I had a stupid sit-com streaming on my laptop, just in case the house was bugged. I trusted Dennis, but I wasn’t at all sure that he—or his DC-based colleagues—trusted me. I double-checked that my nine was loaded, threw it into my backpack and slid the pack onto my shoulders.
I’d already turned off all but one of the interior lights; I crouched by my slider and stared out around the beach. I didn’t see anyone. I watched for two more minutes and then slipped out the door and ran in a crouch down my deck stairs to the sand. I lunged underneath the deck and waited in the bushes for another few seconds. When no one tackled me or shined a blinding light in my face, I made a break for the Trimble’s back door. Thankfully, Mrs. Trimble was waiting and opened up right away. I hurried away from her door.
I sat down, clear of the windows, in the living room. She shuffled after me in her house slippers and peered down at me with those distorted, unflappable eyes.
“Can I borrow one of your cars for the night?” She raised her eyebrows. “I have to get out of here; I haven’t had a single moment of privacy in days. It’s making me crazy. They follow me every time I leave.”
She cocked her head. “You want to ditch the cops? Or the reporters?”
Both. I smiled. “Will you help?”
“Roger,” she yelled.
Ten minutes later I was lying beneath a musty wool blanket in the back of Mr. Trimble’s Jeep Liberty. I heard the garage door go up and we backed out. Mr. Trimble paused at the end of the driveway and said, “’Night, officer.” Something was said in return and Mr. Trimble laughed and then we accelerated down Taylor Ave.
Five minutes later he parked. About ten minutes after that I heard a car pull in beside us. Thank God Mrs. Trimble still drove. I’d have to rethink my position on senior citizens and drivers’ licenses.
“All clear, Sam.” Mr. Trimble got out of the car and opened the back hatch. I crawled out. “Be careful,” he said with a stern gaze.
“Thank you,” I whispered. I rushed to the driver’s door and climbed in, then pulled out of the empty shopping plaza and headed toward town.
I’d spent the afternoon trying not to lose my mind. After Grady brought me and Pepper home, I paced and cried and agonized over Milo and the case and the seemingly out-of-control life I was now living. Two short weeks ago, I was fine. Okay, I was broke, but I’m used to that. Despite sustaining myself with unhealthy quantities of Great Value brand Mac ‘N Cheese, Pepper and I had maintained a simple, straightforward, mostly pleasant existence. Maybe I heard my dead father’s voice a little too frequently and maybe I conversed a little too much with a cat, but all in all, I’d thought I had it—more or less—together.
Now I was completely off the rails. I was in over my head on a murder case that was way out of my league. I’d been kidnapped and nearly died. I was falling in love—Shit!—with a man who, it was now clear, had his own baggage. Baggage that attracted the attention of the United States Justice Department for crying out loud. This wasn’t a little carry-on bag, we were talking a huge, one-hundred-dollar-over-sized-fee piece of luggage.
What the hell was I supposed to do?
Finally, I’d pulled on a jacket and called Pepper out for a walk on the beach. When all else fails, that’s always been my bridge back to sanity. I trudged across the damp sand with two not-so-undercover cops stumbling after me in their loafers. I fumed. I cried some more. (“Focus on what you can control, Sam,” said Dad. “Not what you can’t.”)
“I can’t control anything!” I’d shouted. The cops gave me a funny look but I didn’t care. I walked to the end of the beach and stared out at the horizon. Finally, I took a deep breath. It was cold and grey, but the beach is my Zen zone. The rhythmic sound of the waves, the sharps and flats of the gulls’ cries. The smells. I forced myself to breathe through my nose. Focus.
What could I control? Not Milo or his problems, whatever they were. Not Laura’s health. I was merely a passenger on the roller coaster ride of my emotional state and then there was the black hole of my bank account.
The only thing in which I still had unwavering faith was my ability to hack for information and to figure out puzzles. That’s what I was good at; that was why I’d thought I could be a PI in the first place. So what could I do right now to give myself a sense of purpose, to achieve some semblance of being at the helm of my own ship?
I’d gone back to the house, climbed up the deck stairs and chuckled at the cops dumping sand out of their shoes. Inside, I made a pot of coffee. Then I sat down with a pen and a blank pad of paper—no computer—and I reasoned my way through every single thing I’d learned about the Pilgrim Slayer murders. About the victims. About the locations. About the suspects. About the timing and the messages and the symbols. About John Billington. About my own abduction and the man in the ski mask.
Four hours later I was done. And I’d come to some conclusions.
I parked and turned off the engine and the lights and sat in the dark, watching. It was almost eight o’clock. The windows were lit up and I could see occasional movement in what I thought was the kitchen. I sipped my coffee and ate some cheese doodles. For all I knew I was on a fool’s errand, but I planned to sit and watch until everyone was obviously in bed. Then I’d do it again tomorrow. And the next day and the next. I would watch until I either proved or disproved my theory.
I tried not to think about Milo. He’d texted me earlier. “Won’t be home for a few days. So sorry Sam. Will explain everything when I get back. Stay safe and cozy.” So much for him not letting me out of his sight. I really didn’t know if I was upset for him or with him, but it was my own damn fault. I’d let him in.
Sighing, I turned on the motor and ran the heat for a few minutes, then turned it back off. I shifted position and bit my cuticles. I ate a few more cheese doodles.
Around nine, a front porch light came on and a small figure hurried through the cold to a Toyota Camry. (I’d spent some more time reading Mrs. Trimble’s car magazines.) I sat up straight; my heartbeat accelerated. I ducked down as the car backed out of the driveway and passed me. I turned the key, pulled a U-turn out of my parking spot and followed.
Chapter 41
Paddy Barry’s was a tiny little hole-in-the-wall bar on Hancock Street in Quincy. Revelers spilled out the front door, talking boisterously and smoking cigarettes. Loud music barreled out each time the door was opened. Meredith Bradley had squirmed her way inside about ten minutes earlier. I’d snapped a photo of her as she walked down the sidewalk.
I parked down the road a little ways and considered my options. I really wasn’t dressed for Saturday night at the pub, but I needed to see who she was meeting. She wouldn’t drive forty miles to Quincy just to sit alone in a bar. Would she?
I checked myself in the rear-view mirror. I’d done my face before I left home, but the hat had to go. I pulled it off and fingered the frizz. Huh. It actually looked pretty good. Style tip for curly-haired girls: Wear a stocking hat for two hours after drying your hair, remove and finger fluff.
There was nothing I could do about the hoodie or the pants, but no one I saw outside of Paddy Barry’s was dressed particularly well either. I grabbed my backpack, exited Mr. Trimble’s Jeep and crossed the street.
I walked by the pub on the other side of the road, just to get the lay of the land. Six or seven people loitered in front of the entrance, but I could see very little through the windows. I crossed back to the bar side of the street at the corner and stopped to think.
I could go in myself, but I was afraid that Meredith, or even worse, her date, might see me. And while I didn’t know what the killer looked like, he sure as hell knew what I looked like. It was crowded in there. I might get lucky, they might be tucked away in a corner, but this was me we were talking about. I’d walk in and Meredith and the Pilgrim Slayer would look up from their drinks and say, ‘Hi Sam.’ And then I’d shoot him and kill him and then I’d go to jail. The end. I didn’t like that story.
I watched t
he smokers. Six guys, mostly younger, and one girl, talked and laughed, and punctuated their sentences with aggressive tokes of their cigarettes. The girl was the nucleus, the men all vying for her attention. Of course. The Margie Method. My outfit was hardly sexy, but the pants cast my ass in a reasonably favorable light and for once I had pretty good hair. I approached the group.
“Dude, what are you talking about? The band is totally chill.”
“Dude, they don’t even come close to the NumChucks.”
Seriously?
“I kind of like them,” said the girl.
Dude Number One beamed at her and said, “Come on, let’s go back in. We’re missing out.” She dropped her cigarette, smashed it under her shoe and followed him through the door.
“I’m totally into the NumChucks,” I said to Dude Number Two. “David Colter is a friend of mine.”
He turned to me and grinned. “No way.”
“Way.”
“Man, that is sweet. Can you get me free tickets?”
I smiled. “I can always ask,” I said coyly. We chatted for a few minutes about the musical group that I’d privately renamed the Numb Nuts.
“Can I bum a smoke?”
“Sure.” He handed me a cigarette and pulled another out of the box for himself. He held his lighter up for me and I bent over and inhaled.
It took me a few tries to align the end of the cigarette with the flame, but finally the tip glowed orange and harsh smoke coated the back of my throat. I coughed violently for about ten seconds. I gasped and then laughed. “Wow. Sorry, it’s been a while, but it smelled so good.” Not!
He took a huge hit on his own cigarette and blew smoke rings.
“So, anyway, I was wondering if you could help me out?” I smiled what I hoped was an alluring smile.
He looked at me, took another hit and said, “What’s up?”
“Okay, see, there’s this guy in there. I think. And he’s been dating a friend of mine and I keep telling her he’s a player and he’s totally seeing other women, but she doesn’t believe me. But I think he’s here with this woman tonight.” I showed him the picture of Meredith Bradley.
“She’s kind of old looking,” he said.
“Yeah, well, my friend is actually almost forty.”
“Forty?” He looked me up and down again as if to confirm that he wasn’t wasting his time on a Baby Boomer.
“She’s a really great person but she has no clue. Can you just go in and see if this woman is there with a tall guy? And take a picture on my phone?”
Dude Number Two took another big drag and exhaled. I sucked some smoke into my mouth, swished it around there for a few seconds and blew it out.
“You really gonna get me tickets to see the NumChucks?”
“Dude, get me proof that this guy’s an ass, and I will so get you those tickets. I’d do it myself, but he knows me. Here.” I took my phone back from him. “Give me your number.” He gave it to me and I created a new contact for Dude Number Two. “I’ll call David tomorrow.”
He dropped his cigarette butt and ground it out. I gratefully followed suit.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll have a look.”
I set the phone to camera mode and handed it to him. “Make sure you get a clear shot of his face,” I added.
I paced back and forth. Ten minutes passed and still no Dude. I ventured a glance through the window, but I didn’t see him or Meredith Bradley. I wandered back to the corner. DumbShit was probably in there doing Jaeger Bombs and arguing with Dude Number One about the band. But he had my phone.
Another ten minutes crawled by. What the fuck! The smoking crew had already turned over twice.
I was pacing back toward the corner when he tapped me on the shoulder.
“Yo, check it out. That him?”
I stared at the picture for a few seconds. I looked up at Dude Number Two with a big grin and then I squealed and hugged him.
Chapter 42
“Wassup, Nance?” Loud noise muffled his voice; I figured Dennis was at the Trap. There hadn’t been another killing since the night I was taken; he was probably blowing off some steam. With Barbie. Or Eileen. Or God knows who. Rather, as Turk would say, God knows whom.
“Dennis, are you sober?” I asked in a sharp voice.
“Mostly,” he said. “Why?” His voice sharpened up now too.
“I’m going to text you a picture. Aaron Stevens is the Pilgrim Slayer. Almost positive. You need to get a team over to his house. I’m in Quincy. I’m going to tail him home.”
“What? You’re where? What about your handlers?”
“Um, well, I kind of sneaked out.”
“JesusHChrist, Sam. I—”
“Dennis, listen! I’m really right this time, I know it.”
He was quiet for a moment; it sounded like he’d gone outside. “How?”
“Look, you have to trust me, but just to be sure, I’m going to hang around here and when he leaves I’m going to listen. He’s here with Meredith Bradley. I know his voice, Dennis. That will be the final proof. I’ll tail him in case he doesn’t go home, but you need to get the team ready.”
“Fuckin’ A, Sam. You’re sure.”
“Ninety-five percent. Once I hear his voice I’ll be certain.”
“And you’re alone up there.”
“Uh…Yeah, but I’ve got my nine right in my pocket.”
“What the hell are you doing tailing people by yourself?”
“I…look, later! Are you with me? He won’t see me; I’m standing across the street. In the shadows. When they come out, I’ll follow them. And then I’m going to follow him home. Be there!” I ended the call and texted Dennis the photo taken by Dude Number Two.
The minutes crawled. The air was cold, but adrenaline warmed my blood. My mood swung from terror to elation to cold and calculating. I was standing in a walkway across from Paddy Barry’s; I had a clear view of the door.
At nearly midnight, Meredith Bradley stepped out of the bar. She walked toward her car. Where was he? Was he staying on alone? Did he go out the back door? Then Bradley stopped; she’d moved just past the smoking section and now she stood waiting.
I put my hand in my pocket and fingered my nine. I had to get close enough to hear Stevens’ voice, but this was the man who tried to kill me four nights ago. I’d gotten my hat from the car and my hair was tucked up inside. I pulled it lower now, around my face, and raised my hood. Still, if Aaron Stevens saw my face, I would need my gun.
A minute later, he came out. He stepped past the smokers and smiled at Meredith, who took his arm. They strolled north on Hancock Street. I recognized his gait. He was tall and powerful. I had no doubt now, but for Dennis and the courts, I needed to hear his voice.
When they’d gone about twenty feet, I ran across the street and slowed to a fast walk. I was wearing sneakers and I moved soundlessly. I narrowed the gap to about ten feet. My hands were sweating in my pocket. I heard Meredith laugh. We were almost to the spot where she’d parked her car. Head down, I continued walking. I was only about six feet behind them now.
“Well, my dear, you’ve been lovely as always. And so helpful. I can’t thank you enough.”
A roar flooded my eardrums. I envisioned him coming into my house pointing a gun at me. Bagging Pepper. Throwing me into the canoe. Only now I imagined him with a face. I pulled my head back into my hood as far as I could, sped up and passed just three feet behind the Pilgrim Slayer.
When I got to the next intersection, I stepped behind a utility pole and peeked out. I watched Stevens climb into an expensive looking car and I memorized the plate number as he pulled out onto the street. Then I ran.
Fifteen minutes later I still hadn’t caught sight of Stevens’ car, which I thought was a Lexus, although I wasn’t sure. Had he gone toward Boston? The only logical route back to Plymouth was down Route 3. I’d already passed Meredith Bradley’s Camry, and she left a few minutes before Stevens.
I’d called Dennis back with t
he plate number right after I got to my car in Quincy; theoretically the Staties would be on the lookout for Stevens as well. There were few other cars on the highway. I slowed down a bit and kept my face angled away as Meredith Bradley cruised by.
The night was dark and I’d come to a section of highway where there were no homes or commercial buildings. No overhead lights. Just dense forest. I saw a pair of headlights in my rear-view mirror, approaching rapidly. A chill gripped the back of my neck. A few seconds later, the car was directly behind me. The driver put his brights on and I squinted into the mirror. Then he rammed into me.
I gunned it and pulled the steering wheel sharply to the left. The car behind me accelerated and clipped my right side as I swung back toward the right lane. I was doing about 80 now; I wasn’t sure how much higher the Jeep Liberty would go. I continued to swerve back and forth, trying to avoid Stevens—it had to be Stevens, right?—but his engine had a lot more power than the Jeep’s.
He accelerated again and caught me square on the back left quarter panel. The Jeep’s back end skidded and then the wheels left the road. The Jeep flipped once down the berm between the north and southbound lanes, throwing me into the armrest. The SUV continued over and then jerked to a stop as it hit a tree. I was hanging upside-down by my seatbelt and it felt like I’d cracked some ribs. The airbag had deployed, but now it was deflating. In a daze, I tried to unclasp the seatbelt, but my weight made it impossible to release. I reached for my backpack, which was lying on the roof of the Jeep on the passenger side. I stretched and almost had hold of it when I felt something hard and cold against the side of my head. I recognized that feeling.
“We meet again, Miss Warren,” said Aaron Stevens.
Slowly I turned my head toward the window. Stevens was crouched down, reaching through the broken window, and his all-too familiar gun was pressed against my temple.
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 22