Dead Even (14 page)

Eileen had taken forever to order from the menu, giving them precious little time to eat. Spurred on by Jayne the waitress, Eileen had finally settled on a hamburger and fries, and an old-fashioned milk shake. Not having any particular interest in food, Genna ordered the same, then wondered if she’d be able to safely manage a phone call. She knew from her visit here on the day she first entered the compound that the phone was back behind the door leading to the restrooms. However, should Daniel come into the diner looking for them, he’d see Eileen sitting alone. If he found Genna on the phone, all the more problematic for her. On the other hand, she’d had no contact with John for several weeks, and surely by now he’d be worried, both professionally and personally. Of course, she knew there were other agents in the area. She just didn’t know who or where they were, or what information was getting back to the Bureau. It simply had been too dangerous to risk bringing any communication device into the compound.

She’d decided she’d risk making a call, and was just rising from her seat when the door opened. Daniel had walked in, headed right for their table, and Genna’s heart sank even as she plastered a smile onto her face.

“We were just finishing up,” she’d told him.

“It’s time to get back,” he’d replied. All the way back to the compound, she’d wondered how the report to Reverend Prescott would go.

If Daniel had had negative thoughts, he must have kept them to himself, because aside from asking Genna if she’d enjoyed her outing, Prescott had had little to say. She assumed that she and Caroline would be permitted to leave with Daniel again today. Assuming, of course, that the snow stopped.

By noon, it had. At one, Genna grabbed her coat and met the excited young girl at the front door of the block building that held the small classrooms.

“You should borrow boots, Miss Ruth,” Caroline told her.

“I wish I knew someone who was willing to trade for a while,” Genna said, looking ruefully at her leather shoes.

“Miss Joan is in the infirmary. Maybe she will let you borrow her boots for a while.”

“Stay here, and wait for Daniel.” Genna took off for the wooden structure next to the classrooms. “Tell him I will be right back. . . .”

Genna found Miss Joan way too ill with the flu to care who was wearing her boots just then. Leaving her own shoes under the bed in the makeshift hospital room, Genna pulled on the boots. They were a half size too big, but even so, they were warmer and provided more traction on the snowy ground.

“I’ll bring them back later this afternoon,” Genna had promised.

“No hurry,” Joan replied without opening her eyes. “I’m not planning on going anywhere for a while. . . .”

Unlike Eileen the week before, Caroline knew exactly what she wanted. A sketchbook and some colored pencils, a pack of gum, and she was ready to go. A plate full of chicken fingers and French fries, a hot fudge sundae, and a Coke, and Caroline’s day was complete.

“This is such a nice thing you do for us,” she’d told Genna as she got out of the Jeep once they’d returned home. “You’re the nicest person here. I can’t wait to use my new sketchpad.”

“Maybe you’ll let me see some of your sketches,” Genna replied.

“Maybe.” Caroline nodded as she ran to her cabin to show off her new possessions. “Maybe . . .” she called over her shoulder.

Daniel had said little, but Genna knew he’d been watching her like a hawk. She and Caroline had barely been in the diner for ten minutes when Daniel had arrived. While he hadn’t rushed them, he’d sat at the counter, ignoring the attempts of the friendly waitress to make conversation, and had watched through the mirror as Genna and Caroline ate. As soon as they finished their meal, Daniel rose and came to the table, silently indicating that it was time for them to go. Genna was certain that the reverend had grilled Daniel last week and would grill him again today. Well, she’d expected as much from Prescott, and she’d been careful not to do anything that might cause him to suspect her motives.

Genna stopped in at the infirmary to see how Joan was doing, and she found her no better than when she’d left earlier that day.

“Keep the boots.” Joan waved her away. “I won’t be out of this bed for another few days.”

The storm had kicked in with a vengeance shortly after they’d returned from Linden, so Genna gratefully accepted the offer. The biting cold sent everyone shivering to their cabins for the rest of the afternoon. It was then that Genna noticed that Bethany, one of the older girls from her group, had not returned.

“Has anyone seen Beth?” she asked.

“No.”

“Not since before lunch.”

“She wasn’t in class. . . .”

“Maybe she’s in the infirmary,” someone suggested.

Genna, having just come from there, knew that only one bed in the infirmary had been occupied.

“Maybe she’s been cleansed,” someone else said softly. “Maybe the reverend chose her for a mission. . . .”

The room grew silent, as everyone wondered just what kind of mission young Bethany had been sent on.

Do they suspect?
Genna studied the solemn faces of the girls who gathered around Bethany’s bed.
Do some of them know what fate awaited Beth? What fate awaits them all?

A sense of urgency spread through her. How could she possibly wait another week before riding through the front gates with Julianne Douglas?

How long would it take her to file the reports that would bring the Reverend Prescott to his knees? To put his shameful network out of business forever? How would they locate the girls who had already been “cleansed” and sent on their way? And once rescued, how badly damaged would those tortured girls be?

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

Burton Connolly tucked the brown bag stuffed with snacks under his arm and pushed open the double doors that led from the food court of the turnpike rest stop to the parking lot, vowing that when this was over, he’d never eat fast food again. The selections here had been limited to burgers or chicken, and today he’d fancied neither. What he really wanted was a big steak, but that would require him to get off the turnpike and search for a restaurant in the Harrisburg area, and he just didn’t have that kind of time today. He figured it would be at least another hour before he arrived at the motel where Archer Lowell was holed up, waiting for him.

Burt climbed into the cab of his new Ford pickup and dropped the bag onto the seat next to him. Before leaving the parking lot, he reached into the bag and pulled out a Snickers bar, unwrapping it as he drove onto the roadway. Traffic was light at this time on a Sunday morning, so he expected to make pretty good time. He took a bite of the candy and turned on the radio.

He sighed deeply, wondering just what to do about Archer Lowell.

Burt had been on his way out of High Meadow to his first taste of freedom in sixteen years when he’d run into his old buddy, Vince Giordano, who was on his way back in for a lifetime stay. They’d had a casual reunion of sorts, and Burt had been ready to leave when Vince called him back and asked him for a favor.

Since the favor would, in the end, benefit Burt far more than it would benefit Vince, Burt had said sure. Of course, at first, Burt had no intention of making good on his promise. After all, Vince, facing several murder charges, would never see the outside of the prison walls in this lifetime, and he would have no way of knowing whether Burt had kept his word or not. Now Burt was driving this fine new pickup, and living in a classy condo, and he had Vince to thank for it all.

All Burt had to do, Vince had explained, was to make sure that Lowell carried out a promise of his own.

“There’s someone who has a job to do for me out there,” Vince had whispered. “I just want you to make sure he does it.”

“That’s all I have to do? Make sure someone does a job for you?” Burt, too, had lowered his voice.

“That’s all,” Vince had said with a nod.

In return, Vince had told Burt where he’d find a metal box filled with cash.

“It’s all for you, Burt-man. No one else knows it’s out there. You just gotta keep this guy honest. Make sure he does what he’s supposed to do . . .”

And Vince had proceeded to fill Burt in on the pact he’d made with Channing and Lowell.

Before Burt had left the intake room, Vince had whispered, “And if you come back with proof that the job’s been done, I’ll tell you where to find the other half of the money.”

Of course, Burt had agreed. And of course, the first thing Burt had done when he left High Meadow was to track down that secret stash of Vince’s, and damn if it wasn’t there, just like he’d said it would be. It was more money than he’d ever seen in his life, and it was all for him. He’d bought himself the pickup right off, then some new clothes. Then he found himself a nice place to live. Found, too, that the ladies liked a man who dressed well, who had nice wheels and a ready wad of cash to spend. Life had never been sweeter for Burt Connolly, and he had Vince Giordano to thank for his good fortune. It hadn’t occurred to him to keep his part of the bargain, of course, until he realized that if he was living well on half the money, how much better life would be if he had it all.

And all he had to do in return was to keep this kid Lowell focused on doing what he was supposed to do.

Nothing old Burt-man couldn’t handle, though Lowell was turning out to be a real pain in the ass. Stupid, too.

Old Vince had sure read him right. It was obvious to Burt that Lowell was in no hurry to follow through with his part of the bargain. Burt figured Lowell planned on being a no-show as far as his promise was concerned.

Think again, little man,
Burt muttered under his breath as he wrestled the Ho Hos out of the bag and bit the plastic wrapper to open it. No way was Burt going to let Lowell weasel out of his obligation to Giordano. More important, no way was Lowell going to cheat him, Burt Connolly, out of the rest of the money.

He gunned the big engine of the pickup and passed an SUV that was going just over the speed limit.

Lowell was such a wimp; he could be scared into doing just about anything. Look at what he’d already done, shot that old man in Ohio. Burt shook his head in disgust, recalling how Lowell’s voice had shaken, how terrified he’d been once the deed was done. Burt’s plan had been perfect; there was no one who could have connected Lowell to the killing.

Except that the FBI already knew that the old man would be a target.

How stupid of Lowell not to have told Burt about their visit to the trailer. Would have served him right if the cops picked him up. It was almost enough to make Burt call off the hit on that writer guy, but there was no way anyone could know about that, right? He figured Unger wasn’t such a stretch that the FBI agents couldn’t have figured that out on their own, but who the hell would connect the writer to a hard-assed serial killer like Curtis Channing?

And if Lowell got caught, so what? He had no way of identifying Burt. He’d just have to make sure that he didn’t leave his fingerprints on anything that Lowell could give up later.

Of course, if Lowell got caught, that would end the game prematurely. There’d still be that one last hit. After that, well, he’d have to wait and see.

Burt had gotten a glimpse of target number three, and he’d sure liked what he’d seen. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Lowell was taken out of the game. Burt might have to jump in and pinch-hit, so to speak.

Wouldn’t that be a shame? Burt grinned as he recalled watching Miranda Cahill fold those long legs of hers into that little car one night outside the Well. The sudden image of those long legs wrapped around his waist caused his heart to flip over in his chest. Wouldn’t that be a pretty sight?

Well, first things first. Lowell had a job to do, and Burt was going to make certain the job got done and got done right. There was plenty of time to think about what was to be done about Agent Cahill.

“Hey.” Will stuck his head into Miranda’s cubicle.

“Hey, yourself.” She smiled at him from her place behind the desk. “I was just going to call you.”

“What’s up?” He stepped through the doorway and leaned over the back of the visitor’s chair that stood before her desk.

“I just got off the phone with Veronica Carson up in Fleming. No sign of our boy in town since Friday.”

“I’m assuming the police have interviewed his friends. His bar buddies.”

“According to Carson, they’ve spoken to just about everyone in town. No one has seen or heard from Archer since he left the Well on Thursday night. His mother says he couldn’t have gone far because he had absolutely no money. He never mentioned to anyone that he was planning on leaving town.”

“They checked the train and bus stations?”

“Carson said they showed his photo around. One of the clerks said he could have been in one day last week, then again, maybe not. There were no credit card sales in his name. Not so surprising since it’s unlikely that Archer has a credit card.”

“So if he bought a ticket, he paid cash for it.” Will digested this. “And since we figure he was in Ohio three days ago, it looks like he may have gone to ground somewhere. He has to be staying someplace, he has to be eating. Where’s the money coming from?”

“Good question.”

“Before I forget, I just pulled the old file on the Jenny Green case. The taped interview with Curtis Channing is MIA. As so often happens around here.”

“Damn. It could be anyplace. Could have fallen out in the file drawer, could have been left on someone’s desk, could have gone out in the trash accidently in a pizza box with the remains of someone’s lunch, for all we know.” Miranda bit the inside of her lip. “Well, so much for going to the source, though frankly, I don’t know that it would have helped us all that much in the long run. It was a good idea, but I don’t know that there was anything on it that would have broken the case.”

“Am I interrupting anything?” Anne Marie stuck her head through the cubicle’s opening.

“No, not at all.” Miranda waved her in. “Come in and join us.”

“Well, actually, I’m a little short of time this afternoon. I have a lecture to prepare for tomorrow. “ Annie touched Will’s arm. “So. Ready for lunch?”

“I was just waiting for you.” He straightened up and nodded to Miranda. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.” Her eyes flickered from one to the other. “See you later. Bye, Annie.”

“Bye,” Annie called from the hall.

Well.
Miranda twirled a pen around slowly.
What was all that about?

She continued to twirl the pen between her first two fingers for several moments. Then she stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the parking lot. Annie and Will were almost to his car. They walked close together, close enough that their shoulders touched every few steps. A small cold spot in her chest began to spread little by little.

I thought that Annie and Evan . . .

But Annie and Will? She sat back down and swiveled her chair from side to side slowly, wondering when
that
had happened.

Maybe all those times I thought he was playing it cool . . . maybe he just wasn’t interested.

That gave her pause. Well, he did say he wanted to be friends, didn’t he? When a man really cares about a woman, he doesn’t go all buddy-buddy on her, does he?

She sat so still, she could almost hear the beating of her own heart.

You’re jealous,
a tiny voice inside accused, and she turned the thought over and over in her mind.

The admission surprised her.

Why, yes, I suppose I am. Shit . . .

Unexpectedly, John Mancini’s voice shot through the intercom, jarring her out of her reverie.

“Miranda, you still in there?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Stop in my office when you get a minute, if you would.”

“Sure. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time.”

Miranda stood and gathered the notes she wanted to take home with her, as well as copies of the letters she’d brought back from Landry’s. She’d been looking forward to discussing the Unger and Landry cases with John, so she was pleased to have an opportunity to do so. She’d have preferred to have had Will along, but as he was otherwise engaged, she’d go it alone. On her way to John’s office, she made copies of the letters.

Ten minutes later she was sitting in John’s office, her chair pulled up close to his desk, her elbow leaning on the right corner. John sat back in his well-worn leather chair, one eye on his computer screen, his printer spitting out a stack of documents, the phone up to his ear.

“Okay. Thanks. Keep trying.” He hung up, his expression unreadable. To Miranda’s eye, his coloring appeared a shade or two paler than normal.

“So. What’s the latest with your three amigos?” he asked.

“Lowell is missing. We’re thinking he’s on the run after having killed Unger in Ohio.” Miranda cut to the chase. “His mother was the last to see him. That was Friday morning before she left for work. Fleming PD reports that none of his friends have seen or heard from him since the night before.”

John’s brows knit together. “Any luck in identifying a possible second—or third—victim?”

“This is a tough call, because we still know so little about Channing other than his ever-growing number of kills. We don’t know who he came in contact with on a daily basis, who he worked with, who he lived with, who over the years really pissed him off. So we’re going into this blind,” she reminded him. “That being said, however, we think Joshua Landry looks like a good candidate.”

“Josh Landry, the crime writer?”

“Yes. Apparently Channing read one of his early books and took exception to some of Landry’s theories. Channing wrote to him several times. I made copies of the letters for you. Landry’s daughter made a set for Will and for me.”

John nodded. “I’d like to see them.”

“I thought you might.” She took an envelope out of the folder on her lap and passed it to him.

“You’ve advised Landry that he could be a target?” he said as he slid the envelope to one side of his desk.

“Yes. He says his house is protected by state-of-the-art security. He also called in the local police while we were there, so we had an opportunity to alert them, discuss the situation. I think they have a pretty good understanding of what we’re dealing with here. We left a photo of Lowell with the police and with Landry so they know who they’re looking for. But I’m not certain that Landry really understands how serious the situation is. I think we need someone of our own on the scene.”

“We’ll send in Art Phillips. He’s already in the area. New Brunswick, I think. Close enough.”

“Actually, I was thinking about going myself—”

“I can’t afford to have you sitting on Landry. For one thing, assuming that Landry is in fact going to be the second victim, we’ll need to figure out who might be the third.”

“Actually,” she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, “there’s a theory about that.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Landry thinks I might be the third target.”

“You?”

“He thinks that when I interviewed Channing six years ago—in Ohio, that first field assignment I had?”

John nodded.

“Well, Landry thinks that my focusing on Channing spoiled a nice little run he was having in southern Ohio, forced him to move on before he wanted to.” Miranda looked across the desk at John. “He thinks that maybe Channing was angry that his fun was ruined. Landry referred to it as my ‘stopping his forward motion.’ ”

“He was in his comfort zone, and you pushed him out of it.”

“That’s Landry’s theory.”

“Maybe you should back off the case, then.” John frowned.

“No, no. First of all, I think I know Lowell better than anyone at this point. Second, we don’t know if Channing even remembered my name. And third, the plan is to stop him before he gets to Landry.”