The Fifth Angel Page 14

  With a frustrated huff he left it alone and began to circle the house, moved by an unseen hand. It was possible that there was a door in the back that wasn’t locked. If so, he could enter there. If not, he’d come back and try to open the ancient window again. It wouldn’t do to come this far and simply give up. Past the van, in the back of the house there was another entrance. It was a newer door, locked, but with the kind of latch that Jack knew could be opened by sliding a durable card between the door and the frame. He removed the wallet from the back of his pants pocket and extracted his driver’s license. Carefully he began to work the card into the door frame below the lock with the Glock still gripped tightly in his other hand.

  The sense of someone else’s presence drew his attention away from the door. The unexpected sight of Tom Conner’s bearded face and dark menacing form rounding the far corner of the house made Jack jump and cry out in shock at the same instant. An orange burst of flame lit the night, an explosion ripped through the silence, and Jack felt the impact of a shotgun blast tearing into his flesh, spinning him up into the air and throwing him backward like a lifeless puppet down onto the sandy blood-speckled ground.

  CHAPTER 34

  Jack lay still.

  The dark heavy figure of Tom Conner approached him. He moved through the gloom, silent except for the sound of his raspy breathing because he was so fat. The shotgun was still leveled at Jack’s chest. Finally Conner stopped. He was six feet away and peering anxiously for confirmation of his kill the way a jackal will nervously sniff at a carcass.

  Jack held his breath. The shotgun slowly drifted off its mark. Conner edged closer, shuffling his feet in halting tentative steps. Jack’s fingers felt the smooth handle of the Glock in his hand. Suddenly Conner’s shotgun swung back on target. Jack winced. When no shot came, he eased his eyes back open again—two slits. Even in the dark he could see that Conner was just two feet away now, and again the gun had drifted.

  With snakelike quickness Jack jerked his own gun up and into play, firing fast and furiously with a raging cry. The shotgun exploded again. Jack felt the sting of hot powder, but the slug sang past his head and smacked into the earth with a resounding thud. It was Conner’s last shot. Bullets struck the fat man like punches, jolting him backward, doubling him over with pain and finally dropping him in his tracks amid the thwack of the hushed 9mm slugs as they buried themselves into flesh, organ, and bone.

  Jack sprang to his feet and emptied everything he had left into Conner’s quivering frame. He staggered. The weight of the heavy ache in his shoulder and the hot wet blood soaking his shirt made him light-headed. The world seemed to spin. Even when he closed his eyes, the gruesome image of the dead man filled his mind. He stumbled to the ground and began to vomit uncontrollably, heaving painfully even after his stomach was empty.

  He stood huffing over Conner and carefully assessed the situation. He’d been shot. There would be blood on the ground, his blood, and vomit. They would have his DNA.

  A cold sobering thought suddenly splashed against his face. Was he trying to get caught?

  Maybe that was the only way out. Jack seemed unable to stop the vicious acts of vengeance on his own. He looked at the motionless body of Tom Conner. Stains of blood riddled his corpulent frame. A dark pool had begun to form beneath him. Out of habit Jack got down in the sandy grass and began to grope around for his own 9mm shell casings. With the help of a small penlight he kept in his pocket, he found twelve without a problem, but soon grew frantic in his search for the remaining five.

  Then he stopped. On his hands and knees in the dark, he realized it was probably irrelevant. The casings could tie the act to his gun, but a sample of DNA was more telling than a shell casing or a cloth fiber or even a fingerprint.

  An abrupt flash of light made Jack start to his feet. He realized almost right away that it was only a lightning flash. The rumble of thunder came soon afterward, and small breeze rustled the dry leaves of the trees. Jack looked up and waited. After a minute came another flash, and in its light he could make out the heavy billowing clouds approaching from the southwest. His mouth hung open, awed by the relief he suddenly felt. There would be rain.

  He dropped back down on all fours with the small light in his mouth and renewed his search for the shell casings. They had to be there, not more than six or eight feet away. He just had to be patient.

  As his fingers sifted through the grass he considered the implications of the rain. It was divine. The next flash of lightning revealed the shiny rectangle of his driver’s license. It was the license he had been using to open the door, the license he had forgotten all about. Accidentally leaving it there in the grass would have provided the police with exactly what they needed to connect him to the crime. Yet there it was, revealed to him as if by magic.

  Why had he doubted himself? This was meant to be. He scooped the license up out of the grass. He had erred in his approach tonight, that was certain. But even his blood would be washed away. There was another biblical analogy there, but he shunned it. History was littered with lunatics thinking they were God Himself or somehow in possession of His divine powers. Jack needed to ground his thought in reality.

  He found two more shell casings. His search was calmer now, confident beyond reason that he would find the remaining three. The lightning began to flicker now with increased frequency. The wind picked up. Sandy grit stung his cheeks. His shoulder ached, but it was no longer a concern. His mind was clear. He fished open the rip in his shirt and looked objectively at the three-inch trench of deep purple flesh beneath the penlight’s beam. Blood oozed out, but slowly now, sticky from the clotting.

  In his mind he quickly constructed a plausible story for Beth: He had gone to the main office to find Mr. Steffenhauser about the heat. The old man came and turned it on. The two of them admired the vista from the porch. And when the old man had left Jack decided to go to the water’s edge for a more complete view. As he made his way through the trees, he had taken a nasty spill and gored open his shoulder on the sharp stub of a broken branch on a pine tree.

  Walking through the woods earlier in the day, he had noticed the random spikes of wood, and they would suit his purpose.

  Jack found the remaining shells just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The single heavy beads seemed to pop on contact with the earth. The sky grew angrier still, and that gladdened him. The storm would be big enough to wipe everything clean.

  By the time he reached his car, the sky was black and teeming. Jack shed his wet clothes and put them into a garbage bag with the shell casings and tossed the whole thing into a half-full Dumpster behind the garage. With fresh clothes on his body, he set out for the cabin.

  When he got there Beth dashed outside through the pouring rain and into the headlights of the Saab. Steffenhauser was soon beside her. Jack turned off the car and got out.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said. He glanced uncomfortably at the old man. Steffenhauser’s face was partially protected from the rain by a broad-brimmed green felt hat. The three of them now stood in the wet orange glow of the cabin lights, the lightning giving them sporadic glimpses of one another and the woods around them in a brilliant blue hue.

  “Come inside,” Jack said. His tone gave away none of the anxiety he felt. “I’ll tell you what happened, but everything is fine. I’m sorry for the fuss. I just didn’t want to wake you.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Steffenhauser said. He was cheerful despite his dripping wet hat. “I didn’t mean to cause a ruckus with all this, but when the lady here came to the house with you gone and the car, too, well, just to be safe . . . I called the police.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Amanda was up at six. She ran her six miles hard in a light gray rain. As she finished, the early-morning sun broke through the clouds. Drops of water glistened and dripped from the trees. Wet brown leaves blanketed the yard and gave off the musty smell of early fall.

  After a sh
ower she got out the box of oatmeal and poured some into a saucepan. She measured out her water and lit the stove then dashed back up the stairs to pack her things. She unfolded a narrow garment bag with wheels. Two changes of clothes. Some pictures the kids drew. Her FBI jacket, in case it got cool or rained. A small leather pouch of toiletries. Sneakers. Workout clothes.

  The zip of her zipper woke up Parker.

  “Sorry,” she said. She went to the drawer where she kept her gun. It was coated in a thin film of dust.

  “What time is it?” Parker asked.

  “Almost seven-thirty.”

  Parker sat up and rubbed his puffy eyes.

  “Where are you . . .” he said. “Oh, I forgot. Back to crime fighting.”

  “Why did you say it like that?” she asked, strapping on her gun.

  He shrugged. “You didn’t think I was going to sing a song, did you?”

  “I thought you’d appreciate what I’m doing.”

  “You do enough of that for both of us.”

  “Do you know what I do?” she asked.

  “Do you know what I do?” he said. “Did you ever think about that? Me, running around with the kids. Me and all the moms.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I’m being selfish. We just miss you when you go. Lots.”

  “Breakfast is ready when you are,” she said. She scooped up her bag and jogged down the stairs. The smell hit her before she reached the bottom.

  “Damn,” she said and hurried into the kitchen.

  Burned oatmeal bubbled up out of the pan, hissing and sputtering in the flames. A small shriek escaped her. The kids tumbled in after her.

  “Awesome,” Teddy said.

  Amanda took the pan off the fire and flipped off the gas. She quickly scooped the cereal out into the bowls she’d lined up on the counter.

  “Sit down, kids,” she said.

  They were chattering a mile a minute, excited by the flames.

  “Sit down.”

  Amanda got out brown sugar and milk and put some bread in the toaster. She threw together a pot of coffee and poured the juice. The round clock on the wall above the table was working against her.

  Glenda started in.

  “Mommy, this isn’t—”

  “Just eat it, Glenda,” she said, scraping some butter onto the toast.

  “It’s bad, Mom,” Teddy said.

  Parker arrived. “Coffee ready?” he asked.

  “Sit,” she said to him.

  She poured some coffee from the pot even though it hadn’t finished percolating. It looked thin, but the toaster dinged again. She set the coffee down in front of Parker along with a bowl of the oatmeal.

  “Honey,” Parker said. “This is burned. Honey?”

  “Why is Mommy crying?” Glenda asked.

  “I’m not crying,” Amanda said. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “I’m sweating. It’s warm in here.”

  “She’s crying,” Teddy said. “Definitely.”

  “Mommy’s got a lot on her mind,” Parker said. He got up from the table and tried to take the butter knife from her.

  “I’ve got it, Parker,” she said. “Sit down. Please.”

  “It’s eight,” he said.

  “Damn.”

  The kids were wide-eyed.

  “I didn’t mean that,” she said. She put the toast down on the table and went to the refrigerator. She took out two brown bags and set them in front of the kids.

  “Lunch,” she said. “Look inside.”

  “Aw, Mom, Gushers,” Teddy said, peeking into the bag, “this is totally awesome.”

  “You said Gushers make cavities,” Glenda said. She held her bag of the sticky little synthetic fruit pieces between her finger and her thumb.

  “Only when you have them all the time,” Amanda said.

  “Oh,” Glenda said. “That’s good.”

  “I just thought you’d like something special,” Amanda said.

  “For what?”

  Amanda shrugged and picked up Parker’s coffee cup to take a sip. It was pitifully thin.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “To celebrate my going back to work I guess.”

  They sat there, all three of them, saying nothing. The smell of burned oatmeal drifted up from the table. No one was eating it anyway. Parker cleared his throat.

  “Mom and I are going to start working on setting up a college fund,” he said. “She’s going back to work so you guys can go to college one day.”

  “I don’t want to go to college,” Teddy said.

  “Yes you do,” Amanda said. She kissed him on the lips, then Glenda.

  “I love you both,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Amanda glanced at the shiny wet Humvee as she backed out of the driveway. She wanted to smash into it. Instead she backed out into the road and tried to think about her job. That’s what she should be doing.

  This was no great assignment she was undertaking, but it was work. Although it happened from time to time, no FBI agent wanted to be paired with a local cop. It was just short of an insult. The fact that the detective’s uncle was a powerful congressman on Capitol Hill did nothing to change that.

  But that’s what it was. The uncle was on the appropriations committee. He had called the director himself. The director called Hanover’s boss, and so it went. At least the case wasn’t a total loser. Also, while McGrew sounded young and brash over the phone, it was also clear that he was extremely committed to the case.

  He had uncovered a series of murders whose M.O.’s were similar enough to be considered at least in theory as the work of a single serial killer. McGrew had already fed his information to the people at VCAP, the FBI’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program. Working off that they had already uncovered three more possible matches: sex offenders murdered at close range with a 9mm Glock. Each crime scene was unusually bereft of evidence. It was an interesting file to say the least.

  Amanda picked up her cell phone and started to dial home. No, she’d said good-bye. Now she was gone. She had to learn to let it be. It was like her running. She had to build herself up again, get strong.

  At Washington National Airport she parked her car and dashed inside. She checked her gun at security and found her gate for the flight to Pittsburgh. It was a short flight, up and down, but it gave her enough time to ponder the uniqueness of the case. McGrew’s theory about a professional killer made some sense. It was possible that some underground pornography ring linked all the victims. After all, each had been a level-three sex offender.

  But Amanda thought there was another possibility as well. The killer might have been the victim of a sex crime himself. He might have suppressed the event, a horror from years ago that had secretly festered in the back of his mind. Such a thing could grow until it was strong enough to commandeer his psyche, steering it from the bounds of normality into the murky world of a psychopathic killer.

  After a while Amanda decided to clear her mind, mentally walk away from the problem to better consider it later with a fresh perspective. There was a shopping catalog in the seat pocket in front of her. She opened it. There were some neat toys. She could just see Teddy on the miniature four-wheel-drive Jeep. There was also one of those new swing sets with the big yellow tube for a slide. She shook her head and let out a short quick breath.

  She had to stop doing this to herself. It was like a dual major. Mother. FBI agent. She had to remember that and keep her focus.

  She put the catalog back and took out the USAir magazine. There was a story in there about a young author named Ace Atkins. He lived on a hundred-year-old-farm in Mississippi, teaching at the University in Oxford by day and following the paths of Faulkner and James Lee Burke by night. She made a mental note to look for his book in the airport. Now that she was on the road again, she needed something to read. She had actually read less during her time off than she did when
she was working. That was another thing to look forward to.

  When she landed in Pittsburgh, McGrew was waiting for her outside security. He was easy to pick out. There were only a handful of other people staring up the escalator waiting for passengers, and none of them but McGrew looked like a cop. His white dress shirt, open at the collar, worn with cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a wool herringbone blazer with outdated elbow patches was just less than respectable looking. He had a wild shock of gelled hair that protruded ridiculously straight up from the forefront of his receding hairline. His small dark deep-set eyes glowed with the same enthusiasm Amanda had sensed over the phone. McGrew wasn’t a handsome man by any means, but he certainly wasn’t acting as if he knew it.

  As she approached, McGrew didn’t bother to hide his careful top-to-bottom assessment of her, allowing his eyes to linger at the curves in evidence even beneath her olive business suit.

  Amanda marched off the escalator and held out her hand. “I’m Special Agent Lee. You must be Detective McGrew.”

  McGrew was obviously caught off guard.

  “I didn’t . . . you look . . . different,” he said.

  “We’ve never met before,” Amanda said.

  “Different than I expected,” he said, unable to keep his eyes from conducting another quick frisk.

  Amanda backed him right down with an intense look that said it all. McGrew seemed to take notice. He cleared his throat and in a tone that was nearly apologetic asked if she had any other luggage.

  “This is it,” she said.

  “Well,” McGrew said, clapping his hands together with a single energetic smack, “let’s go then. I caught an earlier flight than I was supposed to. I’ve been here since this morning, and I’ve already got something that you’re gonna like. My uncle told me you’re a real hotshot at the Bureau. Anyway, I got this guy, a big black sergeant by the name of Emerson Tidwell. Now, get this: He knows I know something about who killed these pervs. Now, he doesn’t know I know he knows it, but he does. He’s got some big-time information that he’s holding out on. I don’t know why, but when he knows I know he knows . . .”