Dead Even (13 page)

“No, thanks.”

He paid for the gas and climbed back into the car. “You sure you don’t want anything? Last chance . . .”

She shook her head no.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said as he headed back onto the highway.

“I’m just worn out.” Her eyes were closed again, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was really sleeping, or if she was feigning to avoid getting into a conversation with him that might lead to places neither of them wanted to go.

He decided if avoidance was what she wanted, avoidance was what she would get. If she changed her mind and wanted to chat, she was welcome to open her mouth. Otherwise, he’d just let it go for now.

After all, what was there, really, to talk about—other than work? What was there that he could put into words?

He drove along through the darkness, fighting off the thought that Archer Lowell might come after her.

“Over my dead body,” he whispered aloud, then glanced over to where she slept, wondering if she’d heard. If she had, she gave no sign. Her dark lashes still lay against her cheek, and her mouth was still just open the tiniest bit. Her hair fell down around her face like a dark veil, and her chin rested on her chest.

The thought worried him all the way home.

When he arrived at his house, he drove slowly, so as not to shake her awake as the car traveled over the rough stones. He turned off the ignition and turned to look at her as she stretched awake. The effort not to reach over and smooth that black hair from her face all but killed him.

“Where are we?” She yawned, breaking the silence.

“We’re back at my place.”

“Can I come in and use your bathroom before I head home?” She sat up.

“Sure, but don’t you think you should stay? It’s late and—”

“No, I don’t think I should stay.” Unexpectedly, she opened the passenger door and got out. “That’s done, Fletcher. Over.”

“Miranda, I wasn’t suggesting that you and I—”

“Oh, right, the thought never crossed your mind.”

He got out of the car. “Well, of course, it’s a little hard not to think about—”

“Just give me the keys and I’ll stop at that little bar just before the highway.” She held out her hand.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I don’t want to sleep under your roof tonight or any other night. We’re not going back down that road again, Will.”

“I swear, I was not suggesting that we do. I only meant, it’s late—after midnight already—and you have at least an hour drive.”

“I’m well rested.”

“At least come inside and use the bathroom and get something to drink.” They stood in the darkness and stared at each other. “Look, we’ve been pretty successful these past few days at moving past what . . . what was. If you can accept that we’ve moved on, I’ll accept it, too.”

She continued to stare at him.

“Friends?” he asked.

“Sure. Okay.” She nodded slowly. “Friends . . .”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem staying in the guest room tonight and driving home in the morning.” Before she could protest, he said, “The roads are dark; they’re windy and dangerous if you’re not familiar with them. It just doesn’t make sense for you to leave now, unless of course you’re only doing it to be stubborn.”

She laughed and threw up her hands.

“Okay. I give in. You really have a guest room?”

“It’s more like a spare room with a bed in it. But it’s a nice bed. I brought it up here from my grandmother’s house over the summer. She moved into an assisted-living place and couldn’t take most of her furniture with her, so she divided it up between the grandkids.”

“And there’s a lock on the spare-room door?”

“I’m wounded that you’d think such a thing of me.” He took her by the elbow and led her up the dark path to his front porch. “However, feel free to put a chair in front of the door if it makes you feel better. I think there’s a chair in there—”

“No, no. You’re right,” she said as he unlocked the front door. “We’re both adults, and right now, we have to work together. We’ll have to work together again, I’m sure, in the future. We should both be big enough to put all . . . put the past behind us and move on with our lives, right?”

“Right.”

Once inside, she stopped in the hallway, framed by the light from the front porch, and looked up at him.

“I can do it if you can do it.”

He gritted his teeth, not sure, after all, that he could.

“Sure.” It was easier to just agree at this point. “Great.”

“Great.” She smiled and snapped on the overhead light. “Which way is the guest room?”

Archer sat on the edge of the bed in the cheap motel room he’d rented for the night, just like Burt had told him to do, and waited for the cell phone to ring. He wished he could call home, let his mother know he was all right and not to worry, but Burt told him when he gave him the phone that it was only to be used to communicate with him. Still, Archer was tempted. How would Burt know, anyway, if he called home?

Forget it, he told himself. Burt seemed to know everything.

He wished he knew who Burt was. Maybe if he had a last name, he wouldn’t be so scary.

Nah, Archer decided. Knowing his last name wouldn’t make much difference. Burt would always be scary. He was just a scary kind of guy.

His hands over his eyes, Archer tried to make sense of his life. It had all gotten too crazy, too fast. One minute he’s at the Well trying to score with Lisa Shelton; the next minute he’s putting a bullet in the back of some old man’s head.

God, I didn’t mean to . . . I never meant to . . .

The cell phone rang rudely, and he looked at it for a long moment. What if he didn’t answer it? What if he took the money Burt had given him and just disappeared forever?

What if this all turned out to be nothing more than a bad, bad dream? That the past twenty-four hours had never happened? He’d wake up in his old bed. And, back in Telford, that old man would still be alive. . . .

The phone continued to ring. Finally, he answered it.

“Where were you?” the voice demanded.

“I was, ah, in the bathroom.”

“Next time take the phone with you.”

“Okay.”

“Now, where are you?”

“I’m still in the motel, like you said. You told me to stay here till I heard from you.”

“Well, I think it’ll be okay if you leave now. Take the next bus to the place I told you about. You’ll be okay. No one knows it was you; there’s nothing to connect you to the old man.”

“They know. That woman . . . Cahill . . . she’s gonna know. . . .”

“What?” Burt’s voice went cold. “What did you say?”

“She’s gonna know it was me. They already knew about the game, her and that other guy. The big FBI guy. They came to my house. They told me they knew what—”

“When were you planning on telling me this, asshole?” Burt’s anger rumbled like an avalanche through the phone.

“I . . . I . . .” Archer began to stutter.

“You . . . you . . . what?” Burt snapped. “The FBI was at your house, and you didn’t bother to mention it?
She
was at your house and you didn’t think that was important enough to tell me?”

“I didn’t get a chance,” Archer began to whine. “You didn’t let me tell you anything. You never give me a chance to say anything.”

“What exactly did they say? What did they want?”

“They . . . they said they knew about the game. About Curtis and Vince and me.”

“You tell me this now,
after
you do Unger?” Burt swore under his breath.

“I tried to tell you before but you—”

“You didn’t try hard enough, did you?” Burt’s breathing came a little faster now, and the sound of it through the phone made Archer’s heart beat almost out of his chest. “How did they know?”

“I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe Curtis told them before he died. Maybe they just figured it out.”

“All right, this is what you do. You stay there, keep your head down. You got enough money left for another day, right?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to.” He paused again, as if thinking. “If you’re right, maybe they’ll be watching for you. Shit. I guess I’ll have to drive out for you myself.”

Archer’s insides twisted.

“Then, we’ll go over what you need to do next. Get it over with fast and be done with it before they can track you down. You been thinking about who you’re going to do next?”

“Yes.” Archer closed his eyes.
NO.
“But if they know who—”

“Did they say they know?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then they don’t know. You got two choices, Archer. You decide who goes next—and how you plan to pull it off—or I’ll decide for you.”

The phone went dead, and Archer turned it off.

Shit. Burt was coming for him. He was going to want to know who was next on the list and how he was going to do it.

Shit.

Well, not much choice involved in the how. He only had the one weapon. The gun Burt had given him, the one he’d used to kill Unger, was in his backpack.

As for who, well, how was he supposed to do that?

Maybe he should let Burt decide.

He shook off the idea. Maybe Burt would just see that as a weakness on Archer’s part, and he’d probably shoot Archer instead. From his pocket, he took a quarter and tossed it back and forth, one hand to the other. He’d have to flip for the name.

Mentally, he assigned heads to one name, tails to the other, then he tossed the coin on the floor and watched it roll across the worn carpet.

Tails.

Shit.

CHAPTER
TEN

The alarm shrilled away dangerously close to Will’s head at half-past six. He’d set it for an early hour so that he could get a shower and slip downstairs before Miranda woke in order to make coffee and maybe even start breakfast. She wanted friends, he’d give her friends. He’d be the best friend she ever had. And then, maybe she’d see that beneath the cloak of friendship, there was so much more.

At least, that was the plan he’d come up with a few hours earlier, after having lain awake most of the night trying to think things through. He and Miranda had such a jumbled past. They’d never worked a job together that hadn’t ended up with the two of them in bed.

Not that that was a bad thing.

But lately, it had occurred to Will that he wanted more from her. Over the past several years, the routine had been pretty much the same. Work together, sleep together. Go their own way. Work together, sleep together. Go their own way. And that had been fine, for a while.

Will could point with certainty to the exact moment when he realized that was no longer fine.

Miranda had been working a job—alone—in New Jersey’s Pine Barrens, playing guard dog to Kendra Smith, the Bureau’s favorite sketch artist. Kendra’s house had been broken into by the serial killer who had more than a passing interest in her, and in trying to protect Kendra, Miranda had been coldcocked. In the resultant fall down the steps, she’d cracked her head open on the newel post, and spent the next twelve hours unconscious. Will had been sent to join in the hunt for the killer, which had served the dual purpose of allowing him to be involved in the investigation as well as to be at Miranda’s bedside when she awoke.

“Oh, God,” she’d groaned when she opened her eyes and focused on his face. “I knew it! I’ve died and gone to hell. . . .”

He’d laughed then, and he chuckled now, remembering how her smile had beaten back the fear that had spread through him when he’d first seen her in the hospital, her face black and blue, stitches running into her hairline. But remembering that forced him to recall the rest of that day, when a massive blunder on his part had almost cost Kendra her life. Assigned to keeping Kendra under wraps until her official FBI escort had arrived, in his eagerness to return to the hospital and Miranda, Will had handed Kendra directly into the hands of a madman.

It had taken him months to live down what could have been a fatal mistake, months before he could look at himself without loathing, cursing himself for his stupidity and knowing that only Kendra’s own quick thinking and resolve had saved her life.Will had retreated to his house in the woods and had ventured back into the office no sooner than he’d had to. He had three weeks’ vacation coming to him, and opted to take all three right then.

“Will, we all suffer from poor judgment at times,” John had told him when he’d finally reported back in.

“Kendra could have been killed. She almost
was
killed,” Will reminded his boss.

“Thank God it didn’t turn out that way.”

“How can you gloss over this?”

“Oh, make no mistake, Fletcher—” John had frowned “—there’s no glossing over here. What you did was stupid. You handed a woman over to a serial killer and walked away without a second thought.”

“So why aren’t you firing me?”

“Because in spite of your carelessness in this one instance, you’re a fine agent. You’ve done outstanding work in the past, and I’ve no doubt you’ll do outstanding work in the future. You’re an integral part of my team, and I need you.” John’s chair swiveled back and forth slowly, and he faced Will straight on. “And I have to admit, looking back over my career, there have been times when I’ve done incredibly stupid things. Yes, even handed a witness or a potential victim over to another law enforcement agent without thoroughly checking their identification. In your case, there were several dozen cops, other agents, and state troopers on the scene. I can see why you would have assumed that the man who identified himself as the agent expected to take Kendra Smith off your hands was exactly who he said he was. Who expected to find a serial killer right there in the midst of all those lawmen?”

“I’ve relived that minute over and over—”

“Don’t.” John stopped the chair’s back-and-forth motion. “It’s done. Move on. Learn from it, and move on.”

“John, when I think about what that guy could have done to her—”

“I understand, and I’d have serious reservations about you if you’d shrugged it off without a second thought. But at this point, you need to move past it. If you can’t, you will become a serious liability to the unit, Will. You’ll spend too much time second-guessing your every move. Sooner or later, that kind of hesitation is going to get someone hurt. So I repeat. Learn from the mistake, and move on to your next assignment.” John reached across his desk for a file. “Which I happen to have right here . . .”

Will had taken the file and left the office, determined to regain his standing within the team. He’d moved on to that case, and then to the next, and then to the one after that, keeping as low a profile as possible within the unit, spending as little time in the office as he could get away with. He’d pretty much avoided everyone, for a while. For as long as John allowed him to lick his wounds, anyway. Moving back among the ranks of his unit hadn’t been quite as bad as he’d feared, though the first time he’d had to face fellow agent Adam Stark had been a bit tense. Adam, who’d been quietly in love with Kendra for several years, had been the last person Will had wanted to see. But Adam had been reasonably civil, if not cordial, and even Kendra had not been accusatory when they’d run into each other briefly in the hall several weeks later.

It had taken him a while, but he soon reestablished himself as one of Mancini’s top dogs.

But not the alpha dog, he reminded himself as he strolled to the shower. Not today, anyway, but that was okay. Today he was going to be Mr. Nice Guy. Mr. Best Friend. At least until he could figure out just what was really between Miranda and him.

He showered and dressed in record time. He hummed softly on his way past the room where Miranda slept, pausing to listen outside the door. There was no sound from within.

She must really be zonked,
he thought as he quietly ran down the stairs and went into the kitchen.

He surveyed the breakfast possibilities. He had bread and eggs. Maybe he’d surprise her with French toast. Cahill’s sweet tooth was known to act up in the morning from time to time. He was filling the coffeepot with water when he glanced out the window.

The little white Spyder was MIA. Hadn’t he left it right at the end of the drive?

Damn,
he muttered on his way down the hall. When he got to the front door, he realized it was already unlocked. Stepping out onto the porch in his bare feet, he saw that the Spyder was indeed gone.

He sat on the top step, his arms resting on his knees, and watched a few big yellow leaves float down from the maple at the end of the drive. Another minute passed before he took the cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed her number.

“I guess you’re not on the way back from the neighborhood store with groceries,” he said when she picked up.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

“Where are you?” He forced a light tone, not wanting to sound as peevish as he felt.

“I’m just pulling into my driveway.”

“Why?”

“Well, since I slept most of the way between New Jersey and Virginia, I was awake most of the night. Still awake at five, so I figured I might as well get up and get some work done. Unfortunately, I had nothing to work on there, and since I didn’t know how long you’d be sleeping, I just figured I’d come home. Besides, the whole idea of me sleeping there last night was to keep me from driving home in the middle of a very dark night, so I figured driving at dawn would be fine.”

“Oh, sure. It is fine. I was just wondering what happened to you, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s all that happened. I came home because I was wide awake.” She paused, then asked, “So what are you doing up so early?”

“I got up to make breakfast.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“What are you making?”

“French toast.”

“Yum. My favorite.”

“I know. I was making it for you.”

“Oh.” She fell silent, and so did he.

Finally, he said, “No big deal. Twice as much for me.”

“Next time, Fletcher.”

“Sure.” He wondered if there’d be a next time.

“Oh, before I forget, did you ever hear back from Evan?” she said, deftly changing the subject.

“Don’t know.” He got up and went inside. “I’ll have to check the messages on the answering machine.”

The phone sat on the edge of the old worn desk that had once stood in his grandfather’s study. It pleased Will to have it in his home now. He’d had to trade with his cousin Jen, who’d arrived at their gran’s house before he did on the day Gran was giving away her furniture, but it was worth giving up two or three other prized objects for the desk. It was the one piece he’d really coveted.

He hit the message button.

“Hey. It’s Carole. We just wanted to let you know that Junie had her baby last week. Baby boy, cute as can be. They named him Nathaniel. Give us a call when you get a chance. You have the number. . . .”

“That was my cousin,” Will explained as he hit the delete button.

“Cute name, Nathaniel.”

“Yeah.” He made a mental note to send something to cousin Junie for the baby.

“Will. Evan Crosby. Got your message late, I’m just back from the training program at Quantico, trying to catch up here. To answer your question, I did ask my old partner from the Lyndon PD to find out if there’s any record at the courthouse of the three amigos spending time together, but I haven’t heard from him. I will be back at my county job on Monday, so I’ll ask around and get back to you. By the way, I heard about Unger getting it. I can’t believe we were all so wrong about Lowell. Annie’s taking it hard, that she so misread him. Anyway, I’ll be talking to you.” There was a brief pause, then, “Oh. Were you and Miranda able to come up with any other likely victims? Just curious . . .”

“You heard all that?” Will asked.

“Yes,” Miranda said. “Poor Annie. I’m sure she does feel badly. I think I’ll give her a call. . . .”

“You going into the office?”

“Today? It’s Sunday,” she reminded him.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“True enough. Yeah, I’ll probably take a run in.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Okay. See you. And thanks. For the bed in the middle of the night. For thinking to make breakfast for me.”

“Anytime,” he said, and disconnected.

Will sat on the edge of the desk and tried to decide if Miranda had really left because she was wide awake, or if she just didn’t want the intimacy of facing him over breakfast this morning. It was a tough call. Given their history,
just friends
might be harder to pull off than he’d expected.

On the other hand, maybe friendship is overrated.

He tapped restless fingers on the desk, then went into the kitchen, where he tried to analyze the situation while he finished making breakfast for himself. Midway through the first stack of French toast he decided a phone call was in order. Between bites, he dialed Anne Marie McCall’s cell and left a message.

By the time he finished eating, she’d returned the call and agreed to meet him at the office at one.

Back to work,
he told himself as he drained his coffee cup and deposited it, along with his plate, in the dishwasher.
Keep it focused. Don’t let the bad guys win.

Watch Miranda’s back . . .

Genna peered out the window and watched the snow pile higher around the fence that outlined the compound. She’d been hoping that the storm would pass by this time, but she’d had no such luck. For the second day in a row, the snow continued to drift. If it didn’t stop soon, there’d be no way she’d be able to leave the compound that afternoon with Caroline, the girl whose essay on self-discipline had been chosen as the best of the week.

Last week’s trip into Linden had been uneventful, but of course, that was the point.

She and Eileen had ridden with Daniel, a large, dour man who rarely strayed far from the reverend’s side. When he parked next to the local market, Genna and her charge had jumped out. Knowing Daniel watched every step she took, Genna had put a hand on Eileen’s arm to hold her back. Together she and the girl had walked—slowly—to the chain drugstore in the center of town. Once inside, the normally shy Eileen perked up a bit. After having been behind the gates of the compound for several months, she was dazzled by the array of products, as if she’d forgotten what it was like to shop. Then again, hadn’t Genna heard that Eileen had lived in shelters and on the streets for the past three years? Even a modest shop might have been beyond her means.

With Genna by her side, the girl wandered from aisle to aisle, touching hair clips in one, nail polish in another, a long-handled bath brush in yet another.

“Do you see anything you’d like to have?” Genna asked.

“I don’t know.” Eileen had studied a box of fake nails. “Everything looks so . . . fun.”

“Why not look for something you can enjoy for a long time?” Genna suggested. “I noticed that you like to write poetry. Perhaps you’d like a special notebook and a pen to write your poems with.”

It had taken almost forty-five minutes, but Eileen had finally selected a fat spiral notebook with a cover the color of blue denim, and a pale yellow pen that wrote with blue ink.

“Thank you, Miss Ruth.” Eileen had beamed when they left the store. “Thank you so much.”

“You earned it. It’s your reward for having done well with your essay.”

They stood at the corner where the two main streets of Linden intersected. Across the street and down two blocks, the Linden Diner marked the boundary of the small town.

“We’ll have lunch at the diner there,” Genna had told her. “But we’ll have to watch the time. We don’t want to be late meeting up with Daniel.”