Glancing to the criminalists beside him, he added, “I guess she uses the upstairs bathroom and the one downstairs is his.”
Feeling his stomach clench slightly, already suspecting he knew the answer, Reed asked, “Was she the one who found him?”
“Yeah,” McKeon replied, “when she got home from work this afternoon.”
A host of questions immediately springing to mind – to say nothing of the juxtapositions between what happened here and at the Salem home – Reed pushed them aside for the time being. Inquiries that could be delved into in a few hours, the fresh scene and waning daylight both demanding his more immediate attention.
Shifting his gaze to the side, Reed put his focus on the older of the two criminalists present. A woman named Ellen Webb with graying hair and glasses, the hood of her white paper suit hanging down behind her neck.
“How are we looking on getting that bullet out of the wall?” he asked.
Appearing surprised to have been addressed directly, the woman’s brows rose slightly. Glancing to her cohorts, her lips parted, taking a moment before she managed, “Detective McKeon asked us to only photograph until you got here. We can start whenever you give the word.”
“It’s given,” Reed said. “If it’s in any kind of shape at all when you get it out, I’d love to hear your preliminary thoughts on the type and caliber.”
The initial surprise of being pulled in fading, the woman nodded.
“When you have it,” Reed said, “send that and anything else you have to the lab and tell them to put it on rush under special request from the governor’s office. If they give you any grief, have it sent over to Earl Bautista on the west side.
“He’s contracted to work with us, I can guarantee he’ll get to it before morning.”
“Sure,” she replied. “I know Earl.”
“Thank you,” Reed said. Beginning to turn back to McKeon, he paused, another thought occurring to him. “Also, do you happen to know Ed Wainwright? Runs the team down in Portsmouth?”
“Oh, yeah. Wain’s been at this almost as long as I have.”
“He covered the Gallipolis scene for us. Whenever you’re done here, if you could, please reach out and have him forward along everything they have for comparison.”
“Will do.”
“Appreciate it,” Reed said. His mind moving in a blur, tasks by the handful coming to him, he shifted back to McKeon. “Detective, how are we coming on that hillside across the street?
Chapter Fifty-One
There were two noticeable differences between the scene playing out in the living room of The Promisor’s home and the one that took place a couple of nights earlier. A pair of key distinctions that he was unable to ignore, both sure signs of things moving forward.
Progress being made, leading him toward the last chunk that needed to be completed before his mission could be considered over, his fourth and final promise kept.
The first of those was the size of the stack of papers resting between The Promisor’s feet. A collection that was three times as large as the previous instance, that being only the research and data pertaining to Cara Salem. An initial batch of photos and notes that had been curled into ash within a few moments.
A fire that needed only a bit of kindling and a few small logs, more than sufficient to wipe them away.
Before the later inclusion of the camouflage pants, anyway.
The assortment of pages piled on the floor before him this time included everything regarding Avery Lawson. Every photo taken and notation made and thought jotted down regarding the man that had been eliminated this morning.
A purging both literal and metaphorical, wiping the man away so that The Promisor could continue moving onward.
Added to it was also every last scrap of paper regarding the two remaining targets in order. A multitude of information that was committed to memory and about to be incinerated as well, the decision to do so in direct response to the second major difference inside the living room.
The thing that currently held The Promisor’s attention, despite the initial burst of flames from the kindling and tinder beside him dwindling down, badly in need of additional fuel.
His backside fitted on the canvas seat stretched between a pair of steel supports, his elbows rested on his knees. Hands clasped just beneath his chin, he leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the television across the room.
A device that had not been turned on in days, done so tonight only for this exact purpose. A reasoning mirroring that of his stop at the diner on the way back from Gallipolis days before.
Adding to the flickering light of the fire beside him, the images flashing across the screen brought the room almost to full illumination. A pairing that bathed him in an uneven glow as he sat and stared, taking in every word shared.
“Good evening,” a field reporter with pale skin and a head of auburn curls opened.
The third such piece The Promisor had watched, he couldn’t help but notice the woman was far more attractive than the previous two. A sort of plain pretty highlighted by a splash of freckles across her nose and a slight overlap to her front teeth.
A look that was far preferable to the overdone appearances of so many others on television, with every tiny blemish or perceived imperfection concealed.
Clutching a microphone in her hand, she stared in earnest at the camera as she said, “Tonight, I come to you from Lakefront Commons, just outside of Newark. A housing subdivision considered to be one of the nicest in the area, with the average home starting at $800,000 and the average age of ownership forty-eight.
“A place that many local residents aspired to, long believing it to be one of the safest in the area. An ivory tower for those wanting to be close to the big city, but still looking for small-town charm.
“A title that it may no longer hold after being the site of a gruesome and senseless murder today that, thus far, have left police baffled.”
Putting aside the bulk of the overly dramatic opening, The Promisor winnowed his focus to a single word. Part of a phrase inserted toward the end that caused his molars to clench, his hands curling up into loose fists.
“Senseless, my ass,” he muttered, shaking his head as he stared at the screen.
For those that understood what The Promisor was doing, what drove the last promise he made, what he did this morning was not senseless. Quite the opposite in fact, part of a pattern that would soon fully reveal itself.
A mission completed that would fulfill what he set out to do, at the same time illuminating a much larger issue.
And holding those involved responsible for their actions.
“Earlier today,” the reporter continued, “Avery Lawson, a thirty-seven-year-old resident of Lakefront Commons was killed while standing in his own bathroom. A precision shot that some have likened to sniper fire, taking Lawson’s life almost instantly.”
Having no interest in the continued overblown prattling of the woman, whatever tinge of beauty she might have initially possessed already evaporating with her inability to tell the truth, The Promisor extended the remote before him. Mashing on the mute button, he cut off any incoming sound, instead putting his focus on everything playing out in the background.
An active crime scene, replete with local cops using wooden stanchions to create a blockade and tech crews in everything from paper shoe coverings to entire hazmat suits passing in and out of the front door.
People that were all wasting their time, the sole piece of evidence to be found in the house being the bullet that ended Lawson’s life. One minor detail The Promisor could do nothing about, not able to risk the time or the exposure of going in to retrieve it.
Having reached his fill with the ongoing reports, he lifted the remote once more. A move to kill the feed and return to the other task needing his attention, interrupted by an unexpected sight appearing in the background.
A man emerging through the front door, a badge around his neck, a dog by side. An obvious K-9 pair
ing, The Promisor having been exposed to working dogs going back more than twenty years.
An inclusion he had not considered, his gaze cutting to the fireplace beside him, peering past the waning flames to the ashes beneath.
The remnants of the camouflage pants he’d worn to Gallipolis, minus one small chunk of fabric left behind.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The young man standing at the trailhead awaiting Reed and Billie’s arrival looked like an extra from a war movie set in Afghanistan. Covered from hair to foot in dust and sand, the original color of his uniform was completely unrecognizable. A menagerie of brown and tan interspersed with the occasional flash of green. Bits of branches or long strands of grass from hours spent bushwhacking through heavy brush.
Hands hanging by his side, the man’s expression looked like he was three gradations beyond miserable. A confluence of pissed and sweaty and frustrated, aching for a target to unleash on.
The only thing missing from the visual being a rifle held at the ready. An M-16 or comparable weapon gripped tight in both hands to really complete the look.
Without it, the man settled for a bottle of water. Cap twisted off, he raised it to his lips, tilting the bottom upward as he stared at Reed and Billie climbing from their sedan. Making no effort to come closer, he waited until they were just a few yards away before lowering the bottle and asking, “Detective Mattox?”
“Reed,” Reed instructed. Motioning to his side, he said, “My partner, Billie. Officer Welsh?”
“Pat,” Welsh replied. Switching the bottle to his left hand, he extended his right before him. “Appreciate you coming over to take a look, I’ve been over this area all afternoon. Can’t seem to find much.”
Only nominally older than Jimmy Rambis the night before, Welsh appeared to be firmly in the backend of his twenties. Thick blonde hair was buzzed down tight, hints of a sunburned scalp peeking through. Watery blue eyes were made to look even brighter by the dark smudges lining his cheeks and brow.
Meeting the young man’s shake, Reed turned his attention to the south. Peering in the general direction they’d just come from, he could see nothing of the row of houses nearby or the highway below, only the faint sound of passing traffic giving away that either even existed.
In their stead, all that was visible was thick forestation. Trees and undergrowth much heavier than it had appeared from his spot beside the bathroom in the Lawson home, far surpassing even that on the hillside outside of Gallipolis.
Dense cover made to look all the more ominous by the onset of nightfall, much of the area shrouded in shadow.
A place providing both optimal entry and firing locations, the initial feeling Reed had while standing in the home again returning to him. The one that gave the lingering impression that everything was almost too easy, as if it had all been drawn up for just such an event to take place.
“What are we looking at here?” Reed asked, releasing Welsh’s hand to motion to the trees around them.
Shifting to stare the same direction, Welsh said, “Basically, it’s split into two halves. First is this top shelf we’re standing on now. Goes about thirty yards, all of it heavy as hell. Trees, shrubs, sticker bushes, you name it.
“After that, you reach the ravine. Maybe another thirty yards sloping down to the highway below.”
“That also looked pretty dense from the other side,” Reed commented.
“It is,” Welsh replied. Glancing over, he added, “Not quite as bad as up here, but still a bitch to get through.”
Based on the young man’s appearance, it was clear he had spent the time since McKeon first sent him over doing just that. Thrashing his way about, likely destroying any sign of the shooter that might have existed.
Eagerness getting in the way of common sense.
A mistake Reed couldn’t actually fault him for, a killing of this sort likely to do the same to most any young officer, even if it did make what they were about to do that much more difficult.
Adding what the young man just shared to what he’d already seen, Reed attempted to fix things into a working map in his mind. A bird’s eye schematic using the highway as a reference point, the crime scene on one side, where they were standing on the other.
“What kind of angle on the ravine?” Reed asked.
Filling his cheeks with air, Welsh considered the question a moment before slowly pushing it out. “Sharp. Maybe, forty degrees or so?”
Glancing to the young man’s dusty exterior, he asked, “Dry as hell too, it looks like?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Grunting softly, Reed added the information to what he already knew. The probable murder weapon and time of day the shot was taken, his mind working at a frenetic pace, putting each data point into order.
“Any trails?” Reed asked. “Easy means of access?”
“Not really,” Welsh said, shaking his head slightly. Pointing back the opposite direction, he added, “The bridge you went over on your way here was Raccoon Creek. Beyond that a little piece is Crystal Lake.
“Plenty of trails for hiking or mountain bikes over that way, but this here is mostly just woods. Forest preserve with a few game trails, but not much more.”
On the way over, Reed had been instructed to follow the signage for a picnic area. A small shelter house on the far side of the muddy gravel lot that his sedan and Welsh’s cruiser were both parked on, not another car to be seen anywhere.
A desolate state that Reed imagined the place to often exist in, everything from the parking area to the sagging roof on the shelter house hinting that it didn’t get much activity and - by extension - attention from whatever entity was in charge of oversight.
“Don’t suppose we’ve heard from anybody that might have been out here this morning?” Reed asked, already knowing the answer. “Someone that may have seen a vehicle or heard a gunshot?”
Pressing his lips into a tight line, Welsh shook his head. “If somebody’s called in, they haven’t told me about it.”
Nodding once, Reed kept his focus turned toward the lot. His gaze resting on the few strips of waning daylight managing to reach the thin gravel, he allowed his vision to blur, his mind working through the coming moments.
“Based on the angle of the ravine you mentioned, I’d say our killer looked to stay up on top. That time of day, they wouldn’t want to go tromping down a steep slope in the dark or try to climb out after the sun came up.”
“Especially carrying a damn rifle,” Welsh added.
“Yep,” Reed agreed. Blinking twice to clear his eyesight, he glanced to Welsh before moving on to the woods beside them. “I’d also guess that they parked here. That time of day, not planning on being around a long time, probably willing to take a chance on having this place to themselves.”
Rotating to look in either direction, Welsh nodded, “Quick in and out.”
“Yep,” Reed repeated. Turning back toward his sedan, he motioned for Welsh to follow, a quick slap at his thigh bringing Billie along between them. “Used the trees for cover, stayed up high on the ledge.”
Not bothering to fish his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans, Reed pinned them against his thigh and pressing on the bottom button of the fob. A command that popped open the rear hatch, an audible click sounding out as the metallic latch was released.
“Right,” Welsh replied, “which cuts our search area down, but still leaves us a lot of ground to search.”
“Not us,” Reed corrected. Reaching into the open chasm of the trunk, he pulled out a plastic bag.
The same one used on the hillside overlooking the Salem home two days prior, the small piece of camouflage cloth tucked away in the bottom.
Holding it up for Welsh to see, Reed used his chin to gesture toward Billie. “Her.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Even under the last faint gasps of daylight and the weak glow from Officer Welsh’s flashlight, the patch of matted grass looked exactly as it had on the hillside outside of Gallipol
is a couple of days before. A shooter’s nest large enough for someone approximately six feet in height, situated so it pointed directly at its target.
Yet another point against the original theory posited by Officer Callis outside the Gallipolis Police Department, both of the shootings anything but hunting accidents.
Or accidents of any kind, the imprint on the ledge overlooking the ravine showing a great deal of forethought and hours of patience were involved for this act as well.
Standing and staring at it, Reed couldn’t help but feel a bit of shame well within him. Self-flagellation at the fact that he had missed something, his efforts not to jump at the most obvious explanation keeping him occupied while the killer was out getting ready for a second target.
Another murder executed without opposition or even much sign of his presence, placing Reed more or less in the same position he was when first handed the case.
“Reed,” Welsh said, his voice pulling Reed’s attention away from the shooter’s nest. Phone balanced on his palm, the young man held it before him, the screen especially bright in the darkening forest. “I’ve got McKeon on the line here.”
“Detective,” McKeon said, taking the mention of his name as a cue. “What have you got?”
“It’s our guy,” Reed muttered, unable to keep the faintest tinge of bitterness off the words.
“You’re sure?”
The task of finding the shooter’s nest was a bit more difficult than some of the other tracking that he and Billie had done before. Not from any shortcoming on his partner’s part or even any efforts to obscure the scent, the shooter’s passing so recent Reed felt as if he could almost detect the faint smell of gunpowder in the air himself.
The problem was in navigating the thick undergrowth covering the ground between the parking lot and where they now stood. A route that was chosen deliberately, the man going to great lengths to work through the thickest and heaviest spots that the forest provided.
The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 23