Dead Even Page 9

  “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 o
f 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.

  The vacuum handle fell from Unger’s hand and hit the ground. Slowly, the body crumpled, falling where it had stood. Archer opened his eyes and saw Al Unger’s head hit the floor, facedown. Backing away, Archer stuck the gun back into his jacket pocket. Refusing to think about what he had just done, he walked halfway up the side aisle and through the closest exit into the deserted parking lot.

  His breathing coming harder, faster, he went around the building and, pausing to get his bearings, leaned flat against the hard brick wall. Tears streamed down his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the night. “I’m sorry . . .”

  A rustle from the dark, a soft scurry among the discarded chip bags and candy wrappers had Archer scurrying off as well. He wiped his face on his sleeve, swatted the popcorn off his pant legs, then walked to the end of the alley and crossed the street to the bus stop. Grabbing onto the sign, he held on for dear life and prayed his legs would not give out on him.

  He’d just killed a man. God, he’d really done it.

  He stood at the corner—staring straight ahead and trying to keep from crying—until the next bus arrived. He hopped aboard, took a seat near the back, and shook like a man who’d just come in from the cold. Once the bus reached the terminal in Cincinnati, he sat quietly while he waited for morning and the bus that would take him on to his designated stop, the refrain running over and over through his brain:

  I killed a man. I put a bullet in the back of his head, and he fell down and died. I didn’t even know him, and I killed him.

  He’d boarded the bus he’d been told to take, once again huddled in the back, his head in his hands, the sound of his heart pounding loud in his ears. Crying silent tears, he begged forgiveness from a God he’d never really believed in, and from the old man whose life he’d taken that night.

  And he knew that if he didn’t come up with something fast, he’d be forced to do it again. And again . . .

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Will Fletcher tossed the newspaper onto the recycling pile in the corner of his kitchen, noting that the pile had grown considerably over the past few days. He made a mental note to bundle up the papers and get them outside in time for the next scheduled end-of-the-week pickup. He’d missed the past few weeks, once because he’d gone into the office early to check up on something regarding a case, and once because he’d simply forgotten until it was too late. This week he’d make the pickup. He found a ball of string to wrap the papers in and set it on the counter. The doorbell rang before he could begin his hunt for the scissors.

  Miranda stood on his front porch, her color pale and her eyes vague and distant.

  “Hey, Cahill. This is a pleasant—”

  “We fucked up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He did it. The son of a bitch did it.”

  “Who . . . ? You don’t mean Lowell . . . ?”

  “Yes. I do mean Lowell. Unger is dead. So much for the combined smarts of that all-star FBI panel that convened last week.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got a call this morning from the Telford police.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and recited the facts. “A passing patrol car noticed the lights in the theater were still on at two-thirty this morning, so they stopped in. They found Al facedown on the floor, a bullet through the back of his head.”

  “Damn,” Will muttered. “Damn it. I thought they were going to keep an eye on him.”

  “Apparently their idea of surveillance is limited to twice-nightly drive-bys.” Her shoulders dropped. “May I come in?”

  “Of course. Sorry.” Will stepped back to allow her to enter, then closed the door.

  “I feel like an idiot. We were all so sure Lowell was such a pussy he’d never do something bold like kill a man. God, we are so stupid.”

  “Whoa, take it easy, Miranda. Even Annie, who is usually right on the money when it comes to figuring people out, thought Archer would be a no-show when it came to finishing up the game.”

  “Well, it just goes to show you, like Annie always says, profiling is not an exact science.”

  “Do we know for a fact that it was Lowell? Or are we assuming?”

  “Well, wouldn’t it just be the biggest coincidence in the world if someone other than Lowell pulled the trigger?”

  “Good point.” Will took her arm and led her through the house to the kitchen. “Come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”

  “Bastard had us all fooled,” Miranda said. “No one figured him for a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Here, sit down.” He pulled a chair out from the table, and offered it to her. “What exactly did the police say when they called?”

  She sat, turning the chair slightly to the left when he sat down next to her.

  “A cruiser passing by the theater early this morning noticed the lobby lights were still on, which is not normal for that hour. So the cops stopped to investigate, found the door unlocked, went into the lobby, heard the vacuum cleaner running. They entered the theater, saw the vacuum but not Al. When they walked down to the front, they found the body. There was no one else around, and a canvass of the neighborhood has turned up nothing. No one saw anything; no one heard anything.” She blew out a long, exasperated breath. “And the Telford police are telling me they have no suspects.”

  “What do you mean, they have no suspects?” Will frowned. “We told them who to watch for, even gave them a picture of Lowell.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re saying there’s no evidence to tie Lowell to the murder. We can’t even prove Lowell was in Telford last night.”

  “They think this whole thing is one big coincidence? Who else could it have been?”

  “Do you think there’s a chance there could have been a fourth person in on this game?” Miranda asked.

  “I don’t see how. The only time we can place Lowell, Giordano, and Channing together was in the police van one morning back in February, and even then, according to the guards and the driver, they did not speak to one another. There was one other inmate in the van that morning, but he’s spending the rest of his life behind bars.” Will paused, then added, “As a matter of fact, on the morning in question, this other prisoner had escaped into the courthouse and held up things for hours. Put the entire courthouse on lockdown for a good part of the day until they found him.”

  “I don’t recall hearing about that.” Miranda frowned.

  “It was in an amended report that Evan Crosby filed. It’s in the packet of material Jared put together for us.”

  “What were the other three doing while the courthouse was on lockdown?”

  “I don’t know. Good question, though. Maybe we should give Evan a call and see
if he knows.”

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll bet he can find out.”

  “I have his card in my desk. I’ll be right back. In the meantime, think you could throw together a pot of coffee? The coffee maker is there on the counter. Coffee and filters are the same place they were the last time you were here.”

  By the time Will returned to the kitchen, the coffee was just beginning to drip and Miranda was leaning into the open refrigerator, searching for a carton of milk.

  “I had to leave a voice mail for Crosby.”

  “He’ll call you back. He’s real good about returning calls. He’d make a great agent. Bet it wouldn’t take much to convince him, either. I think he’s really got a thing for Anne Marie.”

  “Has anyone notified the Fleming police?”

  “I called them on my way here. God knows I had plenty of time. Honestly, could you have found a house farther out than this?”

  “There was a time when you liked my little bungalow in the woods.” He turned his attention to pouring coffee into two mugs that had souvenir of nags head, n.c. in faded blue paint on the front and a pair of equally faded pelicans on the back.

  “It has a lot of promise, I’ll give you that. But I’ll bet those narrow roads up the side of those hills are hell in the winter.”

  “Guess I’ll find out over the next few months,” he said, handing her a mug.

  “Guess you will.” She opened a cupboard and surveyed the contents. “No artificial sweeteners?”

  “Sorry. Only the real thing. Sugar’s in the bowl on the counter.”

  She opted for milk only, stirring it as she spoke. “Anyway, Fleming sent a patrol car to the Lowell trailer. If he’s there, we’re going to have to consider the possibility that it wasn’t him. I should be hearing from them soon.”

  “It’s not impossible to drive from Telford, Ohio, to Fleming, Pennsylvania, between midnight and eight or nine in the morning.” He dumped a teaspoon of sugar into his mug and stirred it thoughtfully. “But would you really expect to find him there? You think he’d be dumb enough to go right back home?”