But this was different. He couldn’t knife two cops who were carrying handguns. He knew. He’d seen them tucked into their belts when they’d shown their badges to his father. So he had to be smart. He had to use his every instinct. He had to take every advantage he could, and so he pulled on his camo suit and grabbed the old .243 Winchester rifle, the scope, and the box of big-game ammo Fred had sold him earlier. He knew just where he’d go.
The old deer stand was perfect. Located far enough into the woods on the north side of his house, the stand would give him a good view of everything below and yet keep him concealed in the tree branches. Besides, people always forgot to look up.
So he climbed the rickety, rotted ladder that some relative or other had hammered into the oak tree and took his position. Yes, the house, driveway, and crematory were clearly visible in his scope. Here he would see everything and enjoy the view as the cops died.
He giggled the moment the olive-colored truck pulled into the driveway and angled behind his blue one. As if a little barricade like that would stop him.
Nothing would stop him.
Immediately, he sighted in on the big cop as he walked toward the house with his partner and then disappeared onto the porch. He would be the first to die.
Now all he had to do was wait for the right moment.
Thirty
We rolled up to Calvin Ivey’s driveway and straight into a moment all police officers dread. Here we were—two LEOs without vests, Tasers, helmets, pepper spray, or shields—and yet we were contemplating entering the property of a suspected murderer.
By ourselves.
Of course, we had our sidearms and handcuffs, and the killer used a knife.
Everyone knows you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.
We had the advantage.
Vincent looked at me, making sure I was ready to proceed the rest of the way up the driveway.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Shall we?” I asked. This was a time to go balls to the wall.
“I’m in if you are,” he said.
“All in,” I said with a nod.
With that, he nudged the GMC forward along the driveway, which was lined with a charming low stone retaining wall and opened into a clearing just big enough to hold a small, one-story stick-built house and two outbuildings, one of which I knew housed a crematory.
A blue Chevy pickup was abandoned in the driveway.
Vincent angled the GMC perpendicularly behind the blue truck, cutting off Calvin’s escape route, and killed the engine.
Ready to get Calvin into custody, I sprang from the truck, my hand already going for my M&P.
Vincent met me at the stairs, and we positioned ourselves at the front door, ready to take down the man who had killed Theo Vanderbilt and probably Fred Thomas. He raised his fist to pound on the door. “Calvin Ivey! Police. We have probable cause for your arrest. Open the door.”
We waited but heard nothing. No footsteps in the hall, no voices.
I pounded again.
Still nothing.
Slowly, I reached for the knob, glancing sidelong at Vincent to make sure he was ready to search and clear the house. His blue eyes shone with intensity when they met mine, and he nodded.
The knob turned easily in my hand, and the door squeaked on its hinges as it opened.
Slowly, carefully, quietly, we crept into the house. The entry was clear, and, hugging the wall, we peeked first into the dining room. Vacant. Then we checked the living room. The TV was on and muted, but the room was empty.
Next were the bedrooms and all their hiding spots. Thinking of Kathy Vanderbilt, I even checked the pull-down attic ladder in the upstairs hall. The contraption groaned in protest as I pulled the cord, and bits of insulation and dust fell around me and onto the clean floor.
No, no one was up there.
“He’s not here,” I said to Vincent as we finished checking the kitchen.
“Let’s try the crematory,” Vincent said, pointing to the large outbuilding with the stainless-steel chimney poking out of the roof.
I nodded and led the way from the house, across the driveway, and to the building in the side yard. Constructed of painted wood planks, it was not fancy. It had only one door and a window on each long side.
When I opened the door, the odor of death assaulted me.
Something was rotting inside.
In the dim light, I could see little, but Vincent produced a mini flashlight from his pocket. He shined it methodically around the space, revealing the crematory furnace itself, a desk covered in mounds of paper and file folders, and a three-drawer body vault.
Beneath the vault was a sleeping bag.
We approached it slowly, guns drawn in case Calvin was hiding inside.
Vincent reached down and yanked back the top flap.
“Shit!” he said as his light focused on the contents of the sleeping bag.
Fred Thomas.
He was dead. Very dead.
But as Vincent shone his flashlight around the rest of the room, we discovered that poor Fred wasn’t the only source of the foul smell in the room.
Three more bodies were piled in the back corner in various stages of decay. Slowly, Vincent directed the beam of light around the perimeter of the room. More bodies were stowed in piles beside baseboards, under tables, everywhere.
“What the hell?” I said, wondering what else we’d find.
I pulled a nitrile glove from my pocket, put it on, and opened one of the drawers of the body vault. Three corpses had been shoved inside.
“Jesus,” Vincent said as I slid the drawer shut again, “did he even bother with the crematory at all?”
We turned to investigate the machine in question. The large metal-faced cremator looked like it had seen better days. Evidence of heat warpage and discoloration was visible on the cremation chamber door, and when Vincent opened it, we saw that the brick side walls were crumbling, leaving large gaps where some sections of brick had completely deteriorated.
“This thing isn’t functional,” Vincent said, crouching to study the base with his flashlight. “It would probably burn down the building if Calvin ran it again.”
And that explained the bodies stacked all around.
Why hadn’t he repaired the crematory? Or purchased a new one?
But now I was starting to understand how Theo Vanderbilt had gotten access to one of Eternal Rest’s bodies. He could have simply taken one from this building or the other outbuilding I’d seen.
And I was also starting to understand Calvin Ivey. Well, as much as a crazed killer could be understood. Calvin had probably been trying to keep his secret by killing Theo Vanderbilt, who might have discovered this cache of bodies.
But why murder Fred Thomas?
That I didn’t comprehend.
“I’ll call the Cranford Sheriff’s Department. Let them know we found Fred’s body,” I said, already dialing.
“And many more,” Vincent said. He’d risen from the crematory and begun opening more drawers, which I assumed were also packed to the brim with bodies.
I spoke with Deputy Marston again, and he informed me that all available cars had been sent to the Eternal Rest Funeral Home and were at least ten minutes out.
I ended the call and took another look at the carnage in the crematory building. “Do you think there are more bodies in the other outbuilding?” I asked.
“Let’s find out.”
Vincent and I stepped into the orange sunlight of the early fall day, and I’d just taken my first breath of fresh air when the hairs on my arms began to stand on end. Something was wrong.
I saw Vincent fall before I ever heard the gunshot.
The flow of time stopped, and I felt myself turn toward my partner. All at once, I took in the scene. Vincent was sprawled on the ground with a patch of blood beginning to seep through the right shoulder of his white dress shirt.
Without a thought for my own safety, I threw myself on the ground beside him, tucking my body behind the lo
w retaining wall as I felt another bullet land somewhere nearby. I heard the report of the rifle. I had to get Vincent out of the driveway. Even with the cover of the short wall, he was far too exposed.
Another bullet passed, coming from the other side of the house. I unholstered my M&P, thinking to defend our position, but when I peeked quickly from the cover of the wall, I saw that would be a mistake. The house was surrounded by woods on all sides, and I was unable to locate Calvin, though, given the timing of the bullet strikes and the sound of the rifle, he must be nearby. Probably somewhere high where he could see as much of the property as possible. A local highpoint.
I couldn’t fire into the woods without clearly identifying the target. I had to wait until he revealed himself, and that might be too late.
Shit. What had we walked into?
Calvin had a clear advantage. He was invisible, and he had height on his side and far better concealment. It was only a matter of time before he adjusted his position and got off two shots that would end us both.
I looked into Vincent’s face and was relieved to see his eyes open, focused on me, but his breathing sounded ragged. “Mark!” I said, not bothering to hide the panicked urgency in my voice. “You’ve got to get up. We’ve got to move. We’re sitting ducks here.”
His mouth opened and his eyes followed me, but he said nothing. He didn’t move.
Another bullet. Another report of the rifle. Closer.
Calvin was already working on a better angle of attack.
Vincent still hadn’t moved—he was probably in shock—and I knew we didn’t have much time. If we had any hope at all, I’d have to move all 250 pounds of him myself.
From my prone position, I grasped his left arm and tried to pull him.
Impossible.
I got into a low crouch, hoping to get some leverage, and pulled again.
Vincent’s breathing began to sound worse, and I tried once more to drag him out of the line of fire, only to hear another bullet embed itself in the stone wall in front of me.
I looked down to find Vincent staring straight at me. “Julia, go,” he said.
All at once, I thought of his desperate desire to reconnect with his son and of the expression in his eyes after he’d met my sister, and everything within me screamed to protect him, to get my partner to safety, but it was only a matter of time before Calvin hit us both. And Vincent was wounded already.
I had to think. How critical was the wound? Could I leave him here unassisted and hope the paramedics would arrive in time to help him?
Quickly, I studied the location of the wound: right shoulder just beneath the clavicle. He was bleeding, but not so much that I feared he might bleed out. However, his breathing concerned me. Every breath came in determined but ragged gulps, though he showed no signs of oxygen deprivation. His lips and the skin under his fingernails had not turned blue, so he was getting adequate oxygen at the moment, but the wound could be causing his lung to collapse slowly.
And that’s when I decided. I couldn’t just sit there and wait until Calvin found the right angle of attack.
My best bet was to lead the killer away from Vincent long enough for the Cranford County sheriffs to arrive and outgun him.
I glanced over my shoulder toward the crematory, the other small outbuilding, and around the side of the house to the backyard. The latter option would be the wisest choice. I’d have to cover more ground in the open, but it would probably prevent Calvin from passing by Vincent on his way to find me.
I took a deep breath and looked at Vincent again. He was watching me levelly now. His breathing, though labored, was regular, and the bleeding at his shoulder seemed to have slowed.
He would be fine if I led Calvin away, and maybe after this initial shock wore off, he would be able to drag himself back to the relative safety of his truck. If only I could lead the shooter away from him in time.
I had to try.
So I leapt from Vincent’s side and darted diagonally across the driveway, through the backyard, and into the woods beyond.
I heard the rifle’s report as I fled, but I felt nothing, and I managed to enter the woods unwounded.
I looked around with wild eyes, trying to assess my options. I knew Calvin would follow soon; running prey is much more interesting to a predator.
And, in my favor, a moving target is harder to hit.
I didn’t know how much time I had before Calvin got to this section of the property, but he definitely had the advantage. This was his land. He would know the topography, all the places to hide.
What was the best course of action?
Run? Continue to lead the sniper away from Vincent?
Hide and try to get the drop on Calvin?
The Cranford Sheriff’s Department was already en route, so I only had to play this cat-and-mouse game for ten minutes. Once I heard the sound of sirens, I could circle back to the home site and start organizing a manhunt for Calvin Ivey.
Yes, I’d keep running until I found a good spot to take cover, and I’d wait out Calvin. But where? There was a wide, well-used path to my right, and I decided to run down it just long enough to put some distance between me and the shooter, and then I careened to the left into a denser section of timber.
Once out of the path, all I could hear as I ran were my own footsteps crunching through the fallen leaves and the rush of my breath. If I kept up this pace, I wouldn’t be able to rely on my ears to tell me if Calvin were near, and I might not even hear the sound of approaching sirens and thus my salvation. So I slowed, keeping my eyes on the forest around me.
I kept close to trees and weaved as much as I could.
Where was Calvin?
I scanned the surroundings unceasingly, watching for anomalies in the pine forest. A snatch of color. The sound of footsteps. Anything.
Once, I thought I saw a flash of camo to my left, and I hit the ground until I was sure it had been my imagination and then started moving again until I could find adequate cover.
Finally, I squatted beside a large pine to check my watch. Only about five minutes had passed.
And that’s when I heard Calvin’s voice. “Drop the pistol.”
I turned my head to the right and saw him standing boldly in a clear spot in the woods, his hunting rifle trained on me. His face was covered in blood, and one eye was blackened.
Bravo, Mrs. Twilley! I thought as I assessed his injuries.
But my bravado fizzled as I caught the expression in his eyes and thought of Theo and Fred. There was no doubt in my mind that he would shoot me in cold blood.
For a brief moment, I had the urge to take the bastard out immediately. Just raise my pistol and hope I could get a shot off faster.
But Jesus, I had recently suffered a concussion. I couldn’t trust myself to take a risky shot.
Also, I was no sniper. I couldn’t guarantee a perfectly clean shot in the T-box, near the eyes and nose, that would disable the jackass’s motor functions. Not using a .40 caliber handgun at this distance.
With a concussion.
And Calvin wouldn’t miss. Not at this distance with a rifle, even after taking a beating from Mrs. Twilley.
Besides, there was too much time left. The sheriffs weren’t here yet. Calvin would be able to kill me, go finish off Vincent, and then disappear into the woods before the police arrived.
I couldn’t let that happen.
It might not be smart for me to shoot the bastard, but I had to do something.
Change of tactics.
“Okay, okay,” I said, lowering my gun and dropping it on the leaf litter around me. “Let’s work this out, Calvin.”
“Stand up and walk over here,” he ordered.
“I know this isn’t your fault, Calvin,” I said as I complied with his demands and walked very slowly toward him. “We can work this out.”
“Yeah,” he sneered. “We’ll talk. I’ve got just the place.”
I glanced back in Vincent’s direction, which was ri
diculous because I’d gone quite a distance into the woods and couldn’t see him.
“Don’t worry about your boyfriend there. If he’s not dead when I get back, I promise to finish him off. That way he won’t suffer.” He waved the rifle at me. “Let’s go. You don’t want him to suffer more than he has to, do you?”
For the second time in as many days, I’d let myself be taken hostage by a lunatic with a gun, but at least I knew I had backup coming, and I’d drawn Calvin away from Vincent.
Still, we could both be dead before help arrived.
Instead of taking me toward the outbuilding that housed the crematory, which was what I’d expected, Calvin pushed me back toward the wide path that I’d first used when I entered the woods.
“I never liked guns, you know,” he said as he walked me forward, “and I only used this thing on your boyfriend because I had to. But I’m a good shot. Would have got you both if I’d been able to use my dominant eye and that damn wall weren’t in my way.”
I didn’t respond, trying to think of the best way to talk a lunatic out of killing me.
“I’ve always preferred to use a blade anyway,” he continued. “It’s so much more poetic, don’t you think?”
“Look,” I said as Calvin came close enough to nudge me with the barrel of the rifle. “We’re just insurance fraud investigators. All you’ve got to do is tell me you had nothing to do with Theodore Vanderbilt’s life insurance fraud, and I’ll gather up my boyfriend and get out of your way.”
He laughed. “First of all, I didn’t have nothing to do with that guy’s insurance fraud. And second of all, how stupid do you think I am?”
Calvin continued to push me forward. The woods opened into a large clearing, and I took in my surroundings, hoping to find something I might be able to use to escape.
At the far end of the open area stood a front loader, which had obviously been used to dig the large hole that gaped in the ground before me.
The hole was clearly our destination, and I deliberately slowed my steps as he shoved me toward it.
“Calvin, why are we in this situation? And how can we get out of it?” I asked, going back to the old faithful hostage negotiation techniques I’d tried with Kathy Vanderbilt.
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