Even Steven (33 page)

Russell braced as the other man approached, as if preparing himself for a fight. "I may."

Bobby wanted to tell him to go ahead, to call his bluff, but he worried about seeming overly aggressive. The last thing he needed was to inadvertently give Coates the probable cause he was looking for.

"I don't think so," Bobby said. "Else you would have come here with an army of agents and a lot of big guns. Instead, it's just you on a fishing trip."

Russell allowed himself a smile. "And a suspect who's doing everything he can to make himself look guilty as hell."

Bobby's head bounced noncommittally on his shoulders, as if to acknowledge the point. "I think you need to call the ball here, Agent Coates. Either you've got your probable cause, and you're going to haul me in, or I'm going on inside to watch television."

Russell cocked an eyebrow. "What about your trip?"

Bobby didn't know what he was talking about.

Russell nodded toward the Explorer. "When I was driving up, you were headed out to your vehicle. I assumed you were about to take a trip somewhere."

Bobby looked as if he was thinking of a retort, but he ended up letting it go. "Have a nice day, Agent Coates."

Russell watched as Bobby strolled self-consciously back toward the house and pushed the button for the garage door. The tiny electric motor sounded overworked as the overhead door started its downward trek. "Nice truck," Russell yelled over the noise, bending at the waist to keep eye contact below the descending door. "I see you've got the same tires as the prints we found at Powhite Trail." He enjoyed watching the words land on their target.

"I'll see you in a little while," Russell called, but by then the door was all the way down.

Bobby made it only as far as the mudroom before he grabbed the wall and slid down onto the floor. To keep from passing out, he sat Indian-style, with his forehead dangling just inches above his crossed ankles. He opened his mouth wide and gulped huge lungfuls of air, keeping his eyes clenched tight until the spots stopped dancing.

What had he done? Sweet Jesus, God Almighty, what had he done? It was all over now. It had to be. The tires were the key to it all. He'd seen the fucking tires, and soon there'd be the army of cops with their search warrants. In what-two hours?-everything would come crashing down. It couldn't possibly take any longer than that. In two hours there'd be the shame of the mug shots and the television camera crews. There'd be the announcements from all of his neighbours and co-workers about how surprised they were that a guy as nice as Bobby Martin could turn out to be a murderer and a kidnapper.

That quickly, they'd all turn against him. He'd seen it happen on the news countless times and always with the same result. Somehow or other, the networks would get a picture of him being led out of some courthouse somewhere with his wrists and ankles shackled and his head bowed low. Everyone in the world would see that and know unquestioningly that he was guilty. The FBI handled this case, after all, and the FBI always gets it right.

Why hadn't he just come clean?

Of all the countless thousands of questions that swooped and swirled in his mind, that was the one that took center stage, like a giant condor flying among sparrows. Why hadn't he just sat Agent Coates down and spilled his guts? Told the whole story? At least then the truth would have been on the record. Now, no matter what he said to anyone, whether under oath or just in passing, it would be judged as just another lie told by a frightened criminal who'd already established his propensity for lying.

But you didn't lie, he told himself. He'd been very careful about that. Everything he'd said had walked the feather edge, but he'd never crossed it. There was something to be proud of there, no?

Pride. Now there was a concept that didn't mean a lot anymore. Pride seemed like a luxury now; something that he'd be lucky ever to attain in a dream, let alone in the real world. Right at this moment, he'd pay a fortune just for some guaranteed dignity.

Raising his head and looking around the room, he tried to think of something to do; something that might possibly bring him a step closer to a solution for all of this. He could still run; just hop on a plane while there was still time and jet off to wherever. That was ridiculous and he knew it. Others had tried, and they were always caught.

Again, the vision of his retirement party jumped into his head. People crashing the doors and throwing his guests to the floor.

No, that wouldn't do at all.

Climbing back to his feet, Bobby wandered back into the kitchen and helped himself to a tall glass of orange juice. What he really wanted was a good stiff drink, but that was a bad idea. If ever there was a time for him to be fully awake and alert, this was it. He had some serious, serious thinking to do.

He hadn't realized how dry his mouth had become until the cold, acidic juice cut its way through. It felt great, even if it sat a little uneasily on his stomach.

"You know what you need to do," he told the room. "You've got no choice here."

He chugged the rest of the juice, then made a face as his gut decided whether it was going to send it back. In the end, it all stayed down.

And then it was time to make his phone call.

Judging from the sound of the receptionists voice, Barbara Dettrick had alerted her to be ready for his call. The lawyer picked it up on the first ring.

"Bobby?"

"The FBI just left," Bobby said, and for the first time he wondered if he was going to be able to keep his composure. "I think he knows."

"What did he say to you?"

"I could see it in his eyes. I could hear it in the way he asked his questions. He knows it's me."

"It doesn't matter what he knows, Bobby," she said sharply, trying to get him back on point. "And it doesn't matter what he thinks. All that matters is what he can prove. Now tell me what you talked about."

"It was just like I was afraid of. He knew that we'd been in the park last night, and he wanted some information from me."

"Dammit, Bobby, quit being so vague, will you? Tell me what he asked, and tell me what you told him."

Bobby recounted the conversation as best he could from the increasingly fuzzy recollections. He told her he admitted to being in the park last night, and that he thought he'd done a stunning job of never straying from the truth.

"Don't be so proud of yourself, Bobby," Barbara admonished. "This guy isn't some hayseed deputy. He's the FBI, and he knows when he's being evaded. Did he ever ask to come inside?"

"I told him no. I said I could tell that I'm a suspect in his mind, and that I didn't see where I could do myself any good by inviting him inside. Kind of like inviting a vampire in, you know? Once they cross the threshold, they never have to leave."

Barbara laughed, and the sound was refreshing. "That was good. Very good, in fact. What about that permit thing you were so worried about? Did he ever mention anything about that?"

Damned interesting point. "No, he didn't. What do you think that means?"

"Well, I hope it means he never found the damned thing, or that maybe it blew off the mountain and into the river. The way I see it, the lost permit is only important if they found it within a reasonable distance of the crime scene. Frankly, with that kind of evidence, you'd be under arrest now. How about a search warrant? Did your FBI buddy mention anything about coming back with one of those?"

"Not in so many words, no. But he did say that the tires on my truck were of the same make as the ones found at the crime scene."

"I thought you parked down the hill from the crime scene."

"I did. About a mile, I guess."

Barbara nearly cheered. "A mile! He's bluffing. A mile might as well be a light-year. Besides, if I recall right, your tires don't look very new."

"They're the originals. Got nearly sixty thousand miles on them."

"Well, shit, Bobby. That means that every Explorer on the street is using the same tires. I don't think we've got a lot of exposure there. Sounds like you did a good job."

"So, what happens next?"

"That depends. At this point, the next move belongs to the other side. We just sit and wait."

Bobby fell silent. There had to be something more than that. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop would drive him over the edge. "I want to turn myself in." There, it was out on the table. "Let's explain it all and see where it turns out."

The silence on the other end unnerved him.

"Barbara?"

"I'm here. I think that's a mistake."

"What do you mean, you think it's a mistake? It's what you wanted me to do earlier this afternoon."

"That was earlier. Since then I've had a chance to talk with some of my colleagues, and I've changed my mind. I think you ought to hang tight for a while."

Well, shit. "Why, for God's sake?" The anger in his voice startled him.

"Truthfully? Because the feds have a death penalty now, and they're always looking for a place to test it. Until I know more about what they know, then I think we should just keep our mouths shut."

"Why don't you ask, then?"

"Well, that's what I want to do, but it'll take a little while. I want to tell them that their little visit caused you some concern, and that I want to know everything they have."

"Will they tell you?"

"Probably not. Not until they've officially named you as a suspect. Right now, they won't want to tip their hand, and that makes sense. I think you should wait and keep your mouth shut."

Bobby made a growling sound. "But, Jesus, Barbara, I don't know if I can take it."

"You can take it," she soothed. "You have to take it. For a while, anyway. Just remember, a lifetime is a long time to regret a hasty decision. I can't emphasize that point to you enough."

She was right. He knew she was right, but he also knew that he was telling the God's honest truth about being ready to crack under the stress. "How long will this stretch on?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Bobby. Now, let's talk about this stray human being you have on your hands."

The abruptness of the change of subject startled him. "I've made no progress there. Susan took him out shopping while I was meeting with you."

"Shopping? As in out of the house where people might see her? Is she out of her mind?"

Bobby closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Right at this second? Yeah, I think she is. And I'll be goddamned if I know what to do about it."

RlCKY TlMMONS DID his best to sit still as he listened to the change of plans. He waited till Logan was done, and then another fifteen seconds before he spoke. When he did, he carefully measured his words, knowing that he could never win an argument with his boss by shouting. Once voices were raised, logic went out the window, and everything became an issue of pride.

"I don't think we can do it all, Patrick. Even if we could get to West Virginia by midnight, the chances of getting away clean are way too small."

Logan waved him off. "We don't have any choice. I already told you that. This Samuel asshole is a fucking nutcase, and with his brother dead, we've got to plug the holes. There's no other way."

And this was exactly the reason why poorly planned hits got you into trouble. Things just never went perfectly. Never. And you had to plan for that. This vendetta against Carlos Ortega boiled so hot in Logan's gut that he couldn't think past it anymore. It was making the boss think that he was infallible.

"Then let's take Ortega out with a rifle," Ricky suggested. "We'll hit him from a hundred yards away and skate off into the sunset."

Logan shook his head. "No. The son of a bitch has to know who hit him."

"But everybody else at the whole school will see you, too. You don't think that'll be a problem?"

Logan smiled. "Not with the disguise my right-hand man is going to put together for me."

Ricky laughed. "What am I supposed to do? Give you some Groucho nose and glasses? Jesus, Patrick, this is big shit here. You need to start taking it seriously."

"I take it very seriously!" Logan boomed. "You're being an old woman! What the hell's gotten into you?"

Ricky bristled. If anyone else in the world had called him an old woman, they'd already have been dead.

Logan seemed to sense his lieutenant's anger, and he toned it down. He leaned back into his seat and motioned for Ricky to do the same. "Relax, Ricky. I just wanted you to know exactly how much faith I have in your abilities, okay? You're nobody's old woman, and I apologize for calling you that, okay?"

Ricky didn't say anything, trying to measure sincerity. Finally he nodded. Yeah, it was okay.

"Good. And I want you to know that if there was another way to do this, I'd do it. But there's not. Ortega drew his line in the sand, and I'm walking all over it. If we don't take him out tonight, then it'll be us in body bags tomorrow. This thing in the woods, well, what the hell? Sometimes things go wrong. Maybe this is the fuckup you've been worried about. Maybe this is the one thing that always goes wrong, and from here on out, it's smooth sailing."