?” Sam asked.

“Yep. Getting well. Planning his revenge against Burt.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Sam said. “Not that I blame him. What’s he going to do?”

“Wouldn’t say. He heard you tell Burt and Wade that you were going to bring in the CBI. That’s one of the reasons he killed the dogs and let you go. He wants us to bring them to the Glenross Mine tomorrow morning.”

“Why?”

“Said everything would be clear after that.”

“Why didn’t he come here with you?”

“Said he’s got things to do. To prepare.” Billy looked at Sam, then Alyss, Shelby, back to Sam. “He’s dying.”

“Then he needs to come in. See a doctor.”

“Too late for that. Nobody can save him. Said it was his fault. He just doesn’t want Burt getting away with what he’s done.”

“Do you think he wants to kill Burt?”

“Don’t know. Wouldn’t blame him, though.”

Sam nodded. “Me, either. And you were right about Wade. He’s trying to frame you.”

“What now?” Billy asked.

Sam told him of her conversation with Dr. Chow in Denver and of her suspicion that Wade had tampered with the hair samples. “So, the State Crime Lab has a conclusive match between you and the supposed crime scene sample.”

“Jesus.” He shook his head. “I must admit, I didn’t think Forrest Wade was smart enough to even think of something like that much less pull it off.” He released a long sigh. “Morgan better have a fool-proof plan or I’m toast.”

Queenie's shrill yelps yanked Edgar Locke from sleep. Martha rolled toward him as he flipped on the bedside lamp.

"What's she barking at?" she asked.

"Probably a raccoon." He swung his legs out of bed and put on his slippers. "Queenie," he yelled, "knock it off."

The dog continued yapping, now accompanied by the tapping-scraping of paws against the back door.

Edgar walked to the kitchen, his hand automatically reaching for the light switch. But, as his fingers brushed against the toggle, he hesitated. Queenie's barks seemed shriller than usual, as if chiming a warning, as if telling him the darkness was his ally.

He shuffled across the kitchen's uneven wooden floor, each creak causing a skip in his pulse. He reached the window above the sink and peered out. The rain had stopped, the sky had begun to clear, and the moon cast dappled light through the trees. He scanned the small backyard and the forest beyond, searching the ground for a waddling raccoon. He moved to the window in the small adjacent dining nook, which afforded him a wider field of vision.

At first, he saw nothing, then...there...something moving through the trees. Not a raccoon, but something big and upright like a huge man, walking toward him.

He ducked low, moved over to the kitchen drawers near the sink, eased the top one open, and grabbed a large butcher's knife. Cautiously, he peered over the counter.

The form had moved closer. Now, only 15 feet away, near the back porch. He could make out no details, only a bulky silhouette.

Queenie continued her incessant yelping.

The man bent down and placed something on the porch. When he straightened, he looked directly Edgar. Edgar took in a sharp breath and stepped back, away from the window.

The man said something, but Edgar couldn’t hear him through the window. He pointed down, and then turned and retreated toward the trees.

Edgar moved back to the sink, unlatched the window, and pushed it open. "Hey," he shouted. "What are you doing?"

The shadow, now fifty feet away in the edge of the trees, stopped and turned, but said nothing.

"Who are you?" Edgar asked. He heard raspy breathing and a pungent odor wafted toward him. His heart shifted into a higher gear. He waved the knife before him. “I’m armed and I’m going to call the police.”

"Dr. Locke." The voice was deep, harsh, resonant. No one he recognized.

"Who are you?" Edgar said. He flipped on the porch light, but the man remained in the shadows, still only a vague form.

"Morgan."

"Morgan? What..." He couldn't even finish the sentence. His mind raced. The person before him couldn't be Morgan. Morgan was tall, but slight of build. His voice was soft, almost musical, not the voice that came at him from the shadows.

"Read the journals," Morgan said.

"What?"

"The journals. I left them there. On the porch. They'll explain everything."

"You sound different."

"I am different."

Martha came up behind Edgar, giving him a start. "I'm sorry," she said. "What's going on?"

"It's Morgan."

"Hello, Martha," Morgan said.

"Well, come in," she said. "It's cold out there."

"I can't."

"Of course you can," Martha said. "I'll make some..."

"No. You can't see me."

"Morgan," Edgar said. "What on Earth is going on?"

"Read the journals. Then, you'll know. I have something else to attend to and I don't have much time."

"What are you talking about?" Edgar said.

"I’m dying. But, before I do, I have a debt to collect."

“Morgan, you’re not making sense.”

“You’ll understand. Soon.” With that, he turned and headed into the forest.

Martha called to him. “Do you need anything? Some food?”

He stopped.

“I have some ham,” she said. “And some fresh bread I just baked today.”

He hesitated as if undecided about the offer. “I’ve had little to eat the past two days. Only what I could kill. Since Mr. Varney died, I’ve been afraid to scavenge in town.”

“Scavenge?” Martha said.

Morgan stepped from the shadows and approached them.

Martha gasped and clutched Edgar’s arm. Edgar took an involuntary step backwards, wavering slightly on his one good leg.

The person framed in the window before him did not in any way resemble Morgan. Or anyone else. A stout, square body strained against ragged, dirt-crusted jeans and erupted through the seams of the flannel shirt he wore. Two meaty hands with thick fingers hung by his sides. They, like his partially exposed chest, displayed a thick mat of dark hair.

But, the thing that dismayed him most was Morgan’s face. Before, he had possessed angular, even delicate features. Now, a wild mane of dark hair cascaded off his shoulders and framed a block-like head that squatted on a triangular neck. A broad, shovel-like jaw hid behind an equally unruly beard. Heavy ridges, capped with thick brows, rode over his eyes, which sank into the shadows as if seeking shelter.

Edgar's good hand involuntarily covered his mouth. “Dear God. What happened to you?”

Morgan picked up the journals and extended them toward Edgar. “These are all you need.”

Martha went to the refrigerator and began packing food into a plastic grocery bag.

“The rabbits and mice,” Edgar said. “They were yours?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Morgan, how could you?”

Morgan sighed heavily. “I’ve asked myself that a thousand times.”

“Please. Come in,” Edgar said.

“No. I’m too filthy.”

“Then, I’m coming out. We have to talk.” Edgar grabbed his coat that hung from a rack near the door, slipped it on, and stepped onto the porch.

“You reopened the lab for Burt, didn’t you?” Edgar asked.

Morgan nodded.

“Why?”

“Hopkins wouldn’t allow me to pursue the genetic investigations you and I talked of so often.”

“But, Burt let you.”

“Yes. And it was exactly as we predicted. The injection of promoter genes worked just as you thought it would. Even better,”

“I know. I saw the bones.” Edgar told him of how the MacCorkell twins had dug them up.

Morgan shook his head and gazed up at the sky. “So, Burt tried to bury the evidence.

‘It would seem so.”