“Ms. Kane,” Mike said, “please go back to—”
“Please listen to me. He does not have a gun.”
“After he killed that woman,” the cop said, “he went and murdered a Bennington cop. Heard it on the radio just a little while ago.”
“He didn’t kill anyone,” she said desperately. “He was framed.”
He ignored her and said to Mike, “I just called for backup. Should be here in less than ten.” He looked up at Molly. “This might be a good time for you to get back in your truck, ma’am, and keep your head down.”
She remained standing. “He doesn’t have a gun, Officer,” she insisted.
“If he says he does, then as far as I’m concerned, he does until I find out different for sure. Now go find some cover, please.”
Instead, as calmly as she could, which wasn’t very calmly, she called out, “Tyler, it’s me. It’s Molly. I’m here, buddy. Listen, you need to tell them you don’t have a gun. You need to come out of there with your hands up before you get hurt.”
A moment later, a shadow appeared in front of the open window. A silhouette against the slightly lighter dark behind him.
“Molly?” Tyler called. “Is that really you?”
Hearing his voice broke her heart.
“It’s really me. Please come out, Tyler. Please tell them you don’t have a gun.”
“I do have a gun. So that policeman should leave me alone.”
“I know you don’t have a gun. Listen, more policemen are on the way. This is only going to get worse.” She was pleading now. “Please come out.”
“I do have a gun. And I’m not coming out. And nobody better come in, or I’ll shoot them.”
The radio in the police car crackled, and someone announced that two more units were en route.
“Almost got him now,” the cop said, and Molly didn’t like what she heard in his voice. Maybe he wanted revenge against an accused cop killer. Maybe he wanted to be a hero. But there was violence in that voice. Molly had heard the same thing in Afghanistan, guys amped up and ready—no, hungry—for action. Whatever it was, she knew the man desperately wanted to be the one to take Tyler down, one way or another.
Tyler crouched beneath the window in the dark building, his legs aching from the long run—through several neighborhoods and two different woods—from his house, then to that bar where he borrowed that guy’s phone, then here to the animal shelter. He was really tired. And still really sad about everything. About Julie being killed, and about having to run away forever and never see his family again.
Still, he was feeling pretty clever. If he hadn’t told that cop out there that he had a gun, the guy would have just walked right in and arrested him. But if they thought he might shoot them if they tried, they couldn’t do that.
He had a problem, though. They weren’t going to just leave now that they knew he was there. His clever trick about the gun kept them from coming in, but they weren’t going to just give up and drive away. So he’d have to be the one to get away instead. And Molly said that more police were coming, which would only make it harder to escape. So he had to do it soon.
The shelter had a back door. He used to take dogs for walks out back now and then, in the small grassy area between the building and the trees behind it. It wasn’t that far to the trees. He could run to them. Then, even though he’d never been more tired in his whole life, he could keep running—through the woods, just keep going until he got someplace where they wouldn’t find him next time.
Yes, he decided. That’s what he’d do. And right away.
Well, as soon as he refilled the water in one of the kennels. When he’d snuck in before, the French bulldog puppy had gone crazy, jumping around and barking, and he’d knocked over his water bowl. Tyler couldn’t leave him without water all night.
He unlocked the puppy’s crate and grabbed the bowl, refilled it at the sink, and returned it to the crate. He gave the dog a scratch behind the ears and a quick belly rub, too. At the same time, he ignored the cop yelling at him from outside. And though it was harder, he ignored Molly calling to him, too. He didn’t like doing that, but she kept telling him to give himself up, and he wasn’t going to do that. He knew it would be better for everyone if he just went away and never came back.
The puppy had his water now, so it was time to go.
As soon as he gave fresh water to the other dogs. There were six of them, all in different cages, and they were all looking at him like they also wanted fresh water.
Then he had to give fresh water to the cats, too, of course.
After that, it would definitely be time to go.
Wyatt Pickman wasn’t terribly surprised but was nonetheless pleased to see that John “Jackpot” Barker hadn’t installed a home security system in the six weeks since Pickman’s last clandestine visit to the ex-governor’s house. But there was no reason he should have, as Pickman had left behind no trace that he’d been there. He’d merely had a look around, snapping photographs of the interior, taking measurements for the detailed floor plan he’d sketched the following day, and generally checking out Barker’s things. There were no family pictures on the walls or shelves. The man had no family to speak of; according to reports, he’d enjoyed his decades of bachelorhood too much, considering himself a playboy, so there was no wife, and he had no children he would admit to having fathered. Where others might place framed family photos, Barker kept pictures of himself looking self-important: taking the oath of office, giving speeches, shaking hands with minor celebrities and athletes.
As he had done at Judge Jeffers’s house, Pickman walked through rooms lit only by moonlight spilling in through the windows. He wore the same bloody clothes he’d worn when he’d killed the cop in the alley a little while ago. He also wore latex gloves. When he was finished here, he’d wash up, change into the spare set of clothes he’d brought, and take the bloody clothes and gloves with him to destroy later. He didn’t need to plant any more evidence implicating Tyler Kane. At this point in the game, the victim’s cause of death—the grisly smiley face carved into his torso—would be more than sufficient as a signature.
As Pickman moved down the dark hall toward the front of the house, he heard low sounds and saw dim light flickering. The television was on in Barker’s media room, which likely meant that Barker was watching TV at that moment instead of sleeping upstairs where he was supposed to be.
No matter. He could die as well in front of the TV as he could in bed.
Pickman was unexpectedly pleased with himself. Not long ago—just hours ago—he might have become enraged at even the most minor deviation from his plan. After all, not one time in his six late-night visits to this house—the two times he’d been inside or the other times when he’d merely watched from the shadows of the yard outside—had Barker stayed up this late. And when he did, he was up in his bedroom with the light on, not down here watching television. And yet, though Barker’s corpse wouldn’t closely resemble the sketch Pickman had made of it months ago—lying on its back in bed, sheets twisted around it, blood pooling beneath it—he didn’t care. So the grisly scene wouldn’t match the drawing in his bible . . . who cared? He hadn’t even bothered to bring his bible tonight.
No, all that mattered was that Barker would die in the same manner as Sally Graham, Julie Davenport, and that cop in the alley tonight, killed with the same blade as the others, the one with the notched tip and the slightly twisted blade.
Tyler Kane’s last victim.
Another nail in Andrew Kane’s political coffin.
And when that was done, Pickman’s work would be done, too. After more than a year of planning and weeks of active execution, the job would be complete. The plan would not have been executed to the letter, but it would be complete nonetheless, each of his objectives accomplished . . . which, in a sense, made it a perfectly performed job.
Of course.
At the end of the hall, he peered around the corner into a room with a huge flat-sc
reen TV on one wall and two plush sofas in front of it, one of which had the sleeping, snoring, pudgy form of Jackpot Barker sprawled across it.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Tyler had given water to all the animals and was standing at the back door, ready to run. What would happen if they saw him, though, and could see that he didn’t have a gun in his hand? He’d told them he had one. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness in the room, and looking around, he spotted a black stapler on the desk. If he held that, it might look like a gun. It might fool them. He picked it up and again felt clever.
He took a deep breath, unlocked the back door, then pushed it open and started to run. He’d pushed it way too hard, though, because it banged against the back wall of the shelter, then slammed closed again. Tyler’s legs were already feeling heavy as he ran. He heard shouts from the front of the building.
They’d heard him leave.
They’d be following him.
He wasn’t running fast enough, not with his legs so heavy.
Now the shouts were getting closer, coming around the building, which wasn’t far behind him. He wouldn’t make it to the woods before they got there, even though the trees were just ahead.
The cop yelled for him to stop. Then Molly did, too. And because he knew they’d just catch him anyway, because his legs were so tired, he stopped running.
And he started to turn around.
And because he thought that now would be a good time to tell them that he didn’t really have a gun, he raised the stapler to show it to them.
Andrew stood on the front lawn of the house in which he’d grown up and watched Detective Ramsey alternate between talking into his cell phone and barking orders to the officers and techs around him. As he stood watching, Andrew had his own phone to his ear, listening to the ringing, praying Molly would pick up.
As Molly ran, ignoring her phone buzzing in her back pocket, she experienced the surreal slowing of time depicted in books and movies, and which she had personally experienced in the chaos of combat. Things happened lightning fast, but the brain miraculously slowed them down and registered them each very clearly, frame by frame, instant by instant.
Not far in front of them, Tyler stopped, turned, and raised his right hand, which had something in it, something black and gun-size.
The cop, who had started running before Molly and was now half a dozen steps ahead of her, yelled, “Gun!” as he skidded to a stop and drew his weapon.
Tyler extended the hand with the black thing in it toward them, as though pointing it at them.
The cop, in a firing stance now, had a two-handed grip on his gun. He was about to pull the trigger. Molly recognized the body language instantly, having seen it countless times.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler said.
Though the cop had stopped running, Molly hadn’t. She covered the last twelve feet between them at a dead sprint, launching herself at the last second. She slammed into him from behind, and the gun discharged. As her momentum carried her to the ground, from the corner of her eye she saw Tyler go down.
Pickman looked at the high-end audio-visual equipment filling the built-in shelves next to the television and smiled. Recalling that there was a CD player in the master bedroom, where Pickman had expected to find the ex-governor tonight, Pickman had brought the Bach CD from his car. That Barker had instead fallen asleep in his media room, though, with its top-of-the-line sound system was perfect. Killing Barker was the finale of his beautiful plan. How better to bring down the curtain on this entire drama than by adding a soundtrack . . . The Art of Fugue?
Pickman saw a big, complicated-looking universal remote control on the sofa near Barker’s hand. He picked it up and studied it as he walked to the bank of entertainment equipment.
Within a few seconds, he had it figured out. He slipped the Bach disk from his back pocket, inserted it into the CD player, and used the remote to switch audio sources. The sounds of the film ended abruptly, though the movie continued to play on the screen.
On the sofa, Barker stirred.
Through the speakers, clear as crystal, came the first of Bach’s perfectly chosen notes—played on an organ in this arrangement. A few beats later, a second melodic theme—also an organ—began to weave through the first. As the third theme began, low notes thrumming through the room, Barker’s eyes fluttered open, blinked stupidly, then shot wide when they landed on Pickman walking toward him, just three steps away now, knife in hand.
Bach filled the room. This was exactly how this was supposed to end. This was perfect . . .
. . . until he noticed a sound in the music that didn’t belong. A high sound, shrill. Quiet at the moment but slowly growing in volume. What instrument was this? How had he never noticed it before? He didn’t understand. He had listened to this piece literally thousands of times.
And then he did understand. It wasn’t a musical instrument. It was sirens. Not far away. Getting closer.
Damn it.
A thousand thoughts ricocheted through his mind. He knew he should turn and run, through the house and out the back door. The cops would crash in at any moment. If he ran, he’d escape. He knew that. There was no way that they could know his identity, even though they had obviously known he would be coming after Barker. They’d probably found Grady Austin. He’d probably told them about Barker. But there was still time to get away, if only just barely.
He should leave.
But if he left now . . .
He wouldn’t be able to finish the job. Maybe ever. Barker would be on his guard from now on. He’d get a security system, hire bodyguards, whatever.
Pickman might never get another shot at him.
The job would be incomplete.
Could he stand that? Would he be able to live with himself if he didn’t finish the job?
Earlier, he’d been so proud of himself for having evolved, yet he stood now on a knife’s edge, with everything hanging in the balance, everything telling him to run . . .
And he couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t leave the job unfinished. No matter the cost.
The strains of Bach clashed discordantly with the wailing sirens, which had almost reached the house.
Barker finally spoke, his voice quavering. “Who the hell are you?” he asked as he retreated into the corner of the sofa.
“I’m Tyler Kane.”
Barker’s eyes squinted in confusion. “No, you aren’t.”
“Well, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
Sirens screamed just outside. Pickman was barely aware of them now. What he heard was The Art of Fugue . . . the soundtrack of his life.
He strode forward and drove his knife into Barker’s chest, just under his left shoulder.
Blue and white flashing lights lit up the room through the window above the sofa on which Barker now lay moaning and bleeding.
Tires screeched in the driveway. Pickman barely registered their sound. The organs were building to a crescendo.
He pulled the blade from Barker’s body, and the man’s animal cries of pain and fear were strangely melodic, blending perfectly with the music. Pickman didn’t remember percussion in this part of the piece, but there it was, timpani drums . . . or maybe it was a sudden pounding on the front door.
Pickman plunged the blade into Barker’s chest again, below his right shoulder.
Ah, yes, not drums. Pounding on the door. Louder now. And there were voices, too, Pickman realized. Cops yelling warnings.
Barker screamed for help at the top of his lungs.
Pickman yanked the blade from the ex-governor’s chest.
The music grew louder, the pounding on the door more furious, the warnings more urgent.
Time to lower the curtain. “Smile,” Pickman said as he gripped the knife in both hands, ready to drive it into Barker’s belly.
Then he felt a punch to his chest as thunder bellowed and shards of glass filled the air. He staggered back a few steps. Through the window, awash in flash
ing blue and white, stood a uniformed policeman, his arms raised, a gun pointing at Pickman.
Pickman dropped the knife. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t make his fingers hold it any longer.
He waited for the cop to fire again, but the shot didn’t come.
The front door crashed open as Pickman fell to his knees. He looked down at the hole in his chest, just below his left shoulder, the same spot where he had always first struck when killing people whose murders he would pin on Tyler Kane.
The room flooded with cops. He didn’t want to go to prison. He didn’t know if he could live like that. He saw the bloody knife lying on the carpet three feet to his left. If he could just get to it, they’d have to shoot him. They’d kill him. He tried to reach for it, but his left arm wouldn’t move.
He felt weak.
And stupid. How had he let this happen?
Why hadn’t he run when he should have?
But he knew the answer to that . . .
He couldn’t.
Had someone turned off the music?
He looked down at the wound in his shoulder again and willed it to bleed more profusely. The last thing he wanted was to be taken alive. There was no greater hell on earth for Wyatt Pickman than a prison cell. There was no way he could live like that.
But the blood flow seemed to be slowing . . .
And sadly, tragically, he didn’t seem to be dying . . .
CHAPTER SIXTY
When Molly had seen Tyler go down after the cop fired, she’d known he was dead. And she’d known that it might have been her fault. Maybe the cop had merely been firing a warning shot, though she was almost certain he hadn’t been. Maybe he would have missed. But Molly had tackled him, and he’d shot Tyler and—
“Ow,” Tyler said.
Molly was on the ground, in a tangle with the cop. She freed herself and felt his hand graze her back as she leaped to her feet too quickly for him to get hold of her. She sprinted over to where her brother lay on his back. Beside his right hand was a stapler. The outer part of his left thigh was bleeding. It was a flesh wound, at most. The tidal wave of relief she felt drove her to her knees beside him and left tears in her eyes. She wiped them away and smiled down at him.
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