The Greater Good

by Casey Moreton

  All things considered, Watkins was beyond pleased to be the one staying behind.

  Newbury twisted several latches then pulled up a rectangular panel from the center of the van’s floor, revealing a small stowage compartment. From inside, he handed Adair an Uzi, and took one for himself. He handed Watkins a Walther and a pair of day/night field glasses.

  Newbury said, “We’ll stay put for ten more minutes, then work our way to the house.”

  “What if he doesn’t show?” Adair said.

  “He’ll show.” Newbury put the Uzi’s strap around his neck. “And whatever you do, don’t turn your back to him. It’ll be the last mistake you make.”

  47

  BY THE TIMEST.JOHN CAME WITHIN SIGHT OF THE SUBDIVISION,he was in the killing mood. During the flight to Syracuse, he had fully intended to just take possession of the videotape, then get back to Megan. But now he was ready to shed blood. He’d leave no witnesses. This wasn’t his usual style, but the current circumstances dictated a less delicate touch. His jobs were generally planned out weeks or months in advance. Today, though, he was forced to rush in and finish the job in a hurry, with whatever level of bloodshed that required.

  Lying in the snow in the dark, he peered between two slats of the notched-post fence behind 87 Birchlawn Drive. There were several lights on in the house. Smoke was coming out the chimney. A dog was barking two houses down, and St. John considered whether the animal was yapping at him or just at its own dim shadow on the snow. The patio light was off, which was good. The patio was a cement slab, about ten feet deep and thirty feet long, with a woodpile that started just past the sliding glass door. From where he lay he couldn’t make out a fuse box on the outside of the house. It might be inside, which would complicate his plan.

  To the west of the house was a smaller building he suspected was the garage. It was possible the fuse box was in there. The fence ended on the far side of the garage. St. John eased through the shadows, staying low and not making a sound except for the soft crunch of his feet in the crusty snow. He wove between a series of contiguous trees. In the darkness, the house appeared alone in the universe. The neighborhood was sparse enough that there was only a lone streetlight, which stood a good fifty clips down the road from the front of the house. In the snow and haze, the streetlight added nothing to the visibility.

  St. John crouched at the end of the fencerow, his breath clouding the air. There was a door on one side of the garage. He had to assume it was locked, so he thought ahead and prepared. The fence hit him chest-level. He tested the top slat against his weight. It seemed solid. He quickly slithered over the railing and crouched down in the snow on the inside corner. The wind picked up, biting at his face.

  He stole up behind the garage. Working his way carefully around the corner, he watched for movement from the house, and saw none. The lights from inside bled out the windows onto the snow. But he was fully hidden by the dark of night.

  The side door of the garage was locked as he’d expected. From his coat he removed a small pouch, the size and weight of a checkbook. He unzipped the pouch and chose a slender metal tool, which looked very much like a dental instrument. Also from the pouch he took a penlight. He twisted the penlight until a conservative spot of light shone on the door in front of him. Kneeling down on the door stoop, he played the spot of light onto the doorknob and inserted the fine end of the metal tool through the groove of the keyhole.

  The tumblers gave, and he gently twisted the knob and eased into the calm air of the garage. He bumped the door shut and fortuitously spotted the fuse box on the wall to his immediate right. He swung open the access panel and shone the light on the breaker switches. In all likelihood, once he killed the power flow to the house, the girl’s father would come out to check the box. St. John would kill him first. He’d leave the body in the garage. The family would be waiting in the dark. They would see a man’s figure entering the house, expecting the father who’d gone outside. It would be impossible to make out any detail in the pitch-black of the house.

  Even if they’d managed to light a candle or two in the interim three minutes, there would still be enough distraction for him to march in and take down the lot of them in brisk fashion. He would save the girl for last. Get the tape, then end her. He wedged the penlight in his lips, freeing his hands. He found the SIG-Sauer automatic in a coat pocket, checking that a round was chambered. Then he fished the empty water bottle from another pocket, and fitted the muzzle of the gun inside the open end of the bottle, to form a makeshift noise suppressor.

  The fuse box would be behind the door when the door was opened. The door had to be swung closed to get to the box. So he decided to simply stay put behind the door where he now stood. Mr. Weaver would swing the door open, push it shut, turn, thenpop…pop! —double-tap to the chest.

  St. John twisted the penlight, and its thin beam of light blinked out. He stepped to the door and made sure it was locked. Then he repositioned himself in front of the fuse box. He opened the access panel, and took a breath. The flow of adrenaline had begun.

  He put his thumb against the breaker switch labeled Main, then clicked it fully to the right, entirely cutting power to the house. He turned his back to the wall, raised the SIG-Sauer to his chest, and waited.

  48

  NEWBURY ANDADAIR WERE CROSSING THE FRONT YARDfrom the east when the lights inside the house blinked out. They paused midstride and exchanged glances in the dark. They were both thinking the same thing: Belfast.

  Adair squeezed down on his Uzi until his knuckles ached.

  They crouched low to the ground.

  There was a sudden flurry of activity in the house.

  Both men scampered to the front of the house, concealing themselves in the hedge that bordered the house. Through the night-vision monoculars, the house and snow and sky were all static green. Their hearts beat madly. Belfast could be anywhere. Newbury tapped his partner on the shoulder, and with a flourish of hand motions, communicated their plan of attack.

  When the lights went out, Dean was soaking in the bathtub, sudsy bathwater riding high up to the rim of the tub. Taking a hot bath in the evening was his ritual during the winter months. Steam rose from the water, and Dean had settled down low, his feet propped against the wall, his face the only part of his head not completely submerged. Then, the light fixture over the pedestal sink winked out, and suddenly he was alone in the dark, up to his chin in scalding water.

  Grace and Wyatt were plopped in front of the TV. The screen was now black. The only light in the house was from the dancing flames of the fireplace.

  “Oh, goodness,” Grace said, sitting forward on the couch. Wyatt’s wheelchair was parked between the couch and the fireplace. The flicker of firelight caressed his hairless scalp. He was half asleep.

  Grace stood with a look of concern and worry on her face. “Dean?” she called down the hall.

  “I’m in the tub.”

  “What happened?”

  They could hear him splashing the bathwater, struggling to stand.

  “Probably the ice and snow on the power lines. But I don’t know. Do the phones work?”

  Grace leaned across to the coffee table and grabbed up the phone. She heard the dial tone. “Yes,” she called. “Phones are working.”

  She looked at Wyatt, who just shrugged.

  “What do I do?” she called.

  Dean was standing in the tub, as naked and slick as a newborn seal. He groped in the dark for a towel but was too disoriented to claw at the towel rack. He carefully stepped out of the water and just stood there dripping on the rug in front of the tub. He couldn’t find a towel, let alone his clothes.

  “Dean, what do Ido? We need electricity.”

  Puddles were forming around his feet. “Just…just…I don’t know. Have you checked the breaker box?” he said.

  It took a few seconds for her to comprehend what he was saying. Then it dinged. “Out in the garage?”

  “Yeah.”

&
nbsp; “Well, no.”

  “Maybe something threw a circuit. Other than that, I couldn’t tell you.”

  She glanced at Wyatt. The walls of the front room were alive with licking firelight. She stood frozen, uncertain what to do.

  “Want me to run out and check it, Mom?” Wyatt said.

  At first the idea sounded appealing. But then a mental image of her cancer-ridden baby crossing the ice and snow to the garage popped up, and she quickly reconsidered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie,” she said. “I know where it is. You’ve got no business out in the cold.” She set her reading glasses on the coffee table, eased through the darkened house to the kitchen, found Dean’s coat on the garment tree by the back door, and snatched her keys from her purse.

  She started to unlock the back door when Wyatt said, “Hey, Mom, you might wanna go out the front. The path is straighter. You’re less likely to stumble over some piece of junk Dad left lying about.”

  She nodded and turned for the front door. Wyatt followed on her heels in the wheelchair. She unfastened the chain and turned the dead bolt. Out of habit she tried the porch light. Nothing.

  “Careful out there, Mom,” Wyatt said. She cracked the door, and a gust of arctic-cold air blew in around her. “Watch your step.”

  She found Dean’s gum rubber boots sitting right outside the door, and stepped into them. They swallowed her tiny feet. They were stiff and cold. She crunched toward the porch steps, then hesitated and turned back to shut the door.

  “I got the door, don’t worry about it,” Wyatt said. He sat in his wheelchair, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the armrest of his chair. Flurries circulated through the gap in the door and landed on his lap. In just those few seconds, his nose and cheeks began to turn pink against the cold. But he liked it. The cold at least made him feel alive. And these days he very seldom felt alive. He could have sat there for hours.

  Grace took her time easing down the front steps. Snow had built up in drifts on the cement walk and had gotten crusty as the sun went down and the temperature dropped. She hobbled forward, unaware of the face looking up at her from behind the hedge barely three feet to her right.

  Newbury held his breath, his back pressed against the front of the house. He was on his knees, bracing himself up with all his weight on his left forearm. The Uzi was raised in his right hand and resting against his cheek, ready to end her life if she turned around.

  St. John could hear a slow progression of footsteps approaching just outside the door. Then they stopped. He tensed. He had his back flat against the wall, his eyes cut toward the door. The whites of his eyes glowed in the dark of the garage. Only a vague flush of illumination from the streetlight came through the narrow windows above the garage doors. Even in the immense cold, a single bead of sweat formed on his right temple and traced down his cheek.

  The footsteps ended on the doorstop. And for a long moment there was no further movement, no further sounds. Only silence.

  Grace was staring down at the set of tracks that led to the garage. They ran from somewhere over near the fence to the doorstop where she was now standing. She paused. They were large tracks. A man’s tracks.

  Had Dean made them earlier in the day?

  The wind was nipping at her nose and her fingers.

  What would he have been doing out at the fence?

  It had been hours since any of them had gone outside. In fact, not since Brooke had left. And these tracks in the snow appeared fresh. At least they didn’t appear to be filled in at all, and it had been snowing steadily the entire evening. The tracks led right up on the stoop, then disappeared at the door.

  Her gaze slowly progressed up from the ground until she was staring dead-on at the door. The keys were cold inside her fist. She jangled through the mess, attempting to find the garage key in the gloomy darkness. She chose one, and leaning cautiously toward the door, slid the key into the lock.

  It wouldn’t turn.

  She held the keys close to her face, squinting to see better. They all looked the same out here, she thought. Again, she leaned in, the teeth of the key skimming through the groove.

  This time it fit.

  Her mind would not let loose of those tracks. Their presence was simply…curious.She’d have to worry about them after the power was back on. She’d ask Dean to have a look. He would have a better idea about them than she.

  She hoped she could find the fuse box in the dark. It was somewhere near the door, if she remembered correctly. The key turned easily, and she stepped inside.

  49

  THE DOOR SWUNG IN TOWARDST.JOHN.HE LEVELED THEgun and aimed about eighteen inches above the doorknob. He’d decided not to fire until he saw a face. The scuff of a boot came down on the cement slab floor. St. John steadied the gun.

  Grace stepped aside enough to get around the door. She was momentarily disoriented in the sudden darkness. She looked to her left, but saw nothing on the immediate wall. She pulled the door against the surging wind from outside. She almost had it shut when she heard a click….

  The SIG-Sauer had jammed. St. John had taken quick aim, and when the figure at the door had turned, he pulled the trigger.

  Grace’s eyes widened. She saw a person’s outline against the wall of the darkened garage. She momentarily froze, paralyzed in disbelief. Then, in a move of primal instinct, she grabbed for the doorknob and slung the door open as hard as she could.

  St. John cleared out the shell, chambered a fresh round, and fired.

  The .40-caliber slug blew through the end of the suppressor/water bottle and punched a hole through the solid-core door, sending a spray of shredded wood dancing in the weak moonlight. The shot missed Grace’s head by a fraction of an inch. The toe of one of her boots caught on the door’s threshold, and she went down hard, falling forward, banging her knees on the cement stoop, then collapsing fully to the snow-covered ground, slamming first to her elbows and then planting her face in the snow. The force and surprise of the impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She lay there stunned. St. John’s second round ripped a hole through the center of the door.

  Adair leveled the Uzi and rattled off a half a dozen rounds at the garage. He had managed to take up position at the far edge of the patio. He’d not seen the woman crossing to the garage, but he’d witnessed her panicked retreat and hadn’t hesitated to fire.

  One of the six shots caught St. John in the right shoulder. It pushed him forward, and the SIG-Sauer fell from his hand and clattered off into the darkness. He stumbled, falling to one knee. A wave of tremendous pain roared from the opened meat of his shoulder.

  He fell against the lone vehicle parked in the two-car garage and scooted around one side of it, seeking cover from the gunfire.Where had those shots come from? Who fired them?

  His eyes scoured the floor immediately surrounding him for the gun. More shots ripped through the door, turning it into a funnel of blowing splinters. Several bullets chewed into the vehicle, ringing against the metal and shattering windows. He peeked around the fender, and through the outside door he could see fire spitting from the barrel of an automatic weapon. And it was quickly approaching him.

  He certainly did not think that the Weaver family owned such high-powered weaponry. No, someone else was out there.

  Dean was yelling at Wyatt to get on the floor. He had a towel around his waist. The gunfire rattled the windows of the house. Wyatt dropped from his wheelchair and lay facedown, firelight washing over his backside. He crossed his arms over the back of his head.

  The Beretta .32 Tomcat that Dean occasionally took out to the firing range was in a desk drawer out in his cramped office in the back of the garage. He cursed himself for not keeping it in the house. He didn’t know what good it might do against the guns he heard outside, but anything was better than nothing. His deer rifle, the Winchester bolt-action, was in the closet in the bedroom, but he didn’t know if he had any shells. Because they’d spent the winter taking care of Wyatt, he hadn’
t so much as ventured into the woods this year. And he wasn’t exactly the type to stockpile ammo in the off-season.

  Dean scooted down the hall on his belly, holding the towel on with one hand. Another succession of gunfire crackled through the night. He couldn’t help but wonder if this had anything to do with Brooke and why she’d left so abruptly.

  He made it to the bedroom and squirmed to the other side of the bed. It sounded like someone was firing just outside the bedroom window. His hand was shaking when he reached up and slid the closet door open. As always, it was immaculately organized, but in the chaos of the moment, his mind went blank and he couldn’t find a thing.

  Wyatt had worked his way to the kitchen on his elbows. He was determined to make it to the back door so he could see out to his mother, convinced that she was dead. Then he saw the telephone on the wall. He grabbed at it, fumbling it in his shaking hands, but finally managed to dial 911.

  Grace was paralyzed by fear. She just kept her face planted in the snow and prayed to God that if she got hit by the flying ammo, death would come quickly. The shadowy figure in the garage had frightened her speechless, and even now she couldn’t form words or even sounds in her throat. From the moment she’d slung the door back open till now, she’d scarcely breathed. Time moved in slow motion, every second lasting an eternity.

  The shoulder was badly wounded. St. John pressed his left hand against it in an effort to slow the bleeding. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He had to find his gun.

  The SIG-Sauer had skittered out of sight across the cement floor. He felt around beneath the Ford but came away with nothing. Then he had to ease down for a moment to give his shoulder a rest. He’d come unprepared to fend off this level of firepower. And now his shooting hand had been rendered useless. Even if he managed to recover the .40 automatic, his aim would be severely handicapped. He squirreled around on his butt, his back to the front-right tire of the Ford. He looked in either direction and up the wall, frantically seeking a route of escape. There was one window five feet up the wall. It was twenty-four-inches square, with wooden latticework on the outside. A tight fit at best, he figured. But it was what he had if the need arose.