Dead Even (9 page)

CHAPTER
SEVEN

At twenty-five minutes past midnight, in the empty movie theater, the frail, stooped man slid his broom under the front row of seats. Methodically, he swept the debris into a central pile.

“Mr. Unger?” Will said. He and Miranda approached the old man slowly, so as not to alarm him.

“I’m Al Unger.” The man stopped pushing the broom he held with both hands and leaned upon it, his expression guarded.

“My name is Will Fletcher. This is Miranda Cahill. We’re with the FBI.”

“Jesus, not again.” Unger looked from one agent to the other. “Curt come back from the dead and kill someone else?”

“Not yet,” Miranda told him. “But we’re thinking he might do just that, in a manner of speaking.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I know he’s dead. I was one of the few people at his funeral who actually knew him.”

“We’re aware of that, Mr. Unger.” Miranda hesitated. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

Unger gestured toward the empty movie theater.

“Got the whole theater to ourselves. Oughta be good enough.”

“How about we sit down here in the front?” Will pointed to the row of seats.

“Long as it don’t hold me up too long. I don’t want to miss my bus,” Unger told them as he sat. “Now, what the hell is this all about, talking about Curtis coming back from the dead? What kind of nonsense is that?”

Miranda and Will filled him in on the FBI’s theory.

“You have got to be kidding. You think Curt asked someone else to kill me?” Unger’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his sparse hairline. “Why in the name of God would he do that?”

“Before Curtis died, he’d been holding a woman captive. Her name was Anne Marie McCall. She’s an FBI profiler,” Miranda told him.

“I remember that. She was the sister of that girl Curt been trying to find.”

Miranda nodded.

“Curt told Dr. McCall that he hated you for killing his mother.”

Unger stared at Miranda blankly.

“Hated me for that? For killing her and stopping his suffering? Shit.” Unger shook his head. “You’d think he’d a been thanking me. Why would he hate me for that?”

“Because he’d wanted to kill her himself.”

Unger nodded slowly. “That, I can understand. I can understand why he would have wanted to been the one . . . but he was just a little boy then. Eight, nine, maybe. If she’d a kept on doing what she’d been doing to him, he wouldn’t have lived long enough to grow up.”

“That’s probably true, Mr. Unger,” Miranda agreed.

“But the problem we have now,” Will told him, “is that someone else might be thinking about doing that job for him.”

“Curt killed someone for him, you said, so you figure now this other person is going to kill me for Curt?”

“Close enough.” Will nodded.

“Well, then, best I can do is watch my back.” Albert Unger stood slowly. “Any idea what this guy looks like? The one who wants to kill me?”

“He’s young, about twenty. Tall, lanky. Bad skin . . .” Miranda opened the leather bag that hung from her shoulder.

Unger started to laugh.

“Miss, that’s a fair description of maybe half the young men who come into this theater.”

“Maybe this will help.” She handed him a photograph. “That’s his mug shot. He looks a bit different these days. His hair’s a bit longer; he’s lost some weight. . . .”

“Still looks like half the kids I see on any given day. I can’t be running every time some young kid comes through that door.”

“We’re not suggesting that. We just want you to be aware of people. A little more watchful, maybe. And here.” She took a card out of her wallet. “If you even think someone is watching you, if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable, or uneasy, I want you to call me. Stay right where you are until we can get someone to you, okay?”

He studied the card, then slipped it into his pocket.

“Sure. Thanks.” He stood up, leaning on the broom handle to get out of his seat. “You know, someone was by a few weeks ago. Some writer. Said he used to get mail from Curtis. Said he wants to talk to me, maybe do a book about me and Curtis. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”

“It sure would,” Miranda agreed.

“Well, I better get back to work here. I lock up, you know, after I’m done, and if I’m too late turning the lights off, the local cops come in to see what’s going on, and the boss always hears about it. Thanks for letting me know what’s what.”

“You’re welcome. Just be careful.”

“Will do, Agent . . .”

“Fletcher,” Will told him.

“Pleased to have met you.” Albert Unger went back to pushing his broom under the seats, and brought a wide swath of popcorn and candy wrappers into the light.

“Mr. Unger,” Miranda paused on her way up the aisle, “what was the name of the writer who contacted you?”

“Don’t remember, offhand.” Unger turned to her. “Got his card at home someplace, though.”

“When you find it, or if he calls you again, will you let me know?”

“Sure, sure.” The old man nodded. “Be glad to give you a call.”

“Collect,” she called over her shoulder. “Call collect . . .”

“Will do.” He went back to sweeping the floor.

“Kind of a sad old guy, isn’t he?” Miranda said as they left the theater.

“He’s had a sad life.” Will held the door for her, and together they stepped out into the night air. “Falls in love with a woman who has a young son and addictions to drugs and alcohol. Robs a store to keep her in what she needs, gets caught, and goes to prison. Meanwhile, she still needs.”

“So she pimps out her little boy to feed her addictions,” she said as they reached the car.

“And when Al gets out of prison and finds out what she’s done, he kills her.” Will unlocked the car doors. “Spends the next thirty years of his life behind bars.”

“During which time the little boy grows into a man with very terrible needs of his own.” Miranda summed it up as she slid into her seat. “End of story.”

“Not quite.” Will started the car. “There’s still that little epilogue that Archer Lowell might be thinking about writing.”

“That’s our job, to keep him from doing just that.”

“Think he took us seriously?” Will asked. “Unger?”

“I think so. I expect to hear from him, if anything odd is going on. He spent thirty years behind bars. He’s just getting his life back again. I’d think he’d want to hang on to it for a while.”

“Well, then, we’re just going to have to be smart enough to make sure he does just that.”

Two days later, Archer rested his head against the window of the bus and stared into the dark beyond. Several hours had passed since he’d boarded the Greyhound and taken a seat all the way in the back, where he could sit alone and think about what he should do.

He knew Burt had been watching him. Knew if he hadn’t gotten on the bus there’d have been hell to pay. He bit a straggly fingernail and wondered how Burt would know whether he killed this old man in Ohio.

Of course, he’d know. He’s
Burt
. He knows everything.

For a moment it crossed Archer’s mind to wonder if perhaps Burt was really not of this world, like some of the movies he’d seen. Maybe he wasn’t really a flesh-and-blood man; maybe he was from another dimension. Like in the comic books or video games. It could explain how Burt seemed to know so much about what Archer was thinking.

Like this morning, when the phone rang, even before Archer was out of bed.

“Are you packed?” the voice had asked. Archer knew, of course, whose voice it was.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m packed.” Archer sat up and ran a hand over his face. “I’m ready.”

“You wouldn’t be thinking about not making this trip, would you?”

“No, no. I told you I would . . . do it.”

“You want to be on that bus when it leaves this afternoon, Archie. You don’t want to know what will happen if you miss it.”

The phone had gone dead before Archer could reply.

“Shit,” he muttered aloud in the dim corner of the bus. “Shit.”

He leaned back in the seat and wrapped his arms over his chest, pondering his options. And, of course, when Burt had called back later in the morning, he’d given him options. Archer could go ahead and kill this old man, this Unger guy, or Burt would take Archer’s sister.

It had crossed his mind to ask where Burt would take her, since getting her out of his life, as far as Archer was concerned, would be no big loss. As miserable as she was, Archer had been sorely tempted, but it would kill his mother if anything happened to the bitch, so it really wasn’t much of a choice. Besides, there’d been something in the way Burt had said his sister’s name—
Angelina
—that had sent a chill right up his spine.

Of course,
most
of what Burt said sent a shiver up his spine.

Archer sighed. This was a real good example of what his grandmother would say was making your bed and lying in it. Well, he was lying in it, all right.

He patted his shirt pocket and felt the slip of paper upon which Burt had listed all the information Archer would need to do the deed: the victim’s name, his home address, and the address of the theater where he worked.

Shit. He’d said
victim
. He ran a hand through his hair. This old guy was gonna be his victim. A murder victim. And that would make him, Archer, a murderer.

“Shit.”

Restless, he surveyed the other passengers, wondering if Burt might have someone on the bus to watch him and report back. That was a possibility he hadn’t considered before. That guy there in the black leather jacket, maybe. Or maybe that girl with all the curly brown hair up near the driver. Could be Burt’s girl. Sure, Burt would have a dishy-looking girl, wouldn’t he?

The bus pulled to the side of the road and the driver announced the stop. Archer removed the folded paper from his pocket and strained to read in the dark. This was Oak Avenue. Two more stops and they’d be at Ridge, which was where he was supposed to get off. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants and stood up. If someone was watching him, someone here in the bus, he’d better get off at the right stop. Once off the bus, he’d figure out where to go from there.

Two stops later, Archer walked the length of the bus, his eyes darting from side to side to see if anyone seemed interested in his leaving. No one appeared to be, but then again, anyone working with Burt would be too smart to let themselves be caught watching, wouldn’t they?

He hopped down the steps, his heart in his mouth. There, right there, not two doors down, stood the movie theater. Archer took a deep breath and walked toward the ticket booth, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible under the circumstances. He bought his ticket for the nine-forty-five show and went in through the heavy glass doors.

The Telford Theater was one of those old-fashioned movie theaters you didn’t see many of these days. A single-screen theater. There were few patrons for the last screening of the sappy comedy that was playing. Archer sat in the back row, huddling in the dark in the far-left corner and taking stock of the others in the audience. A random couple or two, but mostly single people here and there throughout the theater. He wondered if any of them had been sent by Burt to make sure Archer stayed behind after the movie ended, like he’d been instructed to do.

“Before the movie ends, you crouch down there on the floor. When everyone else has gone, you creep down to the front on your hands and knees. When you hear the old man start to sweep, you get as close as you can, plug him, and leave.”

“What if someone else is there, what if everyone doesn’t leave?”

“Then I guess you follow the old man home and plug him on the way. Best to do it in the theater, though. He’s usually the last one there.”

“But what if someone hears the gun?”

“It’s a small caliber, won’t make all that much noise if you get real close up. And besides, like I told you, the old man closes up after the last show. Won’t be no one around to hear nothing. Just take care of your business, walk down to the bus stop, and wait for the next bus.”

“But . . .”

“Archie. No buts.” Burt had started to sound a little testy at this point, so Archer had shut up.

“Okay.” Archer had sighed.

“Don’t let Vince down, Archie.” Burt had hung up while Archer was still trying to figure out what bus he was supposed to get on after he shot the old man.

The movie theme song began to play louder, and the credits began to roll. Reluctantly, Archer slid off his seat and onto the floor, landing in a pool of something sticky. He moved quietly toward the end of the row, wiping his hands on the carpet in disgust. Discarded bits of popcorn exploded under his knees and clung to the legs of his pants. He cursed under his breath as he slunk forward toward the front of the theater. At one point he paused and ventured a peek across the room. The theater was empty. There was no one left to see him, but still he crawled along the floor. He did not want to see the face of the man he was supposed to kill. If he stayed down here, he could wait for the man to come into the theater, creep up on him from behind, and shoot him in the back of the head. That way, he wouldn’t have to look the man in the eyes. He wasn’t sure he could pull the trigger if he knew what the man looked like. Right now, Al Unger was sort of a blank man. Like pictures you see in the newspaper or in magazines, where they show the shape of a head but no facial features. That’s how he wanted to think of Al Unger. A face without features.

A shuffling sound from the front of the room stopped Archer in his tracks. Cautiously, he peered over the rows of seats. A frail little man with a broom under his arm was dragging a large shop vacuum cleaner into the pit area in front of the first row of seats.

Archer made his way to the far end of the front row, still on his hands and knees, and watched the old man clean under the seats with the broom. When he’d accumulated a hefty pile of debris, he turned on the large shop vac and began to suck up the trash.

This was it. This was the moment.

As soon as Unger turned his back, Archer forced himself to his feet. Still crouching, as if he’d be struck dead if he stood up, Archer rounded the corner and approached Unger from behind. He took the small handgun from his pocket and, with it in his right hand, walked up behind Unger. Raising the gun and aiming straight at the back of the man’s head, Archer fired one bullet.