The Cyclops Conspiracy (40 page)

How could they be unlocking her front door? And more importantly, why? Police didn’t sneak into people’s houses. They knocked down doors if need be.

In the milliseconds it took for the sound waves to vibrate her eardrum and reach her brain, Christine processed these inconsistencies on a subconscious level. She sensed the danger like an insect trapped in a spider’s web. Early recognition meant the difference between life and death. She peered out the window. The car across the street was empty. The men watching her house were gone. They were at her door.

These men were not here to arrest her. Were they here to kill her?

She pushed up a window, stuck one leg out, and ducked through, grabbing the sill with both hands and easing the other leg out. The window opened onto the shingled rooftop over the back porch. She crawled out onto it and quietly moved to the edge. With the deftness of a gymnast, she lowered herself over the eave and hung for a brief moment before dropping to the soft ground. Christine knelt, listened, then ran toward the empty car.

These men outnumbered him two to one—assuming there were no others. At least he was aware of their presence; that gave him the advantage. An advantage he was going to exploit.

Peter removed two 9 mm pistols, a sawed-off shotgun, and a sniper rifle from the cabinet in the garage and left them in the kitchen. He went upstairs, turned on the bathroom light, left it on for a few moments, turned it off, and turned on the bedroom lights. He walked around, making sure his shadow was cast on the blinds. They were carrying handguns. A shot at a shadow through a window from the backyard was unlikely. He lay on the bed. Carefully, he slipped off the bed and onto the floor, crawled to the stairs, and hustled to the kitchen.

He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. When the operator came on, he said simply, “Two armed men are at my house. Send the police quickly.” Peter gave the address and hung up.

Returning to the darkened kitchen, he leaned on the counter, peering through the scope of his sniper rifle. It took a moment, but he relocated one of the targets. There had been no movement for a full
minute. He had to even the odds. He lowered the rifle, raised the window a few inches, and looked through the drapes with his naked eye.

There!

At the base of the middle tree in a copse of five loblolly pines, a dark silhouette stuck out like a cancer. He raised the rifle and eyed the scope. He could see the magnified profile of a face in the moonlight. The head moved back and forth slowly, as darkened eyes darted under the ridges of a thick brow. Peter zeroed in on the right temple. Using the mil-dots, he estimated the range at forty yards. The barrel of the weapon rested on the sill of the open window, but did not protrude through it. He cradled the stock against his right shoulder.

There was a slight breeze from his left. At this short distance, the effect on the trajectory of the round would be nonexistent. He sucked in a deep breath and let out half. As he stopped the exhalation, he gently squeezed. The report sounded like a bomb exploding. For a nanosecond, blinding whiteness overwhelmed the darkness.

The vapor trail of the projectile rose up in his view. It intersected with the two perpendicular lines on his mil-dot reticle. The round connected with the man’s skull, snapping the head backward. The body disappeared from his scope.

One down. One to go. His odds had just doubled. Crouching below the kitchen counter, he grabbed the pistol and the shotgun. Peter sat on the kitchen floor, leaning against the cabinets, contemplating his next move. It was too much to expect the second man to simply go away. He rose up, facing the front door, when it opened with a crash.

The sound of splintering wood was followed quickly by three silenced shots zipping into the kitchen like angry hornets. The first and third shots missed. The second hit Peter above the right knee in the fleshy part of the thigh. He groaned, clutching his knee and dropping the shotgun. In one smooth motion, he withdrew the 9 mm. He pulled off three rounds from the pistol, missing with each one. The figure had moved into the house. Peter rolled onto his back, dragging
himself under the dinette. Pain seared his leg. Blood seeped quickly from the wound, through his fingers, soaking his pants. The silhouetted figure in the doorway had disappeared into the living room to Peter’s right.

Peter crawled awkwardly from under the table and struggled to his feet. His face contorted with pain, he leaned against the refrigerator.

Two doors led into the living room. One from the foyer, the other from the kitchen. Peter limped to the kitchen door to cut off the intruder. His leg was on fire. Gasping heavily, he tried to remain quiet and peered around the frame.

A floorboard creaked behind him.

Quickly, he spun toward the sound, bringing his gun up. Too late. The figure was already there. His long, silenced barrel aimed, center mass, at the former marine’s chest. Peter Rodgers let out an audible exhale and waited for the bullet to rip through his body.

At that exact moment, the wall-mounted kitchen phone—right next to the killer’s left ear—rang like a school bell. The assassin jumped at the unexpected noise, elevating the barrel of his weapon a few inches. Shots burped, missing Peter’s head and puncturing the skin of the refrigerator. Peter brought the Glock up, firing in a wide arc as he dove to the floor.

The phone rang again.

The killer was jerked off his feet and thrown backward into the hallway. Dark, rich crimson oozed through his shirt from the craters left by the 9 mm rounds.

Peter Rodgers lay on the floor, gun still aimed at his target. The magazine was empty and the slide locked to the rear. Peter, nonetheless, silently squeezed the trigger for a few seconds more. As quickly as the battle had begun, it was over.

The phone on the kitchen wall rang eight more times. In the distance, wailing sirens approached. Peter dragged himself to the phone and grabbed the handset. Too late again. The caller had hung up before he could get there. The ID read “Pettigrew.”

Christine Pettigrew.

Peter smiled and wondered what she would say when she found out she’d saved his life with an unanswered phone call. He chuckled, looked at his blood-soaked leg, and waited in silent agony for the emergency vehicles to arrive.

Christine ran straight to the killers’ generic vehicle. It was one of those crazy decisions made under an enormous amount of stress. She hoped they’d be careless enough to leave the keys in the ignition. Luckily, they’d left the doors unlocked.

She quietly slipped inside the driver’s side.

If Christine had had any doubts about her intruders’ unofficial nature, they were erased by the interior of the dark blue Lincoln. It was devoid of the standard-issue police equipment. There was no laptop, no hidden flashing light on the dashboard, and no nightstick. There wasn’t even a two-way radio. It was your average, everyday vehicle, driven by two killers.

No keys dangled from the ignition. She reached down and groped through the darkness, hoping they were on the floor mat. Nothing.

A seizure of panic overtook her. She needed to get out of the car before the killers realized she wasn’t in the house and returned. Christine slipped along the front seat and crawled out the passenger-side door, closing it gently. She peered through the glass at her darkened house,
trying to decide what to do. Christine could hear her breath wheezing in her chest. Her hand shook as she rested it on the car door.

A shadowy movement caught her eye. A tall, masculine figure was coming around the back of the house. And it was moving in her direction.

If she ran, she would be spotted. Christine crawled on all fours to the rear of the car. Veering left, she disappeared into the hedges lining the Taylors’ property and lay flat on her stomach, paralyzed with fear. A second figure had joined the first. Christine could hear snippets of whispered conversation.

“Where the fuck did she go?”

“How the hell do I know? Must have slipped out the back. She can’t be far. I’ll check the street. You check the backyards.”

Christine watched the second figure move off. The first man moved slowly, looking for movement, listening for the slightest sound. Through dim light, she saw a gun in his hand pressed against his thigh. A long, extended silencer was attached to the barrel. He was no more than six feet from where she lay.

Christine held her breath, afraid exhaling might give her away.

The minutes seemed to pass like hours. Finally, she forced herself to let out a slow, shallow exhalation. Beads of sweat had formed on every inch of her already-soaked skin. The man moved toward the other end of the car, away from her.

Christine rolled slowly into the yard beneath the dark shadows of a giant oak. She sidled against the base of the trunk on her stomach and wrapped an arm around it.

The two men returned to the car. More whispering.

“Are you shittin’ me! She’s a friggin’ accountant. How the hell did she get away?”

“You go back into the house in case she comes back. I’ll drive around and watch for her.”

One of the men returned to Christine’s house. She felt violated, knowing a stranger was waiting for her in there.

She remembered something Mrs. Liggieri had told her when she was helping with the arrangements for Daddy’s funeral. When the car moved off, Christine snaked on her belly, east toward Liggieri’s yard, staying in the shadows.

It was at least forty yards away. It took her fifteen minutes to traverse the distance.

Christine made it to the driveway and crawled around the car to the doorway. She ran her hands through the plants and flowers near the door and found what she was looking for. The small fake stone. Lifting it, Christine removed the key.

Staying on her knees, she opened the door and slipped inside. She hazarded a glance back toward her own house and saw no movement. She hated what she was about to do, but saw no other choice.

* * * *

Christine drove Mrs. Liggieri’s Cadillac, her mind buzzing with questions. How did they know she was home? Had she done something to tip them off? Christine mentally retraced her steps, but was too frightened to think clearly.

She drove for ten minutes, turning onto Victory Boulevard, heading north toward Yorktown. With no route planned, she let her subconscious guide her like the needle of a compass pointing toward magnetic north. Her attempt to contact Jason and Peter had failed. She’d never bothered to get Walter’s number, and didn’t even know where he lived.

Why hadn’t Jason answered? Where was he? Had killers gotten to him too?

Fifteen minutes later, she was a quarter mile from Big Bethel Road. She turned right, on automatic pilot. It felt familiar and friendly. She’d been here before, to discuss Lily Zanns and her plot. A mile later, she recognized the entrance to the Running Man subdivision in York County, Jason’s neighborhood. Spurred by their abruptly interrupted love affair and the desire to find him, she’d been drawn to his
house. Perhaps there would be a clue to Jason’s whereabouts there. It was the only place she knew to go. And in any case, she wasn’t leaving the area without Jason.

Until the moment she pulled into the neighborhood, Christine had not considered the danger. It hit her now like a falling meteor. She pulled the car to the shoulder. Care would be needed here. Killers might be watching his house as well. The last thing she needed to do now was stumble into a trap meant for Jason.

The car radio, which she’d left on, suddenly broke into her preoccupation and gave her an unwanted answer.

“Police in York County have reported that Jason Rodgers, a pharmacist at the Colonial Pharmacy in Newport News, escaped from custody three hours ago and is currently on the run. Rodgers is accused of stabbing his ex-girlfriend Sheila Boquist to death. He was being held in the regional jail in Williamsburg awaiting arraignment.

“Details are sketchy at this hour. Apparently, the prisoner was stabbed in a jailhouse scuffle. He was taken to Tidewater Regional Medical Center, where he managed to escape while being treated…”

Christine’s gut clenched as the words sunk in.

Could he really have killed his ex-girlfriend? She didn’t believe Jason was capable of murder.

She drove the remaining five blocks to Jason’s street, cruising past the house slowly, looking for any signs of danger. She knew that, in her exhausted and petrified state, it would be easy to miss something. The house was dark. The street appeared grossly normal.

She circled back onto the main road and drove three blocks in the direction from which she’d just come to a deserted cul-de-sac. The well-to-do families, with the professional husbands and stay-at-home moms, were buttoned up for the night. Christine parked and picked her way through yards and bushes, approaching Jason’s from the rear.

Fifteen minutes later, she peered through the darkness and shadows of the two-story house. With the front door out of the question,
she reached the deck, tried the back door, and found it locked. She lifted the mat but found no key.

Five windows stretched across the first floor. She tried the two looking out over the deck. Locked. The third, a kitchen window, was off the deck and too high for her to reach. Moving on to the downstairs bedroom window, she spotted a black wire snaking out through the cracked-open window to a small, rectangular box attached to the side of the house. She’d seen these before. Satellite radio antenna.

It took four tries, but finally the window grudgingly moved high enough for her to slide through. She pulled the antenna in and shut the window firmly, locking it behind her.

* * *

From a quarter mile away, Jason could see the flashing blue lights. His mood and expectations sank. Jason slowed the Taurus and slid past the commotion. A draped body lay half in, half out of the door of Waterhouse’s home.

Jason cursed to no one and everyone.

There was still no way of knowing whether or not Waterhouse had sent the evidence to John Palmer in Newport News. He wasn’t turning himself in until he knew Palmer had received Waterhouse’s e-mail with the file of the recording attached. And he wasn’t about to walk up to these Poquoson police officers and ask them if he could check.