The Assassin's Case (25 page)

              She continued through the neighborhood without noticing anything else out of the ordinary and drove back to the Orange Beach Holiday Inn Express. After parking, she made her way through the lobby and went to the first floor room. She knocked twice in quick succession before inserting the electronic key.

              Evans lounged on the bed, dressed in dark jeans and a black sweater. His left hand supported the back of his head, the right rested on a pistol. “Anything?”

              “Well,” Jaime plopped onto the next bed. “Dr. Morgan and his family appear to be fine. I saw them moving around in the living room through the front window.” She explained seeing the car and the van at the dark house. “It may be nothing.”

              Evans stood and slipped on a pair of black lace-up shoes. “I’ll check it out anyway.” He studied her face for a second. “You’re tired. Try to get some sleep.”

              Jaime nodded. “Did you call your wife?”

              “No.” Evans shook his head. “Too risky. Besides, she’s used to this.”

              “I wouldn’t be so sure. Get a message to her.”

              “Yes, ma’am.” Evans laughed and snapped a salute.

TWENTY-EIGHT

After Brutus ceased barking, Grant remained by the tree for fifteen minutes. No one showed up to investigate his presence and no police sirens approached. He stepped out of the tree’s shadow and approached the rear of the house. Scanning the exterior light fixtures he realized the one over the patio was equipped with a motion sensor. Circling to the right to stay out of its range, he sneaked to the far right edge of the house and leaned against the wall. The rough texture of the brick snagged his clothes as he pressed his stomach flat against it and peeped around the corner. Charlotte hadn’t installed a fence to connect with her neighbor’s, so Grant had an unobstructed view of the street. A row of waist-high bushes ran the length of the side of the house.

              Grant pulled the pistol from his coat pocket and tucked it in his waistband at the small of his back. He zipped the jacket to the neck, lay on his stomach, and began belly crawling through the flowerbed. Branches snagged on his clothes in the confined space between the foundation and the thick trunks of the hedges. A dense layer of pine straw padded his stomach and issued a pleasant scent, but occasionally strands poked his skin, leaving itchy patches in their wake.

              He reached the end of the flowerbed at the front corner of the house. A lone Crepe Myrtle was planted between the bed he lay in and the flowerbed at the front of the house. The gap in the shrubs gave him a good view of the street. Staying beneath the bower of the hedge, he settled in to wait.

* * * * *

Jaime’s hand flashed to the pistol holstered beneath her left arm as she bolted upright on the navy and aqua comforter. The card reader in the door clicked and Evans pushed the door open to find the business end of Jaime’s automatic pointed at his chest. She lowered the weapon and shoved it back into the holster. With the back of her hand she wiped a patch of drool off her right cheek. She had been sleeping hard. Evans knock had startled her from a deep dreamless slumber. Her fatigue allowing her to pass out on top of the certain-to-be bacteria laden hotel comforter. But at least she still had her clothes on.

              Evans pushed the door closed. “You were on the money.” He settled into a chair by the window, breathed a deep sigh, and placed his head in his hands. “I sure hoped Dr. Morgan would be able to fix this. But apparently he hasn’t.”

              “What did you find?” Jamie cleared her throat, her voice gravelly from sleep.

              “There’s a two man team watching Ms. Chamberlain’s. They’re in a back room on the second story of the house you spotted. Nice catch.”

              She nodded. “Thanks.”

              “I just hope they don’t move before we’re ready. I don’t know if my men can handle it alone.”

              “Were you able to alert them?”

              Evans nodded. “I sent an e-mail to an account they’re supposed to check regularly.” He nodded toward the door. “From a computer in the lobby.” He placed his hands on his knees and stood. “I’m going to catch a few hours of sleep. In the morning I’ll head back over, so I can keep an eye on things. Just in case.”

              While Evans changed in the bathroom, Jaime removed her shoes and jacket before sinking beneath the covers.

              Evans emerged in a tee-shirt and shorts and settled into his own bed. “I e-mailed my wife. It was sort of a coded message, but she’ll get the gist.”

              “Good boy.” Jaime pulled the comforter back and plopped into bed without taking the time to undress.

* * * * *

Tedesco dreamed of death. Not his. That might not have been so terrible. No. His dreams were of women and children being consumed by billowing flames. Their pleas for rescue and shrieks of pain bringing screams from his own throat. He tried to reach them, but the walls of flame blocked his path. He ran to find a way around them, but as soon as he found a way through another wall would erupt before him, searing his skin, and singeing his hair. Frustrated by his inability to make progress, he finally held his arms over his face and ran into the fire. Fingers of flame licked with burning tongues, scorching his skin. Clothes smoldering, he broke through the blaze. He lowered his arms and searched through cloying smoke. A form stood a few feet away and Tedesco moved toward it. As he approached, the smoke cleared allowing him to see … himself. At his own feet lay Grant’s family. Dead. Tedesco’s doppelganger held a detonator in one hand. When Tedesco approached it tilted its head back and laughed, a thumb pressing the button. Grant appeared through the smoke yelling, “Noooo ….!”

              Tedesco woke in the front passenger seat of the Chrysler, relieved to have escaped the hideous dream. Though such dreams used to regularly plague his sleep, it had been a long time since he had one so vivid and disturbing. He realized the nightmare was most likely a projection of his dread at the prospect of meeting Charlotte Sawyer. He shivered and drew his coat tighter around him, realizing the chill seeping into his bones was as much from his fear as the chill in the air.

              He shut his eyes and shifted in the seat to find a comfortable position. Forcing the anxiety from his thoughts, he sought calm before starting to pray.

TWENTY-NINE

Grant rested in a recliner in the dark living room. A pleasant scent from some sort of potpourri filled the air. Two stockings hung from the fireplace mantle and presents spilled from under a small tree next to the hearth. Although shadows cloaked the furniture and framed art on the walls, the room felt warm and homey. He thought about the family that shared their lives in this room. His family. All he had left. They didn’t know him, and worse didn’t want to. Grant hadn’t realized how bitterly he missed his sister. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was nothing he could do about the past, it was a vain effort. He needed to worry about the here and now. Opening his eyes, he stared through an archway at the kitchen door.

              It had taken about a minute for him to pick up the surveillance on the house. Two cars worked a rotation. At varying intervals and locations, within view of Charlotte’s, one car would park along the curb, then the next one would arrive, and the first would pull away. An obvious effort to alleviate suspicion about their presence. Grant was certain at least one more person would be watching Charlotte.

              After two hours in the flowerbed Grant entered the house by way of a rear bedroom window. Forced to break the glass, he had waited for the sound of a passing car to cover the noise. Sneaking through the house to make sure he was alone, his eyes devoured the images in the multitude of framed photos hanging on the walls and propped on shelves. The pictures told the story of Charlotte’s life. Two sons who appeared to be between the ages of six and ten, and notably absent were any photos of the father. Grant assumed divorce, a bitter one. Looking at the framed images made him feel like a thief, stealing memories of a life he had no right to intrude upon.

He leaned into the chair. For the thousandth time he tried to convince himself this was the best thing to do. If he didn’t bring Charlotte in Cane’s people could, and probably would, eventually grab her.

In a set of built-in shelves next to the fireplace, arranged almost like a shrine, sat a congested group of pictures of Grant’s parents, wife, and son. Also notably absent were any photos of Grant.

He had debated on the best way to let Charlotte know of his presence, without alerting her shadows. The most efficient way would be to grab her from behind and cover her mouth to stifle a scream, but he couldn’t bring himself to terrorize her that way. So, he had decided on a note. Using a black Sharpie to scratch bold letters, he left the message on the kitchen table, leaned against the centerpiecefacing the door
.

* * * * *

Grant’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a key rattling in a lock. Pain shot through his neck as he jerked his head upright. His chin must have lolled to his chest when he fell asleep. The clock on the mantle indicated it was a little past twelve.

              The door eased open and Charlotte stepped inside, shut it, and twisted the deadbolt. She leaned her back against the door, shut her eyes, and blew out a long sigh. Rumpled and stained light-blue surgical scrubs were visible beneath her unbuttoned knee-length coat. Tough day.

              When she opened her eyes they flashed toward the note.

              Grant’s heart thudded, his hands clutched the chair’s arms. This was the point where things could go very wrong.

              Charlotte’s right hand shot into the purse hanging from her left shoulder and snatched free a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver. As she brought the gun up she thumbed back the hammer and reinforced her grip with her left hand.

Grant couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at her reaction. Though she detested guns and hated violence, she knew better than anyone what could happen to the unprepared. Gun held at the ready, Charlotte stepped toward the table, her eyes raking over the note.             
 
 

‘
Charlotte. It’s Grant. PLEASE don’t say a word or call out.

I’m in the house. I’m coming out. I’ll explain everything.’

              Pushing out of the chair with a groan of well-used springs and the creak of leather, Grant stood. Charlotte swiveled the pistol toward the noise. Hands raised over his shoulders, Grant stepped into the kitchen. He placed a finger to his lips and she lowered the weapon. The look on her face could only be called stunned disbelief. Her lips formed a small O as if about to ask a question.

              Grant again held a finger to his lips and crossed the floor toward her. She stared at him with wide eyes. He stopped right in front of her and before he realized what he was doing he circled her in his arms and squeezed her to him. Her body stiffened at his touch then relaxed and he felt a hand on his back.

              He placed his mouth next to her ear and whispered. “I’m sorry. But you’re in danger. There are people watching the house right now. They have video and sound equipment.”

Grant heard her draw in a breath but interrupted her before she could speak. “Where are your children?”

              “They’re staying with their father. For Christmas,” she whispered in his ear. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

              He let her go and motioned for her to follow him. Grant led Charlotte into the living room and pointed to the gap in the partially opened curtains. She followed his finger toward the car parked across the street. She frowned.

              He leaned to her ear. “I’ll explain everything later. As quietly as you can, throw some things in a bag. We have to get out of here.”

              “Can I at least take a shower?”

              “Sure.”

              Grant put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. He mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

              She stared at him, her brow wrinkled. She shook her head and stuffed the gun back into her purse, before turning toward her bedroom.

* * * * *

Grant stepped out of the rear window and then helped Charlotte through. With her overnight bag across his left shoulder, he led her by the hand toward the back fence. He decided to avoid Brutus by taking a more direct route. They would just go through the yard directly behind Charlotte’s and risk taking the sidewalk to the vacant house. Grant still had no idea how he would be able to explain Tedesco’s presence. He didn’t think she would just shoot him, but he really didn’t know that for a fact. While Charlotte showered and packed he had rehearsed several different versions of an explanation. None of them sounded reasonable even to him. The whole damn thing was just too crazy. It simply defied explanation.

              They reached the fence and Grant let go of Charlotte’s hand. He pointed to the other side and bent to cup his hands to help her over. She shook her head and pointed. Grant squinted. About three feet to the right was a set of hinges, a latch, and the faint outline of a gate.

             
Of course.

              Charlotte lifted the latch and pulled open the gate, the creak of wood and hinges made Grant cringe. Charlotte in the lead, they tiptoed through the yard and through another gate into a driveway.

              Grant scanned the street for any passing cars. Once sure the way was clear, he grabbed Charlotte’s hand and hurried toward the sidewalk. “It’s not much farther.”

              They half walked, half jogged, along the walkway until they reached the vacant house. Grant led her through the gate and around the back of the garage. He raised the window and poked his head inside. In the gloom he could just make out Tedesco in the front seat, staring back at him. Grant held up a hand to let him know to stay put.

              Turning to Charlotte Grant swallowed. “This may be a bit of a shock.”

              She raised her eyebrows as if to say, A
nd the rest of this hasn’t been?

              Grant stepped over the low sill and pulled her in after him. He turned to the car and waved for Tedesco to step out. It took Charlotte a moment to recognize him, but as soon as she did she gasped and placed a hand over her mouth.

She flattened against the wall, her eyes wide, darting from Grant to Tedesco. “You. What —?”

              Before she recovered enough to pull the gun from her purse and start shooting, Grant began spitting out the story in clipped rapid-fire sentences. He re-counted the entire tale with barely a pause for breath, starting with his interception of the case in the mall.

He couldn’t tell who was more nervous. Hands in his pockets and eyes on the floor, Tedesco shifted his weight from foot-to-foot while Grant spoke. Tedesco looked like a trapped animal who wanted nothing more than to flee.

Grant’s own heart raced, cold sweat collected under his arms, and he struggled to cough words out of his dry mouth and throat.

As Grant talked Charlotte visibly relaxed and occasionally interjected a question. Of the three of them she seemed to be the most composed. And by a very wide margin.

              Once Grant finished his tale she simply asked, “What now?”