The Watcher in the Wall (26 page)

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Gruber found
Earl’s building with no problem. Knew it was the right place from halfway down the block.

It was a grimy brick walk-up in the shadow of the Sherman Minton Bridge, a few blocks from the flood wall, a low, grassy hill that protected the town when the river overflowed. The building was three stories tall, run-down and old. The ghost of a bar on the first floor, all faded beer posters and boarded, blacked-out windows, the throb of some low-rent rock music wafting out from within. Above the bar were two floors of apartments, the windows narrow and greasy, bedsheet curtains and darkness behind.

It was a shithole. It was exactly the kind of place Gruber expected to find his stepfather, the kind of by-the-hour/by-the-week residence that housed only derelicts, ex-cons, the desperate, and the dying. It was hardly a step up from the Shady Acres Motor Court, probably wasn’t a much better accommodation than the state pen. It was Earl’s kind of place, Gruber figured, for sure.

It was late afternoon. The drive had taken eight hours—longer than Gruber had expected, but safer than the interstate. He’d made it to New Albany without any police trouble. Madison Mackenzie’s bus would arrive in an hour. Gruber figured he’d left himself just enough time to deal with Earl before he met the girl, even factoring in how he wanted to take his time, do things right. Make Earl suffer a little bit.

Of course, that assumed the whole plan played out without a hitch.
And as Gruber slowed Curtis Donovan’s big Lincoln to a stop down the street from Earl Sanderson’s apartment building, he could see one big hitch standing directly in his way, in the form of a rusted-out Chevy Malibu parked across the street, those red, white, and blue Ohio plates standing out like a beacon, two men inside, just hanging out.

You told them where you’re going,
Donovan had said.
They’ll just send more guys down to meet you.

Gruber had laughed him off. Figured he could deal with whatever Rico Jordan’s crew threw at him. And he could, but he hadn’t really counted on the reinforcements showing up so soon.

Gruber turned the Lincoln down a cross street, drove up the block before the men in the Malibu could see him. Circled around to the back of the apartment building and parked, looking for another entrance. Found a rusted fire escape ladder and a back door for the bar, a heavy steel door by the dumpster that required a key. No luck. If he wanted into the building, he would have to go in through the front. And the men from Ohio had the front door covered.

Gruber walked back to the Lincoln. Popped the trunk and came out with the shotgun in its case, filled his pockets with ammunition. Slammed the trunk closed again. Then he stopped.

He’d been thinking he would just ambush the men, blast a couple new holes in that Malibu’s bodywork, end the standoff, nice and easy, before he went in to find Earl. But that plan had some flaws in it. Most notably, what if Earl wasn’t home? Second, someone was bound to notice a couple of dead mopes in a Malibu, midafternoon. They would call the police, and the police would investigate, and it would surely complicate matters if there were cops crawling around outside.

Gruber wanted to take his time with Earl. He wanted Earl to see just
how grown-up he’d become, wanted to savor the fear in his stepfather’s eyes. He didn’t want to blow his shot because he had to clean up the trash outside first.

Shit.

Gruber went back to the Lincoln. Slid in behind the driver’s seat, stared out at the apartment building. Sat there a long time until he’d figured out a plan. He turned the key in the ignition. Checked the time on the clock on the dash. Less than forty minutes before Madison’s bus arrived. Well, she might have to wait a little while for old Brandon to show. Gruber knew he wouldn’t get anything done until he shook the Malibu clear of Earl’s apartment.

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Rodney nudged Marcus
as the Lincoln pulled out from the alley beside Earl Sanderson’s building.

“There,”
he said, pointing. “That’s Curtis’s Continental. That’s the bastard right there.”

Marcus watched the Lincoln pull out, make a right turn, drive away slow toward the Sherman Minton Bridge. “What’s he doing leaving already?” he said. “You think he already got done what he came here to do?”

“The fuck does it matter?” Rodney replied. “Do we care about Earl Sanderson?” The Lincoln was beyond the bridge already, gaining ground, fast. “Well? What are you waiting for, B?
Follow him
.”

<<<

Gruber watched the Malibu
in his rearview, the car and the apartment receding quickly—too quickly—behind him. The plan wouldn’t work if the men from Ohio didn’t see him. If they didn’t take the bait.

Come on,
he thought, easing off the gas.
Come on, here I am. Follow me.

He was halfway down the main drag, closing in on the outskirts of town, before the Malibu moved behind him. Jerked to life and pulled out fast, like the men in the car had just realized what was happening. Gruber nudged the gas just enough to keep the big Lincoln moving, let the Malibu gain some distance. Wanted them close enough to see what he had planned, but hoped to keep enough space between them that they couldn’t fire on him until he was ready.

It wasn’t the best strategy in the world, what he was thinking about doing. It was risky, borderline stupid, and it would take up some time. And it assumed a hell of a lot about his own abilities with a shotgun. But it was the best he could come up with, the clock ticking down as it was, and anyway, it would keep the cops clear from Earl’s place, and wasn’t that all that mattered?

He would have to rework his plans, though. He would deal with these men. Then he would find Madison. Then he would come back for Earl. A few minor revisions, but no matter. It was good to be back in southern Indiana, good to be home. And Gruber realized he knew exactly where he would take Madison, just what kind of special game they could play.

But first, the men in the Malibu. Gruber made a right-hand turn at
the end of town, eased onto the Ohio River Scenic Byway, drove due west, the sun already settling toward the horizon between the thick stands of trees that lined the drive. He kept the Lincoln moving, the traffic thinning out, made sure to keep at least a couple of cars between Donovan’s ride and the Malibu.

The men in the Malibu followed all the way to where the byway spit out near Maplewood, followed as he ducked under the interstate and onto the state road through Georgetown, still pointed west, the sun almost blinding ahead of the windshield.

His phone was buzzing in the center console. Madison.
I’m almost here,
she wrote.
Can’t wait to see u.

Gruber checked the rearview. Saw the men clearly, two of them, big men, and mean, watching the Lincoln like they knew he was prey. He typed a response to Madison one-handed.
Running a little late. Car trouble. I’ll be there as soon as I can. XO.

He kept driving. Glanced at the Smith & Wesson on the passenger seat and the shotgun in the back. Prayed the men in the Malibu held off until he had them where he wanted them.

>>>

Marcus shifted
in the driver’s seat. Rubbed his stomach. “God-damn, I’m hungry,” he said. “This guy needs to hurry up and die so I can get something to eat.”

In the passenger seat, Rodney squinted out the windshield, the sun catching every grease stain and bug spatter on the glass, the Lincoln barely visible up ahead, somebody’s gleaming red Ford Super Duty the only thing in between.

Rodney reached for the MAC-11 beneath his seat, felt the familiar grip, the cold steel. In front of the Ford, the Lincoln was speeding up, opening some distance. The pickup truck lagged behind, in no hurry.

“I can pass this guy,” Marcus said. “Give us a clear shot. I’ll come up behind and you fill him with holes, cool?”

Rodney was about to tell Marcus,
Yeah, cool, step on the gas.
But then the Lincoln flashed its brake lights, a turn signal, right.

“Hold up,” Rodney said as the Lincoln turned down a narrow dirt road. “Be easy. We’ll nail him soon as you make this turn.”

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Gruber hit the gas
as soon as his tires hit dirt. Heard the Lincoln roar, felt the suspension bouncing, jarring, bottoming out. He kept his foot planted. Knew the men in the Malibu would aim to catch up here, this empty stretch of dirt. Knew they would see their opportunity.

He drove, bouncing in his seat, dodging potholes best he could, his eyes on the turn at the end of the road. This was a place he remembered only vaguely, from the occasional family drive out to the Hoosier National Forest, some twenty-odd miles farther west.

Bill Brothers Limestone, the place was called, and he’d always craned his neck as his mother drove past, peering in at the heavy machinery, the graders and the haulers, the deep pits in the earth. The place had closed down, just before his mother had taken up with Earl; Gruber
could remember the last time they’d driven past the quarry, the trucks and equipment all gone, just a few boarded-up outbuildings and a couple big holes in the ground, slowly filling with water.

The place was deserted. Gruber reached the end of the road, made the turn, pointed the Lincoln west again, the sun a spotlight aimed square in his eyes, the Malibu hidden back there, somewhere in the dust cloud he’d kicked up as he drove.

There was a gate swinging loose off a rusted-out lock, signs of the odd party here and there—piles of discarded beer cans, old barbecue pits. Used condoms and cigarette butts, and beyond it all, the pits, brimming with water, deep blue and cold.

Gruber drove through the gate. Swung the Lincoln around an old storehouse weathered gray from the quarry dust, and near falling down from twenty years of neglect. He killed the engine with the car out of sight, stuffed the Smith & Wesson back in his waistband, and reached for the shotgun.

He heard the Malibu slow as he stepped from the Lincoln, the gravel crunch beneath the tires. Felt his heart start to pound, the adrenaline ramping up. Shouldered the shotgun and crept around the far side of the storehouse and back toward the gate, excited and terrified for what was to come.

>>>

Marcus stopped the Malibu.
Fiddled with the sun visor, squinting in the glare. Rodney looked around, too. Couldn’t see a thing, just the blinding sun up ahead and some ruins alongside, trash everywhere and detritus, the dust hanging in the air from how the cars kicked it up.

Marcus rolled down the window. Coughed. “The fuck did he go?”

Rodney noticed the storehouse off to the left and figured it was obvious, was about to point out to Marcus to follow, when something caught his eye in his peripheral vision, coming from beyond Marcus, behind him.

Gruber.

There was no time to warn Marcus. Rodney shouted something, wasn’t even a word. Then Gruber was at the window with a big fucking shotgun, and Rodney was fumbling with the MAC-11, swinging around, and the shotgun roared once and blew a hole into Marcus, and Marcus jerked backward, into Rodney, knocked the MAC-11 from his hand. As Rodney bent down to grab the gun from the floor, he heard Gruber rack and reload with the shotgun and knew he’d never be fast enough.

He reached for the door handle instead. Wrenched it open and dove out to parched dirt and gravel just as Gruber put another slug through the windshield. Rodney scrambled away, the MAC-11 still in the Malibu, useless, heard Gruber behind him and pulled himself up and booked it, stumbling away from the car on uneven terrain as Gruber circled around from the driver’s side.

Go
.
Move. Get the hell out of here.

But Gruber had the open gate behind him. There was nowhere to run but farther into the quarry, toward the pits, the water, skirt the edge to the far side and hope Gruber kept missing.

Rodney made it ten, fifteen feet before the shotgun roared again, and
then he was flying, launched in the air from the force of the impact, and he knew he was hit, somewhere vital, too, because when he landed hard on the gravel and tried to scramble up again, he found he couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t make them cooperate.

Rodney clawed his way instead, pulled himself forward on his belly, legs trailing useless behind him. He heard Gruber’s footsteps somewhere close, heard the freak breathing, laughing a little, taking his time.

There was nowhere to go, no escape but the pit itself, the lip three or four feet from Rodney’s outstretched hands. He pulled himself toward it, heard Gruber load another slug into that shotgun, knew if he didn’t find cover immediately, he was dead.

He lunged for the lip with the last of his strength. Reached it, looked down and saw black water and stone. Hesitated, just briefly, expecting another blast from behind him, another horse kick, then black.
Jump or die.

Rodney jumped. Pulled himself over the edge, more like, tumbled down the jagged wall toward the water. Knew halfway down he was fucked anyhow. The water was deeper in the pit than he’d realized. There was no way back up the walls, not with that slug in him, not without his legs. He plummeted through open space, hit the water hard and felt the bite, cold, felt the slug hole in the small of his back for the first time, a terrible fire.

He plunged deep in the water, racking, twisting with pain, the shock of the impact. Got his head above water somehow, gasped for air, struggled to keep himself afloat with his arms, keep from blacking out, keep alive.

And then Gruber appeared at the lip of the pit, the shotgun in his hands, a little smile on his face. He stood there and watched Rodney
struggle to stay afloat, trained the gun on him but didn’t shoot, and Rodney gasped for more air, swallowed water, his strength waning, wished the bastard
would
shoot, get it over with, end the fucking game.

But Gruber didn’t shoot. He just stood there at the lip in the twilight, watching Rodney fight the inevitable, smiling to himself like this bullshit was
fun
.