Even Steven (41 page)

There were two ways to make an assault such as this one: you could go in fast and noisy or you could go in slow and stealthy. Frankly, Horner didn't think his nerves could handle stealthy right now. Instead, he chose the frontal assault. Straight up the stairs, into the front door, and maybe the bad guy would either freak or he'd take pity on someone stupid enough to pull such a crazy stunt. Either way, it was time to go.

Homer rose to his haunches, steadied himself with a huge breath, and after checking to make sure that he could handle the Maglite and the forward grip of the shotgun in the same hand, he leapt forward like a linebacker. A loud, guttural, animal yell rose from his throat as he dashed straight up the stairs, across the porch, and on into the foyer, the shotgun ready at his shoulder, the brilliant beam of his flashlight illuminating the whole path.

He saw the gun before he saw the gunman and fired. The riot gun bucked hard, and before the roar of the blast died in his ears, he chambered another round and fired again, dropping down to his right knee to provide a smaller target.

Gun smoke choked the air, looking like so much fog in the beam of the Maglite. He'd expected return fire, and when he got none, he felt simultaneously elated and frightened. Where was this guy?

Homer allowed himself the luxury of lowering the riot gun to his hip as he searched through the wreckage he'd wrought. He saw no body on the floor, and no signs of blood, either new or old.

Yet the shotgun that had wounded Burrows was still there; or rather, bits and pieces of it were-mostly just the barrel. The stock and the grip had been mauled by Homer's assault. The shredded weapon appeared to be floating on its own in the air, a gun with no one to fire it.

He took a step closer, and as he did, he got his first glimpse of the heavy fishing line on the floor, and then of an elaborate arrangement of pulleys mounted near the door, and another near the stairs.

The stairs where someone had lashed a shotgun to the post.

Well, I'll be goddamned," Homer found himself laughing in spite of the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. It had been a trap. A fucking booby trap, and Special Agent Timothy Burrows of the FBI had charged right into it.

THE SCREAM THAT rose from Interview Three seemed to shake the entire station house. Tom Stipton had nearly made it to the hallway when it stopped him dead at the threshold. In a business where screams were a part of everyday life, this one was different. This one had an edge of horror to it that raised the hair on his back and his neck.

He drew his weapon without thinking and charged back toward the door he'd just closed; one of a half dozen detectives with a half dozen drawn weapons. Tom arrived first and threw the door open, his arm uncertain where to point the gun.

"What is it?" he shouted. "What's wrong?"

April's eyes were like saucers, her features twisted and contorted by panic. Instinctively, Tom whirled around to see if someone was standing on the dark side of the door behind him.

"They're going to kill him!" April sobbed. "They're going to kill my baby!"

Tom looked to the other detectives to see if they knew what she was talking about, only to find them staring back at him. Right until this very moment, he hadn't even known she had a baby. Pretty damned shoddy police work, come to think of it.

"Who, April?" Tom asked, holstering his weapon. He heard a rustle of fabric and leather as others behind him followed his lead. "Who's going to kill your baby?"

"Patrick Logan," she said quickly, and then the look of panic deepened, as if she'd frightened herself with her words.

She looked desperately at Detective Stipton, and then, all at once, something changed behind her eyes as she gave herself up to the inevitable. Just like that, she seemed more relaxed, even as she stayed on the verge of tears. "The shooting at the school. That was Carlos Ortega, wasn't it?"

Again, Tom looked to the others, wondering who had leaked the information. "How did you know that?"

April opened her mouth to speak, but then checked herself. "Can we talk alone for a moment, Detective Stipton? I'd rather not have to watch everybody staring at me."

Tom didn't have to say anything. The others all filed out, and as they did, one of them told Stipton to take his time, that they would handle things over at the school.

With the room empty save for the two of them, Tom took his old seat, crossed his legs, and laced his fingers around his knee. If April was ready to tell a story, he was ready to listen.

Samuel waited in the truck for a long time before walking into the little restaurant for directions. He'd stopped at the 7-Eleven to look at their maps, but there were just too many little roads around here, and the way the words sort of wrapped around each other on the page, he couldn't figure out where he was supposed to go.

You're such a fucking dummy.

"I'm not a dummy," he declared. "And why don't you just keep your mouth shut?"

He wasn't sure why Jacob had decided to come driving with him, but when he'd first heard the voice, he nearly drove the truck into a tree. He couldn't see him, but he could sure hear his voice, so close that he swore he could feel Jacob's hot breath on his ear.

He hated asking for directions. Not just because he scared people sometimes, but because when they started to tell him, the words oftentimes came too fast. Turn left here, go for a mile, go right and then left and then right and then right again before you get to a stop sign . . .

God Almighty, sometimes they'd go on and on forever. But he'd always pretend that he got it all on the first try. Otherwise, they'd think he was a dummy.

The place he picked looked as if it probably cost a lot of money to eat there, with the people hanging around dressed in suits and ties, dresses for the ladies. They'd probably look at him funny when he came in there in his blue jeans and his flannel shirt and denim jacket, but that was okay. He was used to people looking at him funny. Sometimes, he kind of enjoyed catching them looking, just to see the expression on their faces before they quickly looked away.

The restaurant was called Hats Off, and it sat at the very end of a short block, the last building before the railroad tracks. He parked his truck near the tracks and walked back across the gravel parking lot, up the three steps to the porch, which actually turned out to be more of an elevated sidewalk, and on into the brightly lit anteroom, where a thin little lady stood at a podium and tried to smile at him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Samuel heard the conversation stop as people noticed him standing there, but he paid no notice. Things like that didn't bother him so much anymore. She'd said the right thing and tried her best not to look at him badly, and sometimes that was the best you could hope for.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, scraping the filthy John Deere cap off of his dirty hair. "I was wondering if you could point me toward an address." He pulled the rumpled camping permit out of his pocket and read the street number to her.

The lady looked genuinely relieved to know exactly where that place was. "Okay," she said, and Samuel found himself bracing for an onslaught of turns and directions. "You drive straight across the railroad tracks there, and around the curve and at your very first opportunity, hang a left. That will put you on Clinton Road. Then you just go straight for a mile, maybe a mile and a half, and you'll find this address. If you get to Bradlick Road, you've gone too far."

Samuel closed his eyes as he listened, trying to visualize what she was saying, and when he opened them again, he thought he had it.

"Thank you very much." He turned for the door. His hand was on the knob when he caught a glimpse of a mother forcing her five-year-old's head around so as not to stare. "That's okay, ma'am," Samuel said in his friendliest tone. "He can look at me if he wants to."

The woman looked horribly uncomfortable while the little boy smiled triumphantly.

"This is what will happen to you if you don't study in school, little boy. So take a good look."

Samuel's words did nothing to ease the tension. If anything, the mother drew the boy in closer, and the little one's smile looked very much as if he were about to cry. Samuel stood there for a long moment, watching the boy's features cloud, and wishing that he could say something that would make the boy feel better. But Samuel knew that he didn't own those words, so in the end, he just walked out and back across the parking lot.

He hated it when children made those faces. Samuel loved kids, wished that he could have one of his own to play with and stuff.

Little Justin had cried, too. All children cried when they were around him, and Samuel was tired of that. Why did they do that? People either laughed, looked scared, or cried. Why couldn't they just say nice things-like "hello, sir" or "Have a nice day, sir"-the way they used to talk to Jacob? Why did everyone have to make him feel like a freak all the time?

It was a good thing the lady at the podium told him about Bradlick Road's being too far, because it seemed as if he got there in no time. Without her saying that, he might have missed the address completely and then just driven on till morning. He turned around in the apron of a closed driving range and headed back in the other direction, driving lowly now, and examining the house numbers that were posted on trees or posts or rocks, all along the road.

Lots and lots of driveways, but precious few houses that he could see.

There! That was the number right there! He saw it on a post next to the mailbox. He had to back up a little, but he made the turn easily. Drive in slow now, Jacob told him. I will. You just hush up. I know what I'm doing." Turn your lights off. Okay, so that was one he'd forgotten about. Jacob had taken him on a lot of the jobs he used to do and shared in detail every little thing. Only before-well, you know, before-Jacob would be the one to go inside, while Samuel waited in the car with the engine running, the doors unlocked.

Samuel's job was mainly just to keep an eye out. If somebody approached a place where they were working, Samuel was to call Jacob's little phone, let it ring twice, and then hang up. They'd never say anything, but Jacob would know that there was trouble. Samuel was also supposed to keep close watch on the door. If Jacob came running out quickly-and he never did, but if he did-then Samuel was supposed to stomp on the gas the instant his brother's butt hit the seat.

Sometimes, Jacob would come back bloody, and when that happened, Samuel would know that things hadn't gone well, and that he should probably keep his mouth shut. Most times, though, Jacob came back clean-clean as a whistle-and those times, Jacob's mood was always high. Way up in the clouds, he liked to say.

For a few seconds after he turned off the headlights, Samuel couldn't see anything, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he finally saw a serpentine black ribbon climbing steeply into the less black woods.

One thing you could say about the engine in their truck was that it ran smooth and quiet. Like a top. Jacob always insisted that everything be kept in tip-top working order for just such times as these.

Surprise is important, Samuel, never forget that. Sometimes it's most important of all. A squeaking fan belt can get you killed if you're not careful.

Samuel never fully understood how a squeaky belt could kill, but when Jacob said something with such forcefulness, it was always best just to listen to what he had to say.

Add to the quiet engine this smooth driveway, and it was like driving on a cloud.

Bright carriage lights on either side of the front door, combined with the light of a lamppost, made the night seem like day up near the house, so Samuel decided to park in the shadow of the trees, where no one would see the truck if they happened to look out the window.

Surprise means everything.

The truck's door latch clicked as he pulled the handle, and the hinge moaned a bit as he opened it, but Samuel didn't think they were loud enough to cause a problem. He swung his legs around and lowered himself to the ground oh so softly.

Don't forget the gun, Jacob told him.

"I'm not forgetting anything," Samuel whispered sharply. "I just haven't gotten to that yet." He was lying, of course, but he wasn't in the mood for a lecture right now about how all the little things mattered. Of course they mattered, but what did Jacob expect from him on his first time doing this stuff alone?

The Ruger automatic lay in the glove compartment where it always stayed, requiring Samuel to climb back into the truck and lie across the front seat to grab it. Back on his feet again, he stuffed the weapon into the waistband of his jeans.

Don't blow your balls off.

That one didn't even require a response. But he did check the safety, just to be sure.

One of Jacob's most important rules was to always enter from the rear of a house. People didn't pay as much attention to the back sides of their houses as they did to the front. If they had lots of lights on, they were almost always concentrated on the street side of the property, probably to make petty burglars think twice about picking that house instead of the darkened one next door. If he and Jacob had been petty burglars, that would probably have worked, but their business required a certain person from a certain place at a certain time. Lights or no lights.

He made an effort to stay in the shadows as he worked his way around the left side of the enormous brick home, and he was almost halfway there when he drew up short. How sure was he that this was the right house? Was he absolutely positive? It wouldn't do to help himself to the wrong house with the wrong people inside. He pulled the camp-mg permit out of his pocket one more time and tilted it till he could see the writing in the dim, distant shine of the lamppost.