Kill Fee (39 page)

W
indermere ducked past Rachel Parkerson and ran through the house, dodging two confused kids and a stunned city cop on her way out the back door.
God damn it,
she thought.
I guess that settles that.

They’d barely shown Parkerson’s wife their badges when the bastard started running. He’d known what they were there for. Hadn’t even bothered with pretense.

Ahead of her, Parkerson had hopped the fence into his neighbor’s lot and was slipping around the side of the next house. Windermere gripped her Glock tight and ran.
“Stop,”
she yelled.
“FBI!”

Parkerson ignored her. Disappeared around the side of the house. Windermere ducked her head and ran.

PARKERSON BURST OUT
into the neighbors’ driveway, one street over. The street was quiet, peaceful. A couple kids played basketball a few houses down. Someone was watering his lawn. Another night in the suburbs.

A blue Ford Explorer pulled around the corner and started up the block. Parkerson recognized it. Gulped some air and hurried toward it, met it as it turned up a driveway. “Jerry,” Parkerson said, a sheepish smile on his face. “Man, glad you’re here.”

His neighbor stepped out of the car, a concerned look on his face. “Everything okay, Mike?”

“Rachel needs milk,” he said. “My car’s in the shop. Do you mind?”

Jerry frowned. “Mike—”

Parkerson heard voices behind him. The Feds burst from between two houses, guns drawn. Parkerson turned back to his neighbor. Ripped the keys from his hand and slid behind the wheel. Slammed the door closed and fired up the engine as Jerry banged on the hood, shouting something, chasing him back down the driveway.

Parkerson shifted into drive just as the cops approached. Stood on the gas and heard the big engine roar. The Ford surged down the street, leaving the cops sucking exhaust. He reached the corner and turned and just drove.

“SHIT.”
Windermere watched the big SUV disappear. “God
damn
it.”

Beside her, Parkerson’s neighbor was losing his mind. Windermere tuned him out. Stevens appeared beside her, panting for breath. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “This bastard is slippery.”

Windermere holstered her Glock. “We need backup,” she said. “Whoever we can get. Every eye on the road looking for blue Ford Explorers.”

Stevens nodded. “We’ll get him,” he said. “He won’t get far.”

“We’d better goddamn get him,” she said. “We’ve come too far to watch him flee the freaking coop, Stevens.”

She stood in the center of the road, staring down at the empty intersection. Watched a Cornelius PD cruiser speed past, lights blazing, siren loud. She waited until it had disappeared, then turned around and hurried back to Parkerson’s house.

P
arkerson watched the rearview mirror and hardly dared to breathe. The street was empty behind him. The cops were gone. He kept driving.

They’d be calling in his plates, he knew. There’d be police on his tail, locals and state troopers and FBI alike. He had to get out of Jerry’s Explorer. Hide out somewhere and figure a plan.

His heart wouldn’t stop racing. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d been eating lasagna with his kids. Now he was running for his life. How the hell had they found him? Didn’t matter; they’d done it. The only important thing now was escape.

Escape.

The asset was at the lake house. He’d driven down from Delaware in a dead man’s car. Maybe they were lucky and the police hadn’t ID’d the victims yet. Maybe the car wasn’t made. They could swap the plates, anyway. And the asset was armed. There were guns at the lake house. And
nobody but Parkerson and the asset even knew the place existed. They’d be safe there, for a while. At least until dark.

Parkerson drove north, avoiding the interstate. He circled the lake and took side roads until he reached Mooresville, where he risked a heart-stopping five minutes on busy Highway 150 before ducking off onto rural roads again. He kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, searching for cops. Didn’t see a one. He was close to the lake house now. Almost in the clear.

The lake road was deserted. Parkerson waited at the intersection until he was sure nobody had followed him. Then he turned and followed the shore to a little grove of trees at the end of the road. Drove into the grove and parked beside an old Chevy truck next to the cabin. Killed the engine and sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for his heart to slow. The lake twinkled through the forest, a late-evening show. Soon the sun would be down. Night would fall, and he could escape undetected.

Parkerson looked out at the old truck alongside. The house was dark behind it. There was no sign of life, but Parkerson knew the asset was inside, waiting for instruction. Waiting, though he didn’t know it yet, to die.

Wendell Gray would have to be disposed of. He was an anchor now, a liability, even if he’d shown potential. It would be messy. It would be violent and difficult and altogether unclean. Parkerson felt slightly sick as he thought about it.

Still, it was a necessity. Gray had to die, and so he would. Parkerson straightened and reached for the door handle, steeling himself to the task. The sun was setting. It would be nighttime soon. In a few hours, he could escape.

W
indermere and Stevens circled back to Michael Parkerson’s house in time to meet a cavalry of assorted police vehicles—state patrol cruisers, local radio cars from the Cornelius PD, a couple unmarked sedans and SUVs from the FBI detachment in Charlotte. As they walked up to the house, another FBI agent emerged from the front door.

“Wife doesn’t know shit about any lake house,” he told Windermere. “Claims she has no idea where her husband might have gone.”

Windermere looked down the driveway at the chaos in the street. “I’ll handle the circus,” she told Stevens. “You talk to Parkerson’s wife.”

Stevens watched Windermere wade into the mess of law enforcement, her hands raised, her presence commanding. Watched the cops swarm to her like iron filings to a magnet.
Better her than me,
he thought, turning toward the house. He walked up to the porch and pushed open the front door.

Rachel Parkerson sat in the kitchen, dinner half-eaten around her. She looked up as he walked into the room. “You catch him?”

Stevens shook his head. “Not yet.”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Where did he go? The last guy said something about a lake house?”

Stevens sat down opposite Rachel at the kitchen table. A couple kids watched from the doorway, a teenage boy and a young girl. “Right now, we’re not sure where your husband went,” he said. “We’re hoping you can help us.”

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know anything,” she said. “What’s this about, anyway?”

“We think your husband was using his position at Magnusson to run an online crime website.” Stevens glanced at the kids in the doorway. “Effectively, he killed people for money.”

Rachel Parkerson looked up. “You’re not serious.”

“It’s not the worst of it,” he said. “If our suspicions are correct, he kidnapped two young men—and potentially more—to kill for him. Soldiers, both of them, war veterans with psychological issues. He trained them to carry out his murders.”

“I don’t believe it.” Rachel shook her head. “Are you hearing yourself? Michael is a good husband. A father. He would never do anything like that.”

“Sure,” Stevens said. “You’re as shocked as anyone right now. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

“There’s nothing to figure out, Officer. You have the wrong guy.”

Stevens glanced at the kids again. They were listening, rapt. He sighed and turned back to Rachel Parkerson. “We put your husband at a contract killing in Miami two Saturdays ago. A witness saw a gray Cadillac at the scene. Was your husband at home that weekend?”

Rachel closed her eyes. Leaned back and didn’t say anything. “He drove to Miami that weekend,” she said finally.

“What about this weekend? Was he in town the whole time?”

Her shoulders slumped. “He had to fly somewhere. For business.”

“On Sunday.”

“Sunday, yeah.”

“He flew to Las Vegas,” Stevens told her. “He brought one of the soldiers he’d kidnapped. Together, they murdered five people at the Rio Casino and ran over an innocent bystander. The bystander lived. He gave us a description that matches your husband.”

Rachel Parkerson stared up at the ceiling. Exhaled, slow.

“Your husband is a very dangerous man,” Stevens said. “We need to know how to find him.”

Rachel stayed silent a beat longer. “I thought he was just stressed from
work,” she said finally. “You know, he handles these big defense contracts. I figured it must be the pressure setting him off. I never knew.”

“How could you?” said Stevens.

“He’s my
husband
.”

“He’s a skilled liar. A manipulator.”

“He’s the man I married,” she said. “He isn’t some psychopath. He’s a nice guy and a good father. He’s a good human being.”

“We need to find him,” said Stevens. “He’s a dangerous man. We think he keeps the men he’s kidnapped in a lake house somewhere, but I checked your family records, and you don’t own any lake property.”

Rachel nodded. “That’s right.”

“He probably purchased it using a shell corporation. Did he ever mention anything like that to you? Ever talk about a lake house anywhere?”

“No.” Rachel rubbed her eyes. “God damn it,
yes
. I don’t know if he owned anything or not. He was sure obsessed with that lake, though.”

“What lake?” Stevens said. “Lake Norman?”

“He said his family used to have a patch of land somewhere, a trailer. Bought it right after they dammed the river in the sixties. He took us out one time, right to the spot. Said he used to love it out there.”

“You think he might have gone back?”

“How should I know?” Rachel sighed. “You tell me.”

“Sure,” said Stevens. “Fine. You said he took you there once.”

“That’s right. Me and the kids.”

Stevens looked her in the eye. “Can you find your way back?”

P
arkerson swung open the cabin door and peered into the darkness. “Hello?”

There was no answer, only stillness. The whole house was dark. Parkerson fumbled against the wall for the light switch. Flipped it on and surveyed the small room.

The asset wasn’t inside. The living room was empty. So was the tiny kitchen. Parkerson stepped through the doorway, frustration mixing with the first tinges of fear. It was creepy out here in the quiet. Where the hell was the asset? This was no time for games.

Parkerson checked the bathroom and the two tiny bedrooms. Both were empty. Tried the back door; it was stuck. He tugged it until it opened, sending a winter’s worth of dust billowing into the room. The asset hadn’t used the back door, anyway. Parkerson walked back into the kitchen. The basement door was ajar. There was a dim light from downstairs.

“David?”

Parkerson stood at the top of the stairs and peered down. Listened. Heard nothing. Damn it, now he really was creeped out. All the guns were in the basement. The ammunition. Locked up, but still. He stepped back into the kitchen. There was a hunting knife on the counter. It was crusted with dried blood. Parkerson took it and walked back to the stairs.

“David?” he called. “Soldier?”

Still no answer. Shaking his head, Parkerson gripped the railing and started down. The whole house was silent. Crickets chirped outside. The
low buzz of the forest at twilight. And nothing but eerie silence from inside the house.

A stair creaked beneath Parkerson’s feet. He stiffened, half jumped, laughed at himself.
Calm the heck down,
he thought.
Nothing to be afraid of. The asset’s probably bugged out, is all.

Parkerson reached the bottom of the staircase. The basement was lit by a single dim bulb. Shadows everywhere. The door to the asset’s cell was open. The asset wasn’t inside.

He was standing by the projection equipment. He was watching the nightmares on the small TV screen. The sound was muted. The images on-screen sent light flickering up onto the asset’s face. His eyes weren’t empty anymore. They were dark. The asset turned to look at Parkerson. “You did this to me,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “You made me this way.”

Parkerson hid the knife behind him. Held up his free hand. “The war made you this way, David,” he said. “I’m just trying to help.”

The asset raised his own hand.
“Shut the fuck up.”
His whole body was shaking. Parkerson stared at the kid’s hand. He was holding a pistol, sleek and shiny and black. The pistol was shaking, too. It was shaking bad.