He blinked at the rosy morning light through the curtains. Then lifted his head, remembering where he was. He leaned on his elbow, admiring the elegant curves of Charlotte’s mouth and chin as she slept. He suddenly felt very guilty.
Sneakers, he noticed, was sitting, not lying, at the foot of the bed, looking directly at him, as if he knew.
Maybe he does.
“Come on,” Luke whispered, allowing a moment for the hard edges of the dream to soften. “Go out for a walk?”
Luke let Sneakers romp through the moist morning shadows beside the marshlands. They followed the trail along Harmon’s Creek, which in summer was sometimes teeming with turtles, walking all the way up to the bluff, where they stood together and admired the bay, the water glittering with thousands of sun sequins.
Why had he dreamt that, anyhow? What was it Charlotte had said the other day? She likes you, you know that, don’t you?
It wasn’t true. He didn’t believe it at all. Not in that way. During the long walk back, Luke decided that he’d offer to prepare dinner for them that evening. One of his three dishes: seafood tacos, crab chili, or the old faithful, spaghetti.
Classical music thundered dramatically from the kitchen as they entered the house. Charlotte stood at the stove, stirring egg batter, preparing French toast. Sneakers hurried past her to his water bowl and lapped furiously.
“Good news,” Luke said. “Guess who’s making dinner tonight?”
“My two men?”
Chapter 51
WHEN AMY HUNTER arrived at the Public Safety Complex, she saw Crowe’s car with his Virginia government tag in visitor parking. He was waiting for her in the first floor conference room. He wasn’t alone. Another agent, a woman, was with him. They’d taken over the room, clearly intending to be there awhile, the table covered with laptop computers, printouts, file folders, phones, coffee and pastries from Holland’s Family Restaurant.
“Hunter, have a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
He introduced the female agent curtly. Her name was Wendy Jennings. She looked a few years older than Hunter, big-boned, with probing eyes, thick dark hair, and a distant smile. Hunter could tell right away that she tolerated Crowe but wouldn’t abide by any of his nonsense.
“Go to your office?” Crowe said, clearly meaning the two of them, not Wendy Jennings.
“Okay, sure.” Walking a half step behind him, Hunter said, “I think I know what you’re going to say.”
“Yeah? What am I going to say?”
“That this is federal now.”
Crowe grunted.
“I’m just surprised it took this long,” Hunter said. “So the local solution is off the table? Just like that? Jackson Pynne is off the table?”
“I didn’t say that,” he said. “Pynne is involved. We just don’t know how, exactly.”
“But he isn’t the killer.”
Crowe said nothing. Clearly, though, there had been a reassessment overnight. The Bureau now realized that Gil Rankin was in fact a major player in the Trumble organization. And locating him was suddenly high priority. Hunter could almost feel the twin pressures working on Dave Crowe: from Washington and from the media, which was on the verge of turning this case into a national story.
In her office, Crowe took a seat and stretched out his legs, as he always did, placing one ankle over the other, then switching. Hunter passed along what Shipman had just told her over breakfast. She showed him the surveillance photos of Rankin and Moss in Tidewater County the night before.
Crowe said nothing at first. He handed back the photos.
“Nice job,” he said.
“It wasn’t me. It was Ben Shipman and Sonny Fischer who figured this out. The homicide division.”
“Fisch and Ship.”
“Right.”
“Okay. So let’s make some assumptions,” Crowe said. He sat up, crossed his legs at the knee and jiggled his left foot. “If we were to seal off Tidewater County. Surveillancewise—”
“We’ve already mapped it,” Hunter said. She gave him the map Fischer had prepared. “There are eight points of entry and exit. Two monitored by cameras. We can work with state police, post someone at the other six points.”
“Roadblocks, you mean?”
“No.” Hunter had been thinking about it on the way in. “How about as a surveillance operation first? And we don’t release his name or image to the public right away.”
Crowe’s brow creased.
“I mean, for a few hours, anyway,” she said, softening her tone.
“Why? What are you thinking?”
“That if we put his name out there, we may lose him.”
“And if we don’t, we might unnecessarily endanger the people living here.”
“Yes, I know.”
When Hunter said nothing else, he asked, “Why wait a few hours?”
“Strategy. A different way of doing things. Not instead of, but in addition to.”
Crowe’s eyes crinkled. “Okay, I don’t know what that means,” he said.
“Meaning: nothing’s happening with Jackson Pynne, right?”
“Correct. He’s free to go. So?”
“So, Jackson Pynne made an interesting offer yesterday,” Hunter said. “I’ve been thinking about taking him up on it.”
“What offer?”
“He offered himself,” she said. “As bait.”
Crowe held his frown. “What are you talking about?”
“We set him up in a house in the county. Someplace secluded, where he’d seemingly be vulnerable. Only we make sure he isn’t. Provide round-the-clock surveillance and security. Monitor the surrounding roads and properties.”
A trace of dimples appeared on his cheeks. “And you think your friend Gil Rankin would just walk into a trap like that? I doubt it.”
“Jackson thinks so. He seems convinced that Rankin will come after him right away if he’s let out. Maybe overnight.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what he’s been told he has to do. They’re afraid Pynne knows too much and is going to talk. I don’t fully understand it. Except this organization operates under its own peculiar set of laws. Which maybe don’t always make sense to people like you and me.” Crowe’s forehead remained wrinkled. “But Pynne seems to understand them. Better than I do. Pynne’s involved in this in some way, as you said, right? I think his instincts are at least worth paying attention to.”
“Sounds pretty unorthodox.”
“I know,” Hunter said. “That’s kind of what I like about it.”
Crowe let out a long sigh. He was probably with her, Hunter figured, just didn’t want to give in too easily. Plus, he’d need to run her idea by Washington before he agreed to anything. “I think I’d want to talk to Jackson Pynne first.”
“Me too,” she said. “Why don’t we go see him.”
HUNTER WAS SURPRISED by how agreeable Jackson Pynne sounded when she called him about a follow-up interview. His voice on the phone seemed nearly giddy at first, as if he’d been waiting on pins and needles to speak with her. Yet, when he came walking into the interrogation room at ten minutes past two, he looked almost like another person. His face was pale, his hair disheveled. But his eyes brightened as soon as he spotted her.
“How are you, sir?” Hunter said, reaching to grasp his extended hand.
He again held her hand longer than he should have. But his face dropped when he saw Dave Crowe standing behind her.
Hunter introduced him as “the FBI agent now heading this investigation.” Crowe, dressed in a dark blue suit, no tie, reached out to shake.
Pynne nodded a terse hello and sat. For some reason, he wouldn’t shake Crowe’s hand.
“Sir, you understand that no charges are going to be filed against you,” Hunter
said once they were all seated. “They’re dropping the interference charge. So you’re free to go.”
Pynne scooted back his chair, trying to get comfortable.
“If I may,” Crowe said. “I’ve read the transcript of your conversation from yesterday, Mr. Pynne. We’re trying to get a better fix on the people who are after you. Gilbert Rankin: is he the man you said is pursuing you? Is he Gilly?”
Pynne looked steadily at Hunter as Crowe spoke, giving no indication that he heard anything Crowe was saying. Then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. She could see that he wasn’t going to answer.
“Can you tell us a little more about Gilly Rankin,” she said. “Why do you think he’s going to come after you?”
“Why?”
“Why.”
“Because that’s his job. The man’s got an assignment, he does it, no questions asked. That’s the way this organization works,” he said. “His assignment is to take me out.”
“Do you know that for certain?” Hunter asked.
“Do I know it for certain? No, not for certain. But that’s the only thing that makes sense. I can see now how this thing was set up.”
“Okay, how was it set up?”
Pynne shrugged. “It’s obvious. They planted evidence. Tried to frame me for these murders. That was the setup, right? They thought I was going to run, do something stupid, maybe self-destruct. But I didn’t, and so now they think maybe I know too much. Maybe I’m going to tell you what I know. So they decide they need me out of the picture, sooner rather than later. I’ll cause them more trouble if I’m prosecuted.”
“How would you cause them trouble?” Crowe asked.
Pynne, continuing to look at Hunter, said nothing. Clearly, something about Dave Crowe rubbed him the wrong way. It was like a dog picking up vibes.
“How would you cause them trouble?” Hunter asked.
“By talking,” he said. “Because they think I know things.” A faint smile animated his face. “I don’t. But that’s what they think. Because of Kwan.”
“And so the assignment is coming from August Trumble, you’re saying?” she asked.
Jackson shrugged: Who knows? Hunter sensed that, for whatever reason, he wasn’t going to open up as long as Crowe was in the room. There was something about Jackson Pynne that she liked, she realized, a mysterious integrity about him.
“Are you still on board with the idea of helping us out?” she asked. “Being bait?”
“Sure,” he said. Pynne smiled as if she had just asked him to the prom. “What’ve you got in mind?”
Hunter told him the plan she’d worked out with Dave Crowe and the state police commander. Pynne would be released from jail that evening and transported to a residence on Sherman Creek. Police would provide round-the-clock protection, monitoring the house and grounds and all points of entry with visual and digital surveillance. “You won’t have to leave the house. Just stay inside, watch television, read. Tell us whatever you need. Give us a list of groceries.”
He seemed to like that. “All right,” he said, chuckling at something.
“And you believe he’ll come for you,” Hunter said.
“Do I believe he’ll come for me? No,” he said, “I know he will.”
“Okay.”
“So what time would the release be?” Crowe asked.
Hunter looked at Jackson. “Eight o’clock?”
“Okay,” he said. “Eight o’clock. Only thing I ask is that the pastor be there when I’m released.”
“Oh.” Hunter looked at Crowe, who was shaking his head. “All right,” she said.
She knew that Gil Rankin operated at night. All of the Psalmist killings had taken place under cover of darkness. Chances were good that he’d come for Jackson Pynne overnight, which was what Jackson believed, too. By then they’d have night-vision surveillance in place on the property, and patrol cars, officers, and agents staking out the surrounding roads, ready to take him.
“We’ll put it out on the five and six o’clock news, then, that you’re being released. And see what happens,” she said. “Everyone okay with that?”
Pynne nodded.
“Good,” Hunter said.
GIL RANKIN AND Kirby Moss went over the details of their plan at the house on Jimmy Creek late Friday afternoon. It didn’t take long. When they finished, Rankin told Moss to go to his room and watch television. Moss was making him nervous.
“Think I’ll take a nap,” Moss said.
“Okay.”
“Is that all right?”
“As long as you don’t sleep through this thing.”
Moss gave him a look, hoping Rankin would smile.
Rankin lifted the blinds as soon as Moss left the room. He moved his armchair to the window and gazed out at Jimmy Creek for a while, the sunlight rippling bright silver slivers on the water. Scenery to rest his eyes. It was a nice place, this Tidewater County, but Gil Rankin didn’t expect he’d ever come back again. Kirby Moss never would, either. He was pretty sure of that.
He sat alone with his thoughts, and pretty soon they began to gnaw at him again. The way this assignment didn’t feel clean anymore, didn’t feel like any of the others. Rankin knew he wasn’t supposed to think about it. The motives behind the assignment weren’t his business. Those were the terms of the deal. But how could he not think about it? This one had seemed simple enough at first—take out four disloyal employees; make Pynne the fall guy. Disloyalty, the Client had said, is one of the greatest earthly evils.
But taking out Pynne now also meant taking out the fall guy.
That was the part that didn’t make sense. That was the thing that was gnawing at him.
You’re the only one I can really count on to complete this, Gilbert. You understand that.
But Gil Rankin, left with too much time to think, wasn’t sure if he did understand it.
CROWE AND HUNTER established a command post for the operation in the makeshift FBI office at the Public Safety Complex. The house they’d chosen at Sherman Creek was surrounded by wide-open lawns on three sides, wetlands on the other. It would be impossible for anyone to get close without being seen. The house was a summer rental property, a faux Victorian, owned by a cousin of the county clerk. Four state police officers would be on the grounds, monitoring the drive in from the highway and along the creek. Four officers would be inside the house. Cameras covered all points of the lawn. There should be no blind spots.
It was Hunter’s idea that Louis Gunther, a local DWI attorney known for his tacky TV commercials, would drive Pynne to the house. Gunther’s involvement would add to the sense of Pynne’s vulnerability.
Hunter, Fischer, and Shipman were in the six o’clock operational meeting along with six state troopers and five Bureau agents. The room smelled of coffee and perspiration. By design, sheriff’s deputies weren’t invited. Crowe wanted the operation to be as streamlined as possible, and he’d learned enough by now about the workings of the Sheriff’s Department to keep them out of the loop.
“Pynne will be released from the county jail at eight P.M.,” Crowe said. “He’ll be met by his attorney, Louis Gunther, and driven to the Sherman Creek property. We believe that our suspect, Gilbert Rankin, will come after him there overnight. Probably sometime after midnight.”
“Wonder what Gunther’s being paid for this,” one of the troopers said quietly, trying to make a joke.
“Don’t worry about it,” Crowe said tersely.
The image of Rankin on his laptop was grainy and not very useful, but it was all they had—a nondescript man with a wide face and receding hairline. The only other available image was a twelve-year-old Florida driver’s license photo that looked like a different person.
“We believe he has another man, Kirby Moss, working with him. We are not releasing either name to the pub
lic until the morning at the earliest. We don’t want Mr. Rankin to know what we know. ‘Kay?
“We believe they’re driving a white Jeep Cherokee.” The surveillance video from the convenience store came on the screen. “But it’s possible they will be using another vehicle before they approach the house. It’s possible they could use tear gas or explosives to force him out, but that doesn’t appear to be their M.O. We’ll be ready for whatever they try, though.”
He paused for effect before going on. “Obviously, there are a few ways this can go. If they get wind of what we’re doing, or see the patrol cars parked near the borders of the county, they may change plans. They might abort. Either way, it’s likely they will switch vehicles at some point. It’s possible that, if they feel pushed, they may carjack a vehicle, maybe attempt to kidnap somebody. So we have to be prepared for all eventualities and remain diligent.
“Now, these are the positions we have staked out,” he said, calling up a surveillance diagram.
It was funny that Crowe was talking with such authority, Hunter thought, when twenty-four hours ago he’d known almost nothing about Gil Rankin.
“We think Rankin may be based in the southern portion of the county at this moment. We have several locations under surveillance, but haven’t found anything yet. That’s ongoing as we speak. Needless to say, if we find him before Pynne is released, that saves us all a lot of trouble. Questions?”
HUNTER WALKED OUT of the meeting with Ben Shipman, who seemed unusually subdued. She wondered if he still felt bad about giving information about the Psalmist to the sheriff. When he got quiet, Shipman was hard to read.
“This is all happening because of you,” she said, clapping him on the back as they stood beside his car. “You know you’ve done a great job.”
“We all have.”
“We all have, right.”
Shipman zipped up his jacket, giving her a cordial look. “But it’s not over.”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed.
He glanced off at the scenery, his freckles prominent in the late afternoon light. It was possible that he felt left out now, after providing the crucial information on Rankin and Moss. Hunter wasn’t sure.
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