Dead Even Read online

  MARIAH

  STEWART

  DEAD

  EVEN

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  COVER PAGE

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  BY MARIAH STEWART

  COPYRIGHT

  For our darling Katie,

  with love and pride, as you graduate from

  college—from Mom, who wonders

  where the years have gone

  The belief in a supernatural source of evil

  is not necessary; men alone are quite

  capable of every wickedness.

  —JOSEPH CONRAD, Under Western Eyes

  PROLOGUE

  February 2004

  The ride from the prison had been tense and gloomy in the narrow van. The storm had started around midnight, pelting the roads with a steady rain that turned to sleet just before the dark, gray dawn. To compensate for the slick film beneath the tires, the driver had kept one foot on the brake almost all the way to the county courthouse, where he would deliver his six passengers: four prisoners, two armed guards.

  Archer Lowell—nineteen years old, thin and pimply-faced, with soft features and soft hands—sat in a seat on the right side of the van by himself—all the prisoners sat alone—and worried about his upcoming trial. His court-appointed lawyer hadn’t had much good news for him when they’d spoken the day before. The D.A. had several witnesses lined up who would testify that he, Archer, had indeed stalked and harassed Amanda Crosby for several months, and, as a result of his obsession with her, had beaten her following her last rebuke of his declaration of undying love. He’d also threatened to kill her business partner and one of her friends.

  Things weren’t looking so good, his attorney had told him as he urged Archer to accept the deal the ADA was offering.

  Bullshit. It was all bullshit. Amanda knows I love her. And as for that asshole guy, Derek what’s-his-name, that guy who was hanging around her all the time, I know what he was trying to do. Trying to take her away from me. He must think I’m stupid or something, like I couldn’t see what he was up to. I’d like to show him who’s stupid. Yeah. Someday, I will show him. . . .

  The van pulled to the rear of the courthouse and stopped near a ramp leading from the ground level to the first floor. Lowell watched as the other three prisoners were led off, then stood and followed obediently when the guard released the lock that secured him to his seat and motioned him forward.

  He ducked his head as he stepped through the door, took the big step down in a quick hop, and waited for the brown-clad deputy sheriff to take custody of him. He followed his guard up the ramp, cursing the leg shackles that prevented him from making a speedier move into the building, hating the icy needles of sleet that peppered his head and slid down the back of his neck. Once inside, he shook it off as best he could, and allowed himself to be led to the anteroom where, a picture of studied calm and infinite cooperation, he’d wait for his lawyer.

  In his head, he imagined the judge interrogating his guard.

  And what was Mr. Lowell’s demeanor while in your custody, Deputy?

  He was totally cooperative, Your Honor. A true gentleman.

  The sort who’d stalk and harass a lady like Amanda . . . ?

  Oh, no, Your Honor. He was gentle as a lamb.

  I have no choice but to dismiss the case against Mr. Lowell, and offer our apologies for any inconvenience.

  Apology accepted, Your Honor, he’d say with a shy smile. Oh, and thank you.

  Yeah, sure. It could go down like that. . . .

  The opening of the door snapped him out of his reverie, and he looked up, expecting to see his lawyer. Instead, a second deputy sheriff had poked his head in, just far enough to whisper something unintelligible into the ear of Lowell’s guard.

  “We’re going to ask you to step into the room next door,” the deputy announced.

  Through the doorway, Lowell could see into the hall, where the second deputy stood, his hand on his gun in a casual, almost unconscious gesture. Puzzled, Lowell stood as the cuff that secured him to his chair was released, and he shuffled toward the open door.

  “Why?” Archer asked.

  “Just come with me now.” The deputy gestured with his left hand, his right still resting atop his holster.

  “What about my lawyer?” Archer stood uncertainly. “He’s going to be here any minute.”

  “When he gets here, we’ll let him know where to find you.” The deputy stepped aside and waited for Lowell to move into the room next door.

  The hall was crawling with law enforcement types, local uniforms as well as state police and the ever present county deputy sheriffs. Some were running, some gathering in small excited groups. Lowell looked over his shoulder, trying to gauge what could create such a buzz, but he was shoved forward before he could get a handle on what was going on.

  The new room was wider than the one he’d just left, with two long windows and eight or ten chairs, one of which was occupied by another of the prisoners who’d shared the ride in from the prison that morning. His was the only face that had looked even vaguely familiar to Lowell, though Archer couldn’t quite place him. The man was stocky, like a prizefighter, his arms and face freckled, and his eyes golden brown. His red hair—faded a bit with age, but red nonetheless—came as a surprise.

  Where had Lowell seen him before? He didn’t recall having seen him out at High Meadow, but there was something about him. . . .

  The sound of running feet in the hallway broke his concentration. There was a bit of shouting, and by craning his neck, Lowell could see that activity just outside the door was increasing.

  “What do you think is going on out there?” he asked his companion.

  “What is going on out there?” the man asked, and Lowell realized that from his seat, his companion was unable to see the glass window in the door.

  “Lots of cops. Lots of cops. Several different departments and some state police. People running every which way.” Lowell stretched his neck farther to get a better look.

  “My guess is that someone might have escaped from custody.”

  “Really? You think someone’s on the run?” Lowell felt a thrill of excitement. “Someone from High Meadow?”

  “You were in the van from High Meadow this morning,” the red-haired man noted.

  Lowell nodded, more interested in what was going on outside.

  “Me, too,” the man continued, “me and Waldo, the guy who, I suspect, is on the fly out there. There was a rumor he might decide to take off.”

  Lowell stared at the man who sat, shackled, at the opposite side of the room.

  The man smiled, a don’t-mess-with-me-smile that Lowell knew instinctively had nothing to do with wanting to reassure him.

  Lowell cleared his throat and pretended that he was not intimidated. “You think he’ll get away with it?”

&nb
sp; Before he could answer, the door opened to allow another prisoner to join them. He, too, had been in the van that morning. He was tall and thin, and he moved in a way that made Lowell think the man was more muscle than one might immediately suspect. His hair was short, light brown, and his eyes were deep set and murky gray.

  For reasons that Lowell could not explain, he recoiled slightly. The man had an air of the sinister about him, though from outward appearances, he gave the impression of being more amused than deadly.

  The deputy took a moment to remind his prisoners that there was a guard right outside the door, “armed, and he won’t hesitate for one minute to bring you down if you so much as move.”

  “A bit heavy-handed, wouldn’t you say?” The new man grinned slightly and looked directly at Lowell.

  “He’s just trying to scare us.” The red-haired man shrugged. “They ain’t really that good.”

  “What d’ya suppose they’re doing out there?” Lowell squirmed in his seat. Something about this new guy made him nervous.

  “They’re playing ‘Where’s Waldo.’ Waldo Scott.” The redhead turned to the newcomer to explain. “He was in the van with us on the way in this morning. He got himself free somehow and took off. Get it? ‘Where’s Waldo’?”

  “No.” Lowell told them, and the other two explained about the children’s book where one searched each page to find a certain character, Waldo, throughout the book.

  Lowell, who hadn’t spent much time reading as a kid, thought it sounded stupid.

  Waldo’s attempted escape—and the odds of his succeeding—was discussed in low voices, and the consensus seemed to be that the three men were placed together temporarily to free up two of the deputies who would be in on the hunt for the escapee. Since all three prisoners in the room were shackled to their seats, the chance that any one of them would join Waldo in his quest for freedom was unlikely.

  “What’re you in for?” the red-haired man asked the newcomer.

  “I was stopped for going through a stop sign, and it turns out there was an outstanding warrant for a guy with the same name,” he responded, and ignored the redhead’s subsequent sarcastic comment about “manly crimes.” “You?”

  “I’m in here pending appeal of a conviction,” the redhead replied.

  “For what?” Lowell heard himself ask.

  “A domestic dispute.”

  “Oh.” Lowell studied the man carefully. That he had seen his face before was a certainty, but he just couldn’t remember where. “I’m supposed to have my trial today. I hope they find Waldo in time to get started. I want to get it over with.”

  “What are the charges?” the man nearest the window asked.

  “Well, see,” Lowell was eager to explain, just as he would once he got into that courtroom, “they’re saying that I stalked this girl. But I didn’t stalk nobody. She was my girl, you know? They got the whole thing wrong.”

  “She must have complained about something, for them to charge you with stalking,” the red-haired man noted. “What did she tell the police?”

  “She was confused. The cops made her lie,” Archer said. An edginess began to move over him, and he felt it spread through his body.

  “What’s your name, son?” the man with the buzz cut was asking.

  “Archer Lowell.”

  “I’m Curtis Channing,” the man told him.

  “Well, Archie . . .” the other occupant of the room began.

  Archer saw red.

  “Don’t call me Archie. Do not ever call me Archie.”

  “Whoa, buddy. Chill. No offense.” He offered what for him must have been an apology. “No need to get all upset.”

  “I hate the name Archie.”

  Hey, Archie! Cartoon boy! Where’s Veronica? The childhood taunt echoed in his ears.

  “Okay, then, you’re Archer, and I’m Vince Giordano.” The third member introduced himself. “Named for my uncle, but we don’t talk no more. Bastard testified against me in court. So much for blood being thicker than water.”

  It was then that Lowell recognized him, and it took a major effort on his part not to shrink back. Vince Giordano—the man who had murdered his own children rather than lose custody of them, before turning the gun on his wife—had been very big news locally over the past two years.

  “I know who you are. I saw you on all the news channels. I saw when you were arrested . . .” Lowell heard himself saying. He wished his buddy Glenn—small-time con man that he was—could see him now, rubbing elbows with the most notorious killer the county had ever seen. That would show him a thing or two, wouldn’t it?

  “Yeah, well, I got a lot of press. The trial got a lot of airtime,” Giordano said.

  It appeared to Lowell that, rather than ask about that, Channing chose to change the subject back to the lockdown and the number of media types outside the courthouse.

  Archer could not have cared less. The important thing to him was what was not happening inside the courthouse.

  “I don’t think it’s fair that I should miss my trial just because they lost someone and can’t find him.”

  “Yeah, well, tell it to the judge,” Giordano snapped. “I ain’t too happy about the delay myself. We had a big day planned here. My attorney thinks he can get my conviction overturned.”

  “What were you convicted of?” Channing asked.

  Lowell, who knew all too well what Giordano had done, turned to see just what the man would admit to.

  “Shooting my wife, among other things.”

  It was the other things that had bothered Lowell. What kind of a person could put a gun to the head of a little boy who was sleeping in his bed, and pull the trigger? And hadn’t it been two little boys . . . ?

  The thought made his stomach hurt.

  Archer looked up just in time to see some sort of odd exchange between Channing and Giordano. Though no words were spoken, there had been something there, and Lowell wondered if the men were telepathic. He’d heard about such things, about people who could read other people’s minds. He watched the two men warily. The whole idea gave him the creeps.

  “Did you?” Channing was asking Giordano.

  Uh-oh, Lowell thought. Obviously Channing had absolutely no idea who Giordano was. Otherwise he wouldn’t be asking a convicted murderer—a child killer, for Christ’s sake—if he did it. He held his breath, waiting to see what Giordano would do.

  Giordano smirked.

  “Then why would they overturn your conviction?” Channing asked, as if his question had been answered in the affirmative.

  That telepathic stuff again? Lowell wondered.

  Giordano began to explain how all of the evidence presented against him at trial had been fabricated by one of the cops, and that his lawyer was going to prove it.

  “They can let you off for that?” Lowell was drawn back into the conversation. “If somebody lies?”

  “Yup,” Giordano said smugly.

  “But don’t they just try you all over again?” Lowell began to ponder the possibility of getting someone to lie at his upcoming trial.

  “Nope,” Giordano was telling him. “My lawyer says they can’t do it. First time around, the D.A., he was out to get me. Loaded the charges, every fucking thing he could think of.” Giordano chuckled. “Imagine his surprise when he found out that the cop he’d built his case around had lied from day one.”

  “How do they know for sure he lied?” Archer asked.

  “Because he shot his mouth off, admitted that he’d lied about seeing me running from the house that day, lied about everything. Wanted to make sure the charges stuck, he said. Now he’s facing perjury charges. Guess crime doesn’t pay, huh?”

  “What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get out, Vince?” Lowell couldn’t help but admire Giordano in a perverse sort of way. Here he was, a convicted killer of three innocent people, and he was apparently about to walk. What was not to admire in being able to beat a rap like that?

  “Depends on
whether or not I’d get caught.”

  “What if you wouldn’t?” Lowell said.

  “What, wouldn’t get caught?”

  “Yeah. What if you could do anything—anything at all—and not get caught?”

  “Gotta think on that a minute.” Giordano appeared to be giving the question some heavy consideration before lowering his voice. “If I could get away with it, I’d put a bullet through the head of my former mother-in-law.” His face began to darken. “And then I’d do that woman—the advocate—who worked for the courts and told the judge to take my kids away from me. And then the judge who said I couldn’t see my kids no more.”

  Lowell shifted nervously in his seat and prayed that Giordano wouldn’t wig out, the way he looked like he was about to do, and bring half the sheriff’s department into the room.

  “Where are your kids now?” Channing asked.

  “They’re with their mother,” Giordano said, looking Channing directly in the eye. After a long moment of staring coldly, he turned to Archer and asked, “How ’bout you? What would you do, if you could do anything and not get caught doing it?”

  “I don’t know,” Lowell said, surprised to have the question turned back on him. He hadn’t given it any thought until that very moment. “Maybe . . . maybe that guy, that guy who kept bothering my girl. Maybe him, if he’s still around. And maybe that friend of hers, the nosy bitch . . .”

  Archer Lowell felt a burning build within, slowly at first, as he thought about the woman who owned the antique shop across from Amanda’s. The one who called the police every time she saw Archer in the neighborhood. What business was it of hers if he’d wanted to wait outside Amanda’s shop at any time of day, whether first thing in the morning, before she opened, or late in the day, at closing time. It was still a free country, wasn’t it? Besides, he had a right to know what she was doing, didn’t he? How else would he have known about that other guy, the one who was there all day, every day?

  “What about your girl?” Giordano was smirking again. “Seems like she’s the real problem here. I’ll bet she’s the one who pressed charges, right? Seems to me that you’d want to call on her. I know I would, if it was me.”