The Watcher in the Wall (14 page)

“No sign of him,” Stevens said, holstering his pistol as they reached the front gate again. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.”

Windermere dug in her pocket, came up with the pack of Marlboros, a lighter. Figured she’d gone all day without one, she deserved to light up. She lit the cigarette, inhaled. Realized Stevens was staring at her, at the cigarette, looking like she’d just showed him her third arm or something.

“What?” she said. “You’ve never seen a girl smoke before, Stevens?”

Stevens held up his hands, didn’t push it. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he said. “Just surprised, is all.”

“Yeah, well.” She took another quick drag, felt dirty inside and wondered why she’d bothered. Flicked the butt away half-smoked. “Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. Let’s get out of here.”

<
52
>

“So where’s your boyfriend live?”

Wednesday afternoon. Second—and final—day of detention. Paul Dayton had spent Tuesday’s prison sentence casting looks Madison’s way, trying to catch her eye. She’d kept her face in her history textbook and ignored him, counted the minutes until Rhodes freed them and she could text Brandon again.

Wednesday, though, and Rhodes had disappeared about ten minutes into the sentence, left Paul and Madison alone in the classroom together. They could hear Rhodes in the hall, talking Rays baseball with some other teacher. He wasn’t really bothering to check on them.

Madison had pulled her cell phone from her purse the moment Rhodes disappeared. Logged on to The End and opened a message to Brandon.

Stuck in detention,
she wrote.
Blah. You around?

But Brandon hadn’t answered. She wondered where he was—was school over in Iowa yet? It wasn’t like he had a job. He swore he didn’t have friends but Madison knew that wasn’t true. She’d seen his Facebook page, and he had almost a hundred friends. He was cute and pretty funny, and he was charming, too, the way he actually paid attention to her when they talked. So why couldn’t he see himself the way the rest of the world did?

“Hello?”
Paul leaned over and rapped on her desk. “Earth to Madison. You’re, like, zoning out.”

Madison blinked back to reality. Glared at Paul. “Please don’t
interrupt me while I’m thinking,” she said. “In fact, it would be great if you could just leave me alone.”

“Was that your boyfriend you were texting?” Paul asked. “You guys must really be in love, huh?”

In love
. A month ago, the thought would have been nauseating. Now Madison kind of liked how it sounded.

“We care about each other a lot,” she said. “Duh. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do.”

“Does he live in Tampa? Or back in your old town, wherever you came from?”

Madison rolled her eyes. “I came from Houston. But no, Brandon’s not from there. He lives in Iowa.”

“Iowa.” Paul whistled. “Wow. That’s, like, a long way away.”

“Fact.”

“So you guys just text all the time? What, do you, like, spend all night on the phone together, too?”

“We mostly just text,” Madison told him. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

•   •   •

In fact, she had been trying to convince Brandon to call her. So far, he was resisting.

What’s the matter?
she’d asked.
Aren’t you sick of just texting and emailing all the time? Don’t you want to, like, talk
to each other?

I’m not good on the phone,
Brandon replied.
It’s better if we just text.

What, like you’re awkward?
Madison wrote.
Big deal, dude. Everyone’s awkward. I’m just sick of getting carpal tunnel every time we talk.

Brandon had hesitated. A long, awful pause.
I just hate phone calls
.
My voice is weird. I have this lisp. You’ll know I’m a loser as soon as you hear it.

I won’t,
she wrote.
I don’t care about stuff like that. I just want to talk to you
.

But Brandon hadn’t given in.
I can’t,
he said after another long pause.
I’m just not ready yet.

•   •   •

“So you haven’t actually
talked
to him?” Paul said. “What the hell, dude? How do you know this guy’s not just one of those Internet freak shows?”

“He’s not a freak show,” Madison said. “He’s real, a lot more real than anyone at this school, that’s for sure.”

•   •   •

But she’d considered the possibility that Paul was right. She’d logged on to Facebook while she was chatting with Brandon, brought up his profile page. Studied it, the familiar picture, those arresting, deep blue eyes. He’d posted a new status that afternoon, a selfie. He was smiling at the camera, a river behind him, a beautiful blue sky above. He had a beautiful smile.

This is a gorgeous picture,
she wrote.
Did you go out walking today?

Another pause.
What?

On your Facebook,
Madison wrote.
That selfie you posted. It’s really pretty.

Oh,
Brandon wrote.
Yeah. That’s the Missouri River. I just had to get away from people for a while.

It looks like a beautiful day there.

I guess so,
Brandon replied
. It’s cold here. I’m freezing in that picture.

You look cute,
Madison told him. She scrolled down his page. Wall posts from friends, some girl named Ashley Frey in a couple of them, a boy named Dylan Price. Brandon had ninety-four friends in total; not a huge number by any means, but he’d told her he wasn’t a people person. And that still meant nearly a hundred people knew he was real.

•   •   •

Paul held up his hands.

“All right, all right,” he said, grinning. “But how do you guys, like, hook up, if he’s all the way in Iowa? Don’t tell me you’re one of those cybersex freaks, are you?”

“Gross.”
Madison turned away. Ended the conversation. She could feel herself blushing, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss Brandon, to make out with him. To pull him close and feel his hands. She wondered if he was a good kisser. If he—

Enough,
she told herself.
You’re supposed to be plotting to kill yourselves together, not falling in love and getting married.

Still, it would be nice to make out with him, just once, before they drove the car off the cliff. Was that so much to ask?

<
53
>

Earl Sanderson
showed up at the Rusty Nail at a quarter past three the next afternoon. The bartender caught Windermere’s eye, jerked his head toward the door as Sanderson walked in.

He was a rough-looking man. Shorter than Windermere had imagined, thin, almost gaunt, his skin yellowed with age. Was probably in his late fifties, but alcohol and hard living and who knows what else had added at least a decade to his face. He wore a mustard coat and a bad, careless haircut. Stevens and Windermere watched him order a Jack and Coke, find a booth.

“Guess you don’t want to handle this one yourself, huh?” Windermere asked Stevens. “Let me hit up that Holiday Inn hot tub one more time?”

Stevens was already on his feet. “Come on,” he told her. “You want, I’ll play bad cop this time.”

Windermere snorted. “Fat chance.” She followed him across the bar.

Sanderson looked up as they approached. Didn’t look surprised, scared, or wary. Just watched, half-interested, like it was all happening to someone else. Didn’t even flinch when the badges came out.

“FBI,” he said. His voice was raspy, chain-smoker rough. “Shit, I’m moving up in the world.”

“We’re here about Randall Gruber,” Stevens said. “Anywhere you want to go we can talk?”

Sanderson chuckled. Looked around the bar, gestured across the
booth. “Here’s as good as any,” he said. “If you come to talk about Randy, it should be a short conversation.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Windermere asked, sliding into the booth, not liking the way the vinyl stuck to her pantsuit. “You talk to him lately?”

“Lately, nah.” Sanderson drank. “Haven’t seen him in twenty years. Wouldn’t want to. Far as I’m concerned, that little punk died the same day as my daughter. Wish he’d gone ahead and died earlier, you want my opinion.”

“Certainly would have done you a favor if he did,” Stevens said, nodding. “Was his testimony that put you away, wasn’t it?”

Sanderson narrowed his eyes, didn’t answer, and Windermere moved her hand down to her holster, just in case. But Sanderson stayed put. Spat something unhealthy onto the floor, narrowly missed Stevens’s shoe.

“Far as I’m concerned, they should have locked him up along with me,” he said. “The boy’s about as screwed up as I was, maybe more.” He looked Stevens in the eye. “Didn’t neither of us kill that girl, though.”

He reached for his drink again. Sipped it, cool. Replaced the glass. “Now, do you have any more questions? Or did you just come here to break my balls about the shit I already did my time for?”

“We’re trying to find your stepson,” Stevens told Sanderson. “That’s all we care about. Do you have any idea where he is?”

“Short answer? No,” Sanderson said. “We weren’t exactly the kind to hold family reunions. Though I did get a visit from a guy a few years back, said he was a film producer or something. Some outfit out of Cleveland. He said Randall owed him money. Guess I’d done time with a guy he used to know, and he tracked me down thataway, not that I
had the means or the inclination to make the loan good. He was persistent, at least until I showed him my .45.”

“Cleveland,” Stevens said. “A few years back?”

“Call it five,” Sanderson said. “I thought it was Randall’s idea of a practical joke. His way of saying, ‘Wish you were here,’ ‘Happy Father’s Day,’ that kind of thing.” He sipped again. “Or maybe he was saying, ‘Fuck off.’”

<
54
>

According to Earl Sanderson,
the film producer who’d paid him a visit wasn’t exactly the reputable kind.

“More of an underground guy, you understand?” Sanderson said. “Wasn’t about to win an Oscar for his flicks, nothing like that. I don’t know how old Randall got involved with him, but I suspect he saw the baseball bats coming, figured he’d better wash his hands of the whole mess. He was always a coward, that kid.”

“Guess he learned from the best,” Windermere replied. Sanderson said nothing, lifted his middle finger.

“That’s all you know,” Stevens asked. “An underground film producer out of Cleveland, five years ago?”

“That, and, well, let’s see,” Sanderson said slowly. “I had a dream about Randall once, maybe a year ago. Dreamed he was dead.”

Stevens and Windermere looked at each other. “That right?”

“Sure is,” Sanderson said. “Then I woke up. Turned out it was just indigestion. Ate some bad chicken, had the shits for days.”

Windermere slapped her hand on the table, stood up. “Cleveland,” she said. “Guess that’s all we’re going to get, partner. Let’s let this old-timer enjoy his long decline in peace.”

Sanderson watched them stand, file out from the booth. Waited until they’d taken a few steps before speaking again.

“The film producer,” he said. “Big burly guy named, let’s see, Rico. Kind of an asshole, to be perfectly honest.” He spat. “Anyway, he told me Randall wasn’t going by Randall anymore, not as far as Rico could figure.”

Windermere turned around, slow. “Oh no?”

“Rico mentioned something about Randall hanging around outside the local high schools,” Sanderson said. “Creeping on the kids coming and going. Said he’d heard Randall had a real thing for girls with honey-blond hair, green eyes.”

“Same as Sarah,” Stevens said.

“Same as Sarah. Anyway, the local law enforcement caught wind, figured to bring Randall in. Rico said that’s why he’d skipped town. Why he stopped using his given name.” He finished his drink. “Guess he forgot to pay his late fees before he left.”

He rattled the ice in his empty glass. Waved it in the direction of the bar. “You FBI guys have expense accounts, right?” he said. “Figure I’ve given you enough intelligence you can put a dent in my tab?”

<
55
>

“Rico Jordan,” Mathers said
over the phone. “You said big and burly, right?”

“That’s what the father of the year told us,” Windermere replied. “Why? You found the guy?”

“Think so,” Mathers said. “Kind of a despicable character, if we’re talking the same person.”

“Sanderson said film producer, underground stuff.”

“Underground like snuff,” Mathers said. “Car crashes, executions, suicides: buy, sell, and trade. Throw a little bit of amateur porn in there, to boot. I got a hold of his rap sheet, Carla. It’s as long as something really long.”

“Sweet,” Windermere said. “Got an address? We’ll drive up tonight.”

“Save it. This guy died in a prison riot like six months ago. Unless you want to check out his headstone, you’re better off staying put.”

“Dead. Well, shit.”

“You get anything else out of the old man?”

“Our boy liked to lurk around high schools,” Windermere said. “Searching for the second coming of his sister, apparently. And,” she said, “some people weren’t cut out for fatherhood.”

<
56
>

The drive up
from Cleveland took a shade over three hours. Curtis Donovan did the speed limit, to the decimal point, just like Rodney had said. Didn’t need any headaches from the law, not with what he had tucked away in the glove box—or stashed in the trunk, for that matter.

Donovan had never met Randall Gruber, the man he was driving to meet, but from what Rodney was saying, he had to be the dumbest human being alive, coming back out of hiding after all this time.

“Rico gave up on that dude a long time ago,” Rodney told Donovan, before Donovan left. “We ran down his old man, his mother, got nothing, no trace. Figured that money was gone, wrote it off. You know, the cost of doing business.”

But then Gruber called the studio a couple days back, Rico’s old place. It was Rodney’s business now, mostly legit after Rico got pinched. A holdover from the old era, Rodney making the bulk of his money elsewhere. But this guy asked for Rico anyway, didn’t realize the dude was six-months dead. The guy claimed he was Randall Gruber. Claimed he had product to sell, on top of settling his debts.