The Psalmist

by James Lilliefors

  “Anyway,” Shipman said, forcing a level of enthusiasm. “I’ll see you at the jail at seven-­thirty. I’m going to look at a few places before then, grab an early dinner.”

  “All right,” she said. “See you later.”

  “Ten-­four,” he said.

  Chapter 52

  GIL RANKIN SAW it on the six o’clock local news: they were going to release Pynne at eight o’clock that night. His attorney, Louis Gunther, saying his client was “absolutely innocent and anxious to get on with his life.” The attorney some weasely little character wearing a peach-­colored jacket and a crooked bow tie.

  Moss had just returned from scoping out the countryside and brought Rankin a different sort of news. Not the kind of news he wanted to hear. It only confirmed what he’d been thinking earlier.

  “A bunch of federal agents seem to be gathered over at the county safety complex,” he said, staring at Rankin with his wide eyes. “State police have set up surveillance at exit points out of the county.”

  “Fuck it,” Rankin said.

  Moss looked at him, unsure what he meant.

  “Do we need to rethink this?”

  “ ’Course not. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay.” Moss knew better than to say anything else.

  But Rankin was worried. What did this mean? That they knew who he was?

  Or were they setting a trap for someone without knowing what they’d get? Was this all based on something the snake, Jackson Pynne, had said?

  There was little doubt anymore about one thing: For the first time since his client had hired him, Rankin was working an operation that had big problems. Worse, he was involved in something that could adversely impact his family. It could jeopardize the life he’d built for himself over the past ten years, and for them.

  Yet he couldn’t walk away. He had to finish it. He had no choice. That was the nature of the deal. Those were the terms. If he walked away, the Client would come after him.

  “What are you thinking?” Moss asked, hovering across the room.

  Rankin ignored the question. “You gonna be ready?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. Make sure you’re ready. Don’t ask me what I’m thinking.”

  “All right.”

  “Jesus.”

  Moss walked back into his room. Everything about Moss made Rankin’s skin crawl now; everything except his special skill, which was the reason Rankin had hired him again. Moss was a nervous man who asked asinine questions. But he was good at one thing, and that was what mattered.

  Out the window, a reflection of something in the late sunlight caught Rankin’s attention.

  A car.

  Jesus! A car was crunching slowly down the drive toward the house. What the fuck? Stopping halfway. Parking. The door opening. Rankin sat forward, his attention fully engaged.

  “Hey!” He called for Kirby Moss. “Get up,” he said. “Something’s happening. Come in here. Quick!”

  LUKE SERVED UP generous portions of what he called his “original recipe” veggie and crabmeat chili, his secret penance for the morning dream. Sneakers, having already dined on a beef and chicken combo served over dried Purina, lay beside Charlotte snoring contently.

  “So,” she said as they dug in, “when exactly were you planning to tell me what the big secret is.”

  “The—­hmm?” It was difficult to fool Charlotte, about anything, always had been. “What big secret?”

  “The one you’re not telling me?”

  “Oh. That one,” Luke said. “What makes you think it’s big?”

  “Detective work.” She looked at him with her knowing blue eyes. “That’s where the clues are all pointing.”

  “Which clues are these, now?”

  “For starters, you’re not drinking beer or wine tonight.”

  He looked sheepishly at his glass of water.

  “Secondly, there’s this dinner.”

  “Yes, but it’s unrelated,” Luke said. “Just a way of showing my appreciation.”

  “And, third: I can’t think of any reason why you’d want to go back to work on a Friday night. Unless . . .” She batted her eyes theatrically.

  “Unless?”

  “Unless you’re planning a tryst with Nancy Drew.”

  “Oh. Funny.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “And so? That leaves just one question.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s really going on?”

  There was no smile in her inflection this time. Luke scooted his chair slightly, realizing he shouldn’t have tried to keep anything from Charlotte. Sneakers briefly lifted his head and looked up, as if he, too, wanted to see what Luke would say. “Sorry,” he said. “Well, yes, of course you’re right.”

  She nodded.

  “The killer’s here in Tidewater County right now, it turns out.”

  “The Psalmist.”

  “Yes.”

  “My gosh.”

  “Yes. Apparently, they’re setting a trap for him this evening. Jackson has offered to be the bait. They’re letting him out at eight o’clock and they’re going to set him up at a house in the county and keep it under surveillance.”

  “And here I thought you were no longer involved,” she said. “Silly me.”

  “I’m not. But he says he wants me to be there when he gets out.”

  “Okay,” she said, with a note of disapproval.

  “I’m not going to be involved, I’m just going to be there.”

  Ignoring that, Charlotte said, “And the killer’s just going to walk into this trap, and not be suspicious?”

  “Well, Jackson thinks so. Someone’s been assigned to kill him, he believes. And it needs to happen quickly. That’s what this is all about.”

  “According to Jackson.”

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte frowned at her wine. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “I guess I didn’t want you to worry. After what happened before. I’m sorry.”

  She drank the last of her wine, looking away. “And whose idea is this?”

  “Jackson’s.”

  Her forehead squinched.

  “I know,” he said.

  “Well, then, I have just one request,” Charlotte said.

  “Anything.”

  “I’d like to go with you.”

  Chapter 53

  THE ANTENNAS OF three television news trucks poked above the razor-­wire spirals outside the entrance to the Tidewater Correctional Center. Hunter drove Crowe through the gates, past a small gathering of print, radio, and TV reporters. The entire Bunting clan seemed to be there, she saw, as well as television and print reporters she recognized from Annapolis and Baltimore.

  “You didn’t do this, did you, Hunter?”

  “Didn’t do what?”

  “Get all these media ­people here.”

  She rolled her eyes. Crowe was joking, but only sort of. She could read him well enough to know that he was apprehensive about the whole arrangement—­in part because they were going into unfamiliar territory, and in part because it hadn’t been his idea. By morning, if nothing had happened and they hadn’t found Rankin, they’d release his and Kirby Moss’s names to the media. And do it Crowe’s way.

  “Just kidding,” he said. “Although I still don’t know how my girl at the Post got Rankin’s name.”

  “She must’ve had better sources than you did.”

  Crowe harrumphed.

  “Just kidding,” Hunter said.

  “No, it’s probably true. You were right about Rankin. There’s more to it than we were looking at.” Right about Rankin. She decided to let that one go. She parked and they walked to the visitors’ entrance.

  They were escorted to a gravel yard inside the g
ates but outside the rear port of the jail. Jackson Pynne would come out there once he was released. Two vehicles were waiting, engines idling: Louis Gunther’s Town Car and a Bureau Explorer. A Bureau agent would accompany Pynne and the attorney to the house on Sherman Creek. Hunter and Crowe would follow in the Explorer.

  Television and print reporters were mingling in the dusk on the other side of the prison fence when the doors opened at two minutes past eight. Actually, she hadn’t wanted all this media here. Not at all. This kind of attention felt wrong; it might just scare Rankin off.

  A guard poked his head out, surveying the crowd, like security after a rock concert or political rally. The television lights immediately went on.

  Jackson Pynne came out moments later, with Louis Gunther, behind two state troopers. He wore a long overcoat and walked with his natural swagger, head raised, enjoying the attention. Gunther, a small man wearing a wrinkled blazer and a crooked bow tie, beamed inappropriately.

  Pastor Bowers and his wife Charlotte were standing to the side behind the reporters, Hunter noticed. She tried to catch his eye at one point but couldn’t. Luke was watching Jackson; everyone was, as if he were a celebrity.

  The reporters shouted questions, most of them variations of the same one:

  “Mr. Pynne, are you a suspect in the murder of Kwan Park?”

  “Mr. Pynne, do you have a comment?”

  “Jackson, what happened to Kwan Park?”

  Not acknowledging their questions, Jackson scanned the crowd and his eyes finally found Pastor Luke. He strode across the yard, his hand outstretched. For a moment it looked as if he would try to shake hands through the chain-­link fence.

  But he stopped and waved instead, and then bowed slightly.

  Crowe touched Pynne on the elbow and tried to steer him toward the Town Car. Louis Gunther stood by the open driver’s door, waiting. Pynne walked several steps and stopped again to wave at the TV cameras.

  Hunter joined Crowe at the SUV, just before the prison gates swung open. What they had planned could take hours or it could take longer. She was counting on Pynne’s intuition that these were unusual circumstances and that there was an urgency to this deal. And also on the fact that Gil Rankin worked at night, in darkness. She was counting on it happening in the darkest part of the night, tonight. Two or three o’clock. That was when Gil Rankin liked to work. And when he did—­whatever he did—­they would be there.

  EXCEPT NONE OF it happened that way. Jackson Pynne was almost to the open back door of the Town Car when Hunter, standing six or seven feet away, saw his head snap forward and something fly off into the air. Then she heard the gunshot. In that order.

  For a moment there was complete silence. Then two more gunshots, in quick succession. Crack, crack. ­People went down, hit or ducking for cover. Screams and panic broke out on both sides of the fence. Crouching beside the SUV, Hunter noticed Pastor Bowers, covering his wife, who’d dropped to the pavement.

  She pulled her Beretta 4X and looked out into the dark fields where the shots had been fired—­she’d seen exactly where the second and third had originated, not the first. Then she thought she’d heard a fourth one, from a different weapon, a round that hadn’t reached the jail lot.

  Already a state police car was speeding away on Route 11 into the farmland. Then another.

  “Shit! Let’s go!” Hunter yelled when she was satisfied the gunfire had stopped. She ran to the driver’s side of the Explorer and climbed in.

  Crowe finally pulled open the passenger door. She hit the gas as soon as he was in, skidding out through the open prison gates.

  “What are we doing?” Crowe said.

  Hunter didn’t reply. She got on the radio. “Second and third shots came from the McIntyres’ farm, just south of the house. Possibly from inside.”

  By the time Hunter reached the farmhouse property, state police were already in the early stages of establishing a perimeter. “It’s going to be difficult for Rankin to escape this,” Crowe said. But Hunter wasn’t so sure.

  She saw nothing moving, in any direction, that wasn’t law enforcement.

  Both FBI and state police were bringing night-­vision equipment to the scene, but they had to shift their attention about ten miles, from the house under surveillance on Sherman Creek to this farm property just south of the jail. Rankin had planned it that way.

  A sheriff’s deputy was responding now from the South County substation, Hunter could see, even though they weren’t part of the operation. Much of the farmland here had been recently plowed. There weren’t a lot of places to hide.

  Within minutes a state police chopper would be overheard, scanning the fields with spotlights and thermal detectors. But it could take them several minutes to get here. Hunter had a bad feeling about that.

  “Shit!” she said. “They caught us off guard. We fucked it up.”

  She got out and stood beside the SUV, scanning the dark fields to the east and north for signs of a vehicle or figures moving through the darkness.. On the scanner, a state police trooper was reporting something to the south—­a car parked on Whistling Swan Road, its lights out, a door open. Then nothing more.

  There were two roads down that way, Hunter knew, and a rural route east, out of the county. A state police car was parked on the border at each of the exits, though, waiting. It wasn’t going to be easy for them to get out that way. But it was dark across the fields to the east.

  Hunter traded notes with the state police commander Gary Martin, trying to pinpoint the location where she’d seen the gunfire.

  There was one house on the property and one barn. No lights burning in either one. It was a small farm; the McIntyres grew corn and raised horses. This time of year they were still out of town at their beach property in South Carolina.

  Within minutes a SWAT team began assembling to go to the house. Hunter felt something prickle at her conscience as she watched them—­the image of Jackson Pynne taking the shot, lurching forward, bouncing against the side-­rear door of the Town Car and falling to the pavement.

  It was my idea to go forward with this. This is all my responsibility now.

  Crowe was silent, surveying everything, hands on his hips—­still a little shell-­shocked—­then walking out to stand beside Captain Martin, the state police commander, whose car had pulled up nearby. The state chopper was lifting, moving toward the McIntyre property now, its lights sweeping the fields.

  Hunter was surprised to see the sheriff standing with members of the SWAT team. She turned away. The sniper had been maybe forty yards southeast of where she was now standing. He might’ve broken into the farmhouse and found his targets through a rifle scope from a second-­story window. Or he might’ve been in the field, maybe on the roof of his vehicle.

  She began to walk in the other direction—­north, away from the road and into the farm field. The ground, recently turned, was still moist and sticky from Sunday’s snow.

  “Where are you going?” Crowe called.

  “Nowhere,” Hunter said, maybe not loud enough for him to hear.

  She stopped about twenty yards in and looked east, seeing an occasional shine of moisture in the fields, nothing else.

  Hunter listened to the quiet, feeling an icy wetness in the wind. Then resumed walking, deeper into darkness. The sky, to the north, was clear, the moon high, close to full. The air grew chillier as she got farther from the road, breathing the damp-­earth smell of the night.

  What would Gil Rankin do to get out of here? What route would he take that the police wouldn’t notice?

  She stopped and listened again, letting her eyes and ears acclimate to the darkness some more. Looking east, south, north. Lights clustered in the distance, up on the highway. He’s out there, she thought. As sirens sounded in the distance, she felt something drawing her deeper into that darkness, away from the investigation. Gil Rankin i
s still out here somewhere. She felt it, like a slow shiver through her soul. She glanced to the south and saw the police lights at the front of the farmhouse.

  Hunter zipped her coat and continued walking, her feet occasionally sticking in mud, her breath a vapor. Rankin would have anticipated the perimeter around the farmhouse grounds. That would’ve been part of his strategy. He must’ve also known there’d be surveillance video from the convenience store the night before and that police would assume he’d try to get away traveling east and south.

  She kept walking, well north of where the shots had been fired, growing more attuned to the night’s rhythms. Hunter had long ago trained herself for this—­to find glints of light in dark places. On her handheld radio she heard: “White Jeep parked on Highway 16. Subject beside it on the pavement. Approaching.” Crackle, crackle. Then, “Subject not responding.”

  One down, Hunter thought. That would be Kirby Moss, she sensed. The fourth shot, which hadn’t reached the jail. Hunter turned into the faint breeze, looking where she imagined the Jeep had been found—­well to the south—­but she was too far away to see anything now, like a ship unmoored out at sea.

  Moss was the sniper. His usefulness had expired as soon as he shot Jackson Pynne. There must’ve been two cars. Moss drove south and stopped to meet Rankin, to switch vehicles. Rankin shot him and drove away in the second vehicle. But not in a direction anyone would expect him to drive. Not in a way they would expect.

  She felt her heart thumping as she walked on toward the dark line in the field that she knew was a road, Highway 7. Taking longer strides as the field briefly grew muddier. Knowing how the roads out here connected. East, and then north. But what if you invented other routes, diagonal trajectories through the fields that forged new connections. One road linking with another. In a sense, Rankin probably lived his life that way.

  Hunter stopped again, thinking she had heard something. She let her eyes slowly sweep across the fields to the east, looking for an anomaly in the layers of night shadows. Rankin was a creature of darkness. He moved through it easily, taking routes others didn’t take, going places they wouldn’t look. He’s out there. He’d probably been outside the perimeter before they even began to set it up.