Cold Blue (41 page)

As Thorpe drove back toward his home, he considered the night he’d spent with Agent Collins—Ambretta.

If he were the prime suspect in these murders, would she sacrifice the FBI’s case and her career by sleeping with him?
Unlikely
. He would never use the relationship to avoid prison, but she couldn’t trust him to do that—
could she?
Thorpe had too many questions and not enough answers. The only thing he knew for sure was he’d better extract his head from his anal cavity before Phipps put a bullet in it.

Thorpe pulled into Deborah’s barn, not remembering much of the twenty-five minute drive home.
Damn it.
He’d best get his mind right. He slipped a pair of coveralls over his dress clothes and exchanged his shoes for combat boots. He was armed with his Sig Sauer and department-issued, bullet-resistant vest. Other than that, he wasn’t much prepared for battle. As Thorpe started walking toward the road, he noticed Mr. Jennings’s Mercedes parked in front of their home. Thorpe didn’t know what to make of it, and didn’t really care. He just hoped Deborah would somehow find happiness. Trudging through the woods, Thorpe was overcome with a sense of finality, as if everything were about to come to an abrupt end. He also had the uncanny feeling of being watched, though he didn’t feel threatened.

Al and Trixie, I wish I’d kept you here; my senses are jacked
.

Thorpe scrambled up the creek bank and peered over the berm. Everything appeared normal, though unkempt. The sun shone bright in the sky, and it seemed an unlikely time to be attacked. Of course, that’s when shit happens—while one’s pants are down. Thorpe retreated down into the creek with the feeling he’d somehow lost his edge. He sat with his back to a tree and retrieved a picture of his daughter from his wallet.

“I’m sorry, baby. Daddy should have been there.”

After a solid minute of staring at the image, Thorpe returned the photograph to his wallet and placed it on the ground. He removed his constrictive coveralls, dress shirt, and white t-shirt. Dressed only in black boots and black slacks, he pulled the dark, bullet-resistant vest over his bare torso. He grabbed a hunting knife from his gear bag and strapped it to his belt.

With the .357 in his right hand, Thorpe tore out of the creek and sprinted toward the rear of his home. He cleared the open expanse without incident but felt exposed against the side of the house. Staying below the windows, Thorpe crept toward the rear door, discovering a broken wax seal. Someone had been, or still lurked, inside.

The smart thing to do would be to back away and watch his house from a distance. If Phipps or someone waited inside, they’d eventually tire and leave, giving Thorpe the advantage. Of course, they’d have access to food and drink, and Thorpe didn’t have either, nor was he dressed to spend a potential overnighter in the elements.

It was just as likely the FBI had served a search warrant at his home while the capable Agent Collins kept him occupied. If that were the case, he would be sitting in the woods for hours for nothing. He was tired of waiting.

Thorpe tried the back door and found the deadbolt disengaged. He cracked the barrier open, paused, and burst in, weapon up. He saw a figure on the floor, and fired a round before realizing he was shooting at a corpse.

The smell of magnesium and blood hung thickly in the air.
What the hell?
He didn’t linger on the dead body, just registered that it was Corn Johnson and kept moving though the house. The next five minutes were as tense as any in the last year as he cleared the rest of the home. He found nothing. Thorpe checked the front door. Locked. He returned to the back door, engaged the deadbolt, and examined Corn’s body lying on the floor. Corn had been shot in the head—almost exactly where Thorpe had placed his own bullet.

The back of Corn’s head was largely missing. Well, not missing; it was spattered across his kitchen’s wall. Whoever had shot him was a professional. Thorpe noticed scorch marks and the remnants of a flash-bang not far from Corn’s body. Law enforcement and military use the devices to incapacitate suspects. The grenades are designed to stun, not injure or kill, and are often used in hostage situations.

Stuffed inside Corn’s open mouth was a sheet of paper with one handwritten word: “BARN.”

Once more Thorpe struggled to understand the situation. Had Phipps or McDonald killed Corn and left him in his home? Was he being set up? Too many things weren’t adding up. Thorpe gripped his pistol, pushed open the back door, scanned the area and headed toward the barn. Having cautiously crossed the fifty-yard span, Thorpe tried the rear door, finding it unlocked. He turned the knob, and once again cracked open the door before entering. Tactical teams refer to this process as “letting the room cook.” An impatient shooter will start firing when the door first opens or shortly after.

Staying off to the side, Thorpe heard nothing. He noticed the interior lights were on but couldn’t sense any movement. He entered the barn low and fast—damn near shooting Andrew Phipps as he sat in the far corner. The only thing preventing Thorpe’s finger from depressing the trigger was the fact that his target had been bound to a metal support pole. Gagged, Phipps was positioned much as how Thorpe had left Marcel Newman—except Phipps was alive and staring at Thorpe with malevolent eyes.

Thorpe passed behind Phipps and confirmed the man was secured to the pole with a pair of Flexcuffs. Thorpe then climbed a set of stairs to clear the loft. Confident the two were alone, Thorpe descended the steps and locked the aluminum door from the inside.

What in the hell is going on?

Thorpe withdrew the long blade from the sheath attached to his belt and approached Phipps. Few weapons have quite the same psychological impact as a large, sharp knife. Twice Thorpe circled his foe, noticing the bound man had a substantial contusion near his right ear. On a third pass, Thorpe searched him for weapons, then knelt down and cut loose the gag. The blade’s tip gouged out a sizable chunk of Phipps cheek—
Whoops
. Thorpe walked ten feet forward of the bound man and sat on the concrete floor.

He stared at Phipps without saying a word. Sometimes the best interview technique is to say nothing at all, particularly when your subject is scared. In this case, Phipps had much more to be nervous about than Thorpe. It didn’t take long for Phipps to begin talking.

“You ought to get on with killing me. If I get a chance I’m going to gut you like a pig.”

Thorpe remained silent.

“Why’d you fucking tie me up, motherfucker? I don’t know shit. The longer you let me live, the more chances I get to kill your white ass.”

Damn
. Phipps would be of no use; he mistakenly thought Thorpe was the one who’d restrained him. Whoever had put Phipps in this predicament must have done so while the man was unconscious—
probably coldcocked him after he’d been disoriented by the stun grenade
.

Thorpe stood, walked to a weight bench where he dropped the magazine from his pistol, broke down the weapon, and carefully placed the parts on the bench. Weapon disabled, Thorpe pulled off his bullet resistant vest, displaying his scarred and developed body. He again extracted his knife, passed behind Phipps, and cut through the Flexcuffs—releasing his captive.

Then, his back to Phipps as though the man were of no concern, he returned to the door, unlocked it, and tossed the knife outside. After relocking the door, Thorpe turned his attention to Phipps, who’d risen off the floor and stood motionless next to the pole.

Thorpe approached Phipps and assumed a fighting stance.

Phipps smiled. “Oh, you
fucked up
boy. Gone up a lot tougher than your skinny white ass,” he said with false bravado. Thorpe could hear the shimmer in his voice.

Phipps wasn’t nearly as lean as Thorpe, but he was thirty pounds heavier and probably stronger. Thorpe had at least one thing in his favor, though; he hadn’t recently been knocked unconscious as had his opponent
.

Too bad for him.

Phipps removed his own shirt, revealing a myriad of tattoos and a fraternity brand on his left tricep. Toes facing Thorpe, feet shoulder width apart, Phipps adopted a boxer’s stance. He approached Thorpe with his branded shoulder turned away.

Odd
.

Thorpe had noted the empty holster on the man’s his right hip, indicating Phipps was a righty. But Phipps assumed a southpaw stance. He was either ambidextrous or planned to attempt a kick or a takedown.

And a kick it was, a poorly executed one that Thorpe easily avoided. When Phipps’ foot landed, he took the stance of a traditional right-handed boxer. Thorpe moved in and caught a left jab on the forehead that rocked him backward.

“That’s right, bitch! Come get you some more!” Phipps encouraged.

The man was probably well versed in hand-to-hand combat, given his history in the Marine Corps. Thorpe got within striking distance and fired a kick at the outside of Phipps’ lead leg. He hoped to impact the sciatic nerve—the largest and longest single nerve in the entire body. When traumatized, it greatly affects the workings of the legs.

The kick landed, but Thorpe received an overhand right to the left side of his head. Though solid, it wasn’t a stunning blow. Thorpe feigned a wobble of the legs and a buckle of the knees. Phipps saw a wounded animal and took the bait; he rushed in. Another right hurtled toward Thorpe’s face. He ducked the punch and drove into Phipps’ hips. Arms wrapped around his assailant, Thorpe arched his back and lifted Phipps off the floor. Then, using all the strength in his core and legs, Thorpe torqued his body forward, driving his right shoulder into Phipps’ abdomen.

The move was so violent that Thorpe’s own feet went airborne as he slammed the back of Phipps’ head onto the gray concrete floor. Thorpe couldn’t see the impact, but the wet watermelon-like sound left little doubt Phipps had sustained a catastrophic brain injury. Even as Thorpe rose to deliver more punishment, he noticed the slack in Phipps’ facial muscles. The man was dead.

Thorpe stood and rubbed the side of his own head. His adrenaline fading, the pain from Phipps’ punch began to register. He felt a good-sized knot behind and above his temple. Good thing the strike hadn’t landed two or three inches forward, or Thorpe might be the slab of meat lying on the floor. Three inches between victim and victor.

Leaving his disassembled pistol in the barn, Thorpe stepped into the daylight. It was the first time in days that he felt he could walk on his own property without the prospect of a bullet stopping him dead. Before heading back to his house, he retrieved his discarded coveralls and used them to protect himself from the brisk February weather. Back inside, he stood next to Corn Johnson’s remains and pulled a six-pack of beer from the refrigerator. Thorpe popped open one of the cans, tipped it toward Corn in mock salute, took a drink, and walked out the door.

He carried the beer into his backyard and lifted the remainder of the six-pack high above his head. He then tore off three beers and trekked fifty yards into the trees. He left the lager on a stump—an offering to his unknown accomplice—and then returned next to his deck, built a fire in his pit, and sat down with his back to the woods.

Warm sun on his face, cold drink on his lips, Thorpe tried to make sense of his morning. He wondered if he’d ever know who his accomplices were or what their motivation had been. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to remain anonymous. As he reviewed the events of the last few days, he remembered the man who’d been reported leaving the back door of Phipps’ home.

Was he the same man who’d today sprung a trap on Phipps and Corn?

There were too many loose ends, and every time Thorpe tried to grab one, he only reeled in more questions. Was Ambretta helping him? She seemed too smart to become romantically involved with a serial murderer, no matter how dashing Thorpe hoped he was.

She owed him answers, and he intended to collect. But first he had another visit to make. One collaborator still remained, Sergeant McDonald.

Thorpe stood and walked into his home, not bothering to turn and see if his beer offering had been accepted.

Tuesday

February 13

Morning

THORPE ROSE EARLY, PREPARED TO
begin his quest for Sergeant McDonald but unsure how to go about accomplishing the task without drawing attention. He’d spent the previous day dealing with the bodies of Phipps and Corn Johnson. Because of potential tracking devices attached to his personal truck and no access to SID units, Thorpe was limited in his disposal options. Ultimately, he waited for Deborah to leave her home then loaded the tarp-wrapped corpses into the bed of his pickup and pulled into her barn. Afterwards, he trekked back to his place and fetched the Polaris ATV he used to work on his property. He transferred the bodies onto an attached four-wheel wagon and drove them several miles west of Deborah’s. After two hours’ work with a pick and shovel, he tossed the remains in the pit. He’d move them to a more suitable location when surveillance was less of a worry.