Twice Dead (20 page)

“What's the name of the street Goose's Hardware is on?” Savich asked as he looked at his wife rubbing her knuckles, an eyebrow arched.

“West Hemlock,” Tyler said. “It's the main street.”

When Tyler McBride finally left, Adam turned to see Sherlock and Savich speaking quietly. Adam said, “Are you guys going to stay here?”

“That's probably best,” Savich said. “First thing, we're going to put a tap on this phone. Sherlock said we should bring our goodies. She's right a lot of the time.” Savich picked up what looked like a very small aluminum suitcase. “This is a dual redundant tape. We're going to set it right beside the phone recorder. Now, I'm going to patch it into the phone line via the recorder starting switch. Okay, now let's plug that puppy in between the phone and the outlet in the wall.”

“Goodness,” Becca said. “That's quite a gadget.”

“Yeah,” Adam said. “You can get it at RadioShack for about twenty bucks.”

“The recorder will start when the phone rings,” Savich said.

“Now for the slammer,” Sherlock said. She pulled out a small case that looked about the size of a laptop. “See this, Becca? It's an LED— light-emitting diode. When our boy calls this number, the name and address of the person who's registered as the phone owner will appear here on this green screen. It's like the automatic phone display for 911.”

“All done, Sherlock?” Savich said, then nodded when she pressed a couple of buttons. “Good. Now I'm going to go meet with the guys, set up a surveillance schedule, tell them about the tap and the trace.”

“Fine,” said Adam. “I'm coming with you. I want to meet them. I don't want anyone shot by accident. Also, we need to start tracking down our boy. He's somewhere close.”

“Three of the guys are already on that. They're checking all the gas stations within fifty miles, all the bed-and-breakfasts, motels, inns. They've already gotten a list of every single guy between the ages of twenty and fifty who arrived in Bangor and Portland within the past three days.”

Sherlock yawned. “Becca and I will guard the fort. You guys be careful. Hey, a nap sounds good, what with all the excitement. Is there another usable bedroom in this grandiose monstrosity?”

The men got back to Jacob Marley's house two hours later. It was dark, nearly nine o'clock in the evening. The house was lit up from top to bottom, all the outdoor lights on as well. The newly stained front door both looked and smelled great.

Sherlock was drinking coffee in the living room, studying a file she'd brought with her from Washington. The shades were drawn tight, which was smart. Becca wasn't anywhere around. They'd already checked with Perkins. There had been no phone calls.

Adam found Becca in her bedroom. She was lying flat on her back in the middle of the bed, her hands crossed over her stomach. Her eyes were closed but he knew she wasn't asleep. Her shoulders were locked stiff.

“Becca? You okay?”

“Yeah.”

She felt the bed give when he sat down beside her. “What do you want? Go away. I don't want to have to look at your pretty face. Has anyone seen him?”

“I don't have a pretty face. It's Savich who's got the pretty face. No, there's no sign of him yet, just that blood in the woods we found. The guys took samples to be analyzed.”

She cracked her left eye open. “Did everything go all right? Were all the men there? Have they found anything out yet?”

“Yes, all six of them are here, each of them well trained. I know four of them, even worked with a couple of them in the past, so that's good. They're all top-notch. It's just a matter of time until we track him down. All of us have favors owed. We'll call them all in if necessary. You know, the reason I was here was to protect you from the cops and the Feebs because we knew they couldn't protect you from the stalker. But things have changed now. The guy's here and there's no choice. We've got to get him or you'll never be safe.”

“Who is this Thomas, Adam? He must be very powerful to be able to have all this guy power up here for one insignificant person, namely me.”

“You're not insignificant.” He sounded too harsh, too intense, and he clamped his teeth together. “Look, don't worry about Thomas. He's doing what he's got to do. Now, why are you up here, lying down?” He paused a moment. She was dull-eyed, pale again, and it worried him. He looked at his fingernails and said, “But first things first. I'm getting hungry. Any ideas for dinner? It's nearly nine o'clock. It's nearly time to go to bed. Oh yeah, that was a good idea to have all the lights on.”

She opened both eyes then and stared up at him. “Sherlock did that. Now let me get this straight. You're worried about food? Now?”

He nodded. He'd distracted her. Her eyes were narrowed on his face, her lips were seamed into a thin line. Good.

“Of course I'm hungry. What about dinner?”

“Well then,” she said, rolling to the other side of the bed to stand and streaking her hands through her hair, “let me get my little self downstairs and see what I can whip together.”

She stalked out of the bedroom, Adam on her heels, grinning at the back of her head. She was keeping it together. Being pissed was good. He was pleased and inordinately relieved. He was afraid, though, that being a jerk was a bit too easy for him. He noticed again that the tilt of her head was like her father's.

“So,” Sherlock said some thirty minutes later at the kitchen table after she'd chewed a bite of tuna salad Savich had whipped up, “this Tyler McBride seems hung up on you, Becca, and he's wildly jealous of Adam. Could he be a problem?”

“He already is a problem,” Adam said, waving a dill pickle. “The guy attacked me. I wasn't doing a single thing and he attacked me.”

“You held back from hurting him,” Sherlock said. “That was smart. Mr. McBride is not only very afraid for Becca, he also feels threatened because another male showed up. It's strange. Here he knows Becca's in trouble. You'd think the more folks to help, the better.”

It was the way he should have felt the entire time, Adam thought. Bottom line, like Tyler, he'd felt threatened. And the women knew it.

“I'm glad you didn't hit Savich,” Sherlock said, seeing quite clearly what he was thinking. “I would have done more than clip you on the jaw if you had, Adam.” She then gave him a sunny smile, raised the plate, and said, “Anyone want another tuna sandwich?”

Becca said, “Or would you prefer raw meat?”

“That's really quite enough, Becca,” Adam said, finally annoyed. “I'm going to take another sandwich and go talk to the guys, see how they're doing. The moon's nearly full tonight. It's quiet. Don't worry about the boyfriend being out there to shoot me. I'll take my gun. Oh yeah, if I had attacked Savich, I would have coldcocked him before you could have hurt me, Sherlock.”

He left the kitchen.

Sherlock couldn't help herself; she laughed. Savich looked back and forth between the two women, stood slowly, nabbed a sandwich, then said, “I think it's a little thick in here. See you later, Sherlock. I'm going to go give my mom a call and see how she's faring with our boy.”

“Call me when you've got him on the phone,” Sherlock said, then took a big bite out of an apple.

Savich walked to the living room, and pulled out his cell phone. He heard Adam whistling outside.

He hated to lie to his mom when she asked him exactly what he and Sherlock were doing, but he did, and cleanly. “It's a background check on someone very important who's being considered for the Supreme Court. All very hush-hush and that's why Jimmy Maitland asked me and Sherlock to take care of it. Don't worry, Mom, we'll be back in a couple of days. I met a really cute little boy today. It seems his mother abandoned him and his father over a year ago and he hasn't said much since then. Is that Sean gurgling in the background? I'd sure like to speak to him, Mom.”

SIXTEEN

The phone in the living room rang sharply at midnight. Everyone heard it, but Becca was the fastest. She was on her feet, running down the front stairs to the living room by the second ring.

It was him, she knew it, and she wanted to talk to him. There wasn't the need to keep him on for any specified length of time. The slammer was instantaneous, the identification there in a flash.

Her hand shook as she picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“I don't know if I want to be your boyfriend anymore. You shot my dog, Rebecca.”

Shot his dog?
“That's a lie and you know it. Besides, no animal would have anything to do with you. You're too crazy and sick.”

“His name was Gleason. He was very fat and you shot and killed him. I'm really upset, Becca. I'm coming to get you now. Not long. Hey, honey, you want to send flowers to poor Gleason's funeral?”

“Why don't you bury yourself with him, you murdering psycho?”

Adam heard his hitching breath, the flutter of rage. She'd gotten to him. Good.

He saw Savich write down the name and address from the slammer and sit down on the sofa, opening his laptop. He pressed close to Becca.

“You got that big guy there with you, Becca? Listening to me?”

“Yeah, I'm here listening to you, you pathetic piece of crap. Cheer up, you killed the front door, but we're so good we even brought it back to life. It probably looks better than you do.”

Becca could feel the black fury in the silence that flooded over the phone line. She could nearly feel the stench of it—hot and rancid, that fury. “I'll kill you for that.”

“You already tried, didn't you? Not much good, are you?”

“You're a dead man, Carruthers. Soon. Very soon now.”

“Hey, where are you holding Gleason's wake? I wanna come. You want me to bring a priest? Or isn't your kind of crazy into religion?”

The breathing speeded up, rough and harsh. “I'm not crazy. I'll have Rebecca watch you die. I promise you that. I see you got two more people there with you. I also know they're FBI. You think they're going to do anything to help? No one can catch me. No one. Hey, Rebecca, the governor call you yet?”

Adam gave her a cool nod, a thumbs-up sign. She said, “Yeah, he called me. He wants to see me. He told me he loves me, that he wants to sleep with me again. He said his wife doesn't understand him, and he wants to leave her for me. The dear man, do you think he's well enough yet for me to tell him where I am?”

Cold, dead silence, then, very gently, they heard the phone line disconnect.

She stared at the phone. The slammer was showing “501-4867, Orlando Cartwright, Rural Route 1456, Blaylock” in black letters on a bright-green screen.

Sherlock said, “It's a land line, not a cell phone. Good. Everyone stay still for a moment. Savich will have all the information in a moment. He sounded healthy enough, didn't he?”

“Yeah,” Adam said.

“Then it was only a flesh wound, more's the pity,” Sherlock said, and scratched behind her left ear. Her curling red hair was all over her head. She was wearing a sleep shirt that said across the front: I BRAKE FOR ASTEROIDS. Savich had pulled on a pair of jeans. He was bare the rest of the way up. So was Adam.

“That dog bit,” Adam said, “it was an excellent ploy on his part. All right, let's head out of here and go get him. You got our directions, Savich?”

“In a second,” Savich said.

Adam took Becca in his arms. “You did great, Becca, really great. You rattled him. Now, let's get dressed and go nail him.”

“We're all going,” Becca said.

Savich looked up and grinned. “It's a farmhouse some six miles northwest of here, outside a small town called Blaylock. Let me call Tommy the Pipe.” He got him quickly on his cell phone.

“Yeah, Tommy, call all the others and head on out there, but don't go in. This guy is very dangerous. Keep him under wraps until we get there. I'll find out everything I can on the way there. Yeah, on MAX.”

In the backseat of Adam's Jeep, Savich kept up a running commentary. “Here we go. The farmhouse belonged to Orlando Cartwright, bought the place back in 1954. He's dead now. Oh yeah, that's good, MAX. He had one daughter, she was with him until he died three weeks ago at Blue Hills Community Hospital. Lung cancer, Alzheimer's. Oh, no, she's still there, alone.”

“Not good,” Adam said.

“What's her name?” Becca asked, turning in the seat to look at him.

“Linda Cartwright. Just a minute here, okay, good hunting, MAX. She's never been married, age thirty-three, really pretty, even on her DL photo. She's a legal secretary for the Billson Manners law firm in Bangor, been there for eight years. Hold on a second, let me get into her personnel file. Yes, she's got very good evaluations—in 1998 she complained about sexual harassment. Hmmm, the guy was eventually fired. Her work record is clean. Her mother died back in 1987, a drunk driver killed both her and Linda's younger sister. No, MAX, there's no need to go into police files, probably a waste of time.”

“She's single and she's alone,” Sherlock said. “Not good at all. Hurry, Adam.”

“She's alone,” Becca said. “She's alone, like I was.”

At one o'clock in the morning, beneath a nearly full, brilliant summer moon, Adam pulled his black Jeep next to a dark blue Ford Taurus parked on the side of a two-lane blacktop road. They were some fifty yards from the old farmhouse with its peeling white shutters and sagging narrow front porch.

There was no need for introductions.