Dead Aim (22 page)

Excuses. He'd learned in training as a boy to never make excuses. The unexpected happened, and one had to make adjustments.

He'd made adjustments. He'd kept his deal with Betworth. Powers couldn't have lived for more than a few minutes.

Morgan.

Anguish tore through him. He'd meant to remove Powers and his wife and be there in the house when Morgan found a way to get to Powers.

It might not be too late.

Find a doctor. Get the bleeding stopped. Then go back and wait until Morgan walked into the house.

Find a doctor. . . .

"Powers and his wife are dead. We found Decker's body in the alley across the street," Jurgens said when Betworth picked up the phone. "No Morgan. No Graham. Runne must have screwed up."

"Runne did it?"

"Probably. You said he liked to work with a knife at close quarters. Decker's throat was slit, Powers had a knife wound in his chest, and his wife was pretty much butchered."

"Then there must have been a good reason why Runne didn't stick around to get Morgan. Maybe he's gone after him. How long has Powers been dead?"

"Not long. We sent a car by when he didn't call for his two-hour check-in. What do you want us to do?"

"Clean up the crime scene and get rid of Decker, Powers, and his wife. Then have a team stake out the house in case Morgan shows up."

"And?"

"Do I have to tell you everything? Make sure every car that leaves Terre Haute is stopped by the police."

"What do I tell them?"

"Anything. Just make sure they're stopped."

Chapter 10.

On the way back to the motel, the adrenaline was draining out of Alex and she had to clasp her hands tightly in her lap to keep from shaking. She'd been bombarded by too many sensations tonight. She couldn't forget the vision of Powers with his chest torn by that hideous knife wound and Morgan kneeling above him, tense, relentless, completely without pity.

But why should anyone pity Powers? He'd not taken pity on Ken that night he'd brought down the helicopter. Still, Morgan's hardness had managed to shock her again.

Morgan glanced sideways at her as they neared the motel.

"What are you thinking?"

"What do you think happened to Powers's wife? She looked . . ."

"Like an animal had torn her throat apart," he finished. "I've heard Runne is usually much cleaner. I'd say that something went wrong with his plan and Powers managed to hurt him. He ran out to lick his wounds and she was in his way. He was hurting too much to be neat. He just wanted to get rid of her."

"You seem to understand him."

"Oh, yes." He stopped the car in the parking space in front of the motel and opened the door. "I'm leaving the car running. Don't be neat. Just bundle everything in your duffel. I'll give Galen a quick call, but I want to be out of this motel in five minutes and out of this town in twenty."

She nodded jerkily. "I won't be long." She left her camera in the car and moved toward the door. "What did Powers tell you?"

"I'll tell you when we get on the road." He had the door open and was grabbing his duffel and throwing everything into it. "Be sure to take the computer."

"Roadblock."

Morgan turned left at the first corner when he saw the string of cars stretching two blocks ahead. He parked the car in a Target parking lot. "Come on, get out. We're on foot until we're out of town. Grab your camera bag. I'll get your duffel."

"Right." She fell into step with him. "I suppose you know how we're going to get out of this town?"

"I called Galen when you were packing. He has a man with a moving truck coming from Fort Wayne. We'll meet him at the rest stop five miles out of town."

"A moving truck?"

"It will be easy to hide among the furniture if we're stopped. The driver will have documents that say his load is being delivered to Charleston, West Virginia, from a house in Fort Wayne. Most cops don't want to climb around in the back if the paperwork looks okay. It's too much work." He turned right, his pace quickening. "We should be out of the city in about five blocks, and then we cut into the woods."

"I can hardly wait."

"It will be safer."

"I'm not arguing. I'm only asking one thing."

"What's that?"

"If I'm going to be doing all this walking, can I take this damn pebble out of my shoe?"

The name of the driver of the moving van was Chuck Fondren, and he was distinctly nervous. "Get in." He jerked open the back of the truck. "I was stopped once already on the way here, but that doesn't mean I'm out of hot water. Climb over that mattress and hunker down behind that couch."

The door slammed behind them as soon as Morgan and Alex climbed into the van.

Darkness.

Morgan tossed the duffels across the van, behind the couch. "Come on. Let's 'hunker down.'" He climbed over the mattress to the couch and then reached out a hand to help her over the back of the couch. He followed and settled down beside her.

She felt the throbbing vibration as the truck pulled out of the rest stop, and she leaned back against the wall. She should have felt safer than she had when they were running through the woods, but she didn't. The darkness was claustrophobic and she felt . . . helpless.

"Like being sealed up in a metal box," Morgan said quietly. "But a box isn't a coffin. There's always something you can do."

She should have known he'd realize what she was feeling. He seemed to have the knack. "Like what?"

He chuckled. "Damn if I know. I just thought I'd make you feel better. I should have known you'd call me on it."

She smiled. She did feel better. His honesty made her feel a sense of companionship and she was no longer alone. "Are you saying you'd be stumped if we had to get out of here?"

"No. I'm saying I'd have to stretch my capabilities and borrow some of yours." He leaned back beside her. "So let's hope nothing happens and try to get our minds off it. Want to have sex?"

She went rigid.

"No, I didn't think so."

"And you thought it safe to offer since you knew this wasn't the time or place I'd take you up on it."

"Oh, I don't know. And neither do you." He reached over to her duffel, pulled out the laptop, and gave it to her. "I'm going to go over my conversation with Powers before he died. I've been trained to remember details, but I want them down in black and white." He flipped open the laptop, and a gray glow lit the darkness. "You type them as I give them to you, word for word. Here we go."

He closed his eyes and said, "The first thing he said to me was 'Save me. . . . Don't let me die.' "

For the next five minutes Alex typed quickly, occasionally asking a question, but Morgan's memory was amazing. He remembered everything, including pauses and breaks in the flow of conversation.

When he stopped, she looked up at him. "Is that all?"

He made a face. "Not much, is it?"

"More than we had." She saved the document. "So that's why we're going to West Virginia. You think something's going to happen there."

"I don't know. Powers seemed to think that whatever was going to happen wasn't nearly as important as Z-3. He said it was bunk. But Powers doesn't give a shit. Arapahoe Junction was only a mistake to him."

"So West Virginia could be another Arapahoe Junction."

"And if Arapahoe Junction was only a minor mistake, it makes you wonder what Z-3 is going to be. . . ." He closed his eyes. "It's a long way to West Virginia. Think about it. Vents. Lontana. Z-2 . . ."

There was no question she'd think about it. Her head was awhirl with information and the ugliness of Powers even at his death. She closed the computer, and the dim glow of the screen disappeared.

Suffocating darkness.

Morgan's arm suddenly went around her, and he pulled her close so that her head rested on his shoulder. "Shh, you're not alone. I'm here. I'm not going away."

Comforting words, but not true. It didn't matter. In the darkness she could pretend they were true. In the darkness she could take comfort and healing.

After all, in this day and age nothing was permanent. Fire came from the sky and quakes ripped the ground from beneath your feet.

And
always
was only a word.

"We've closed all the roads," Jurgens said. "And we've run fingerprints in the Powers house. Morgan was there and I'm betting so was Graham. We found a knife under Powers's wife's body. But it's not Morgan's prints that are on the knife."

"Runne."

"Yes. Morgan must have come before or after."

"If he'd come before, those would have been his prints on the knife: He wouldn't have let Powers live. The question is, how much later? Could Powers have been alive to talk?"

"It's doubtful. The wound was--"

"I need more than doubtful. I need to know."

"Then you'd better ask Runne, don't you think?"

Hell, yes, if he could get in touch with the bastard. As usual, Runne hadn't answered his phone. "As soon as I make contact with him."

There was a pause. "There was blood on the front porch. Neither Powers nor his wife could have been out there."

"You think Runne was wounded?"

"The police say a local intern, Richard Dawson, has been reported missing from a hospital a few miles from the Powers house. His car is in the parking lot, but he never showed up for his shift." Another pause. "So maybe Runne isn't as good as you thought he was."

"And maybe he is." Betworth wasn't going to admit his own doubts to Jurgens. "He didn't get Morgan, but he managed to rid us of Powers. And you haven't gotten Morgan yet either."

"If you'd let us spring the trap, there wouldn't have been this problem."

"I needed Runne to spring it. I needed him to owe me."

"You believed he'd keep his word?"

"The psychological profile I have on him indicates that he'd rather be burned alive than break his word. It's part of the brainwashing he underwent in the camps. And it's a job he's been trained to do every minute since he was fourteen."

"Even if he has the will, he may not have the skill. He screwed up this job."

"Drop it. I'll make that determination." He managed to keep the edge from his tone. "Or are you volunteering to take over Runne's job at Z-3?"

"No way," Jurgens said. "I'll let you know when we catch Morgan." He hung up.

No, Jurgens didn't want any part of it. Betworth didn't blame him. Only an obsessive son of a bitch like Runne would take on that job. Providing Betworth remained convinced he could do it. The Powers disposal had not been clean, and that's what he must have at Z-3.

Clean and deadly.

Clean. It had to be clean.

Runne rolled the young intern's corpse into the hole he'd dug and began to shovel in dirt. Christ, his face hurt. He'd take some of the painkillers the doctor had given him after he finished, but the pain reminded him of his failure. And he had to remember so that he wouldn't repeat the mistake. Mistakes weren't tolerated. Carelessness was a cardinal sin. The shame of not being able to claim a clean kill with Powers was almost unbearable. It must never happen again, and no one must know he'd failed.

This kill had been clean. No one had seen him take the young intern at the hospital. No one had seen the death. Now he must smooth the grave and cover it with leaves.

The damn doctor had been too slow. Runne had threatened him, but his hands had been too shaky to hurry. Now it was too late to go back to Powers's house and hope to catch Morgan. But if he could keep Betworth from knowing of his shame, then he would be given another chance.

Ignore the pain. He deserved it.

Bury him deep. Smooth the earth. Cover it with leaves. . . .

"Out," Chuck Fondren said as he opened the door of the truck. "I want to get away from here."

"Where are we?" Alex asked as Morgan helped her from the van.

"Prescott, West Virginia. It's forty miles from Huntington." The driver nodded at a rickety cedar house down the road. "That's your destination. This is where I was told to bring you." He threw the duffels to the ground. "Good luck. I'm out of here."

"Thank you," Alex said. She couldn't blame him for being glad to be rid of them. He'd risked a good deal driving them here. But when Galen called, his people seemed to jump to it. She gazed ruefully at the ramshackle farmhouse as the moving van roared off down the road. "Have you noticed our abodes have been going downhill lately? You must have a talk with Galen."

"It's hard to get good help these days." He started down the road. "Personally, I'm just happy if there's no welcoming committee." He stiffened, grabbed her arm, and pulled her into the bushes. "I spoke too soon. Who the hell is--"

Her gaze followed his to the man who'd come out onto the porch. She sighed with relief. "It's Logan. Don't you recognize him?"

"I've talked to him on the phone, but I've never met him in person." His body language was still tense. "And I'm not sure I like him dropping in. He looks pretty grim." He moved out of the bushes. "But we may as well find out what he wants. I doubt if he's brought the gendarmes." His gaze held Logan's as he strode toward him. "This is a surprise, Logan," he called as he neared the house. "And I thought you'd abandoned us."