The Killing Season

by Mason Cross

  “What do you mean ‘were’?” she asked before she could stop herself. He’d stressed that word a little too much.

  Edwards smiled. Evidently, she seemed to have hit on the right moment to ask a question. “I mean they’re not anymore, Agent Banner.” He held up three more photographs, one by one. Vivid color close-ups of dead men’s faces, snapped where they lay in a barren field. All except the last one, who didn’t have a face, or much of a head. “Zakhar Radev, Nikolai Kosygin . . . and we’re reasonably sure this one was Vladimir Labazanov,” he said, introducing the photographs. “Three tier-one badasses, all taken out by one man who started out unarmed and handcuffed.”

  Banner was suddenly aware that Edwards was talking exclusively to her and Castle, ignoring the fourth man, who was listening with interest, but not reacting as if to new information. He’s been briefed already, whoever he is, Banner realized.

  Castle sat back in his chair, incredulous. He waved his left hand at the mug shot of Mitchell, now lying discarded on the table. “You mean to say this guy did that?”

  Edwards looked pleased with himself, obviously enjoying drip-feeding the information this way. He shook his head slowly, producing another photo. Banner saw Donaldson wince and thought it was less a signifier of squeamishness than of mild embarrassment, like somebody had made an off-color joke that had lowered the tone of a dinner party.

  “Clarence James Mitchell, photograph taken around four hours ago,” Edwards said matter-of-factly. “Somebody hit him with a heavy blunt object—probably the butt of a shotgun—and kept hitting him until his face caved in. Then they pounded the mess into the ground a little more.”

  “Who was the other prisoner?” Banner asked distractedly. She was absorbed in studying the photograph, morbidly fascinated by the juxtaposition of the mess of pulped flesh, splintered bone, and brain matter with the smirking mug shot she’d seen a minute earlier.

  Edwards didn’t say anything. He looked a little disappointed at Banner’s reaction, like he’d expected her to close her eyes or shudder or run from the room screaming. She was glad to disappoint him, but it hadn’t been deliberate. Bloody crime scenes didn’t faze her; they never had. Everyone told her that that was unusual, that it should take time to become desensitized, but for whatever reason, it was an adjustment she’d never had to make.

  Donaldson put both palms on the table, wordlessly indicating to Edwards that he would field the question. He glanced at Banner and Castle before speaking. “This is where we come to our problem. It transpires that the second prisoner was fairly . . . ‘high value’ himself.” He nodded at Edwards without looking at him as he reused the phrase. “This second man killed all three Russians, most likely in self-defense, and then killed Mitchell, most likely for the sheer hell of it. He’s armed, he has military training, and we don’t have clue one where he’s headed.

  “I guess it would be redundant at this point to say he’s a highly dangerous individual, but he’s also highly motivated to stay free. He was scheduled for lethal injection in two weeks.”

  That explained why he was being moved to Terre Haute, Banner realized—Haute being the location of federal death row. And that meant the prisoner had to be . . .

  “Caleb Wardell?” Castle said. Banner thought it sounded like a question, but then she realized it was just that he wanted to be wrong.

  Donaldson sighed as Edwards held up the last photograph from the pile.

  “Caleb Wardell,” he confirmed flatly.

  The photograph showed the head, shoulders, and upper chest of a lean, yet powerfully built man in an orange jumpsuit. Neck muscles taut. Charles Manson beard. Cold, expressionless eyes.

  “Jesus,” Castle said.

  “The sniper?” Banner asked.

  “The same,” Edwards confirmed.

  Castle and Banner exchanged a look, both knowing why they were here now.

  “He killed twenty people last time,” Castle said.

  “Nineteen,” Edwards said defensively, as though Castle were exaggerating the problem.

  “And we want to make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Donaldson said. “Wardell was doing federal time. That means the Bureau’s got it with immediate effect, not once it’s had time to spiral out of control. The two of you will be heading up the task force.”

  “Great.” Castle’s tone was completely neutral.

  Banner kept quiet. She’d sensed this coming and, despite herself, was exhilarated. Sure, it was a tall order, but it was the kind of tall order that made careers. The kind of tall order that could help her on the way to where she wanted to finish up in twenty years or so.

  Donaldson let Castle’s comment pass. “Agent Castle, you worked on the original case here in Chicago. I understand you were there when they got Wardell. Agent Banner, you recently distinguished yourself on the Markow manhunt. I have every confidence that we can run this fugitive down before the media gets ahold of the story.”

  Banner looked up at Donaldson as he casually dropped that last element in. It was like being told you had to climb Everest tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be doing it blindfolded.

  “The media doesn’t have this yet?”

  Head shake from Edwards. “They know that a prisoner transport van was ambushed and that two marshals were killed. We’re holding back the rest as long as we can. That’s why we need Wardell back in custody before anybody knows he’s escaped.”

  “Good luck with that,” Castle said. “They’re going to have some pretty good hints as soon as Wardell decides to brush up on his old hobby.”

  “We think we have some latitude,” Edwards said. “Wardell’s psychotic, but he’s not an idiot. Effectively, he’s just been granted a stay of execution. He’ll want to keep a low profile, maybe try to head for Canada. He’s not going to start shooting random civilians again if he thinks he can get away clean.”

  “Which will make it harder to catch him, not easier,” Banner pointed out.

  Castle nodded agreement. “And he’s trained in evading capture, even if we knew where he was headed.”

  “You caught him last time,” Edwards said.

  Castle looked at him for an uncomfortable few seconds, then spoke slowly, as though explaining something to a slow four-year-old: “I didn’t. I was just there when we got lucky.”

  Donaldson sat back from the table, signifying his desire to move the discussion on. “I’m placing Agent Castle in charge of the task force. Agent Banner, you’ll be secondary lead. Both of you will report directly to Assistant SAC Edwards or to me, no one else. I believe we have the best possible people to lead on this right here in this room.” As he finished speaking, Donaldson shot a glance at the fourth man, whom Banner had almost forgotten about. He’d somehow faded into the background as they’d been talking.

  She looked at him now. Castle was looking, too. The man’s expression remained impassive. Their inquisitive stares seemed to be absorbed by him with as little impact as a scream into a soundproofed wall.

  “And exactly who do we have in this room, sir?” Castle asked, not taking his eyes off the fourth man.

  The man let the question linger in the air for a moment, then said, “My name’s Blake. I’m here to assist you.”

  5

  9:22 a.m.

  Nobody said anything for a moment. Four pairs of eyes settled on me, waiting for me to elaborate.

  After it became clear I was leaving it at that, Agent Castle repeated what I’d said, slowly. “You’re here to assist us.”

  I looked back at him. Every time, I thought. Every time it’s like this.

  Edwards, the fat one, didn’t need the nod from his boss this time.

  “As I tried to emphasize earlier, this manhunt is high priority. Top priority, in fact. The director has briefed the president, and they’re both very keen to see this wrapped up as quickly as possible.”

>   Castle looked back at him. “I bet they are. Especially a week before the midterms.”

  Donaldson shot Castle a glance that told him not to push it. Edwards cleared his throat. “Bearing that in mind, we’re bringing in all the expertise we have available. We’ve been allocated the services of Mr. Blake here, who’s somewhat of a specialist in this particular area.”

  I watched Edwards with interest as he spoke, wondering how a guy like this had risen to such a senior position in an organization that, throughout its history, had placed so much importance on appearance. The stereotypical FBI agent is sleek, clean-cut, snappily dressed: Fox Mulder in The X-Files, or Anthony LaPaglia in that other show. Banner, Castle, and Donaldson all fit the bill. To me, Edwards looked more like a used-car salesman.

  Castle had opened his mouth to speak, but Banner, who had been watching his complexion darken, butted in first, her tone carefully diplomatic: “With all due respect, sir,” she began, addressing SAC Donaldson, “do you think this is a good idea?”

  “Many hands make light work, Agent Banner. Isn’t that what they say?” Edwards interjected before his boss had had a chance to respond, and neither Donaldson nor Banner looked like they welcomed the gesture.

  I watched Banner’s face as she arranged her thoughts. I decided she was probably trying to resist the easy comeback, the one about too many cooks. Instead, she said, “Everybody here knows the challenges of coordinating an effective task force, liaising with other agencies. Isn’t bringing in a private operator just going to complicate things further?”

  “So he’s what,” Castle said, “a bounty hunter?”

  “Mr. Blake is on board in an advisory capacity,” Edwards replied. “He’ll be outside of the chain of command.” From the look he shot Donaldson and the way his brow had furrowed since the discussion turned in this direction, I guessed that Edwards wasn’t 100 percent happy with this arrangement.

  “I’m not a bounty hunter,” I said, addressing Castle. “I’m just somebody who’s good at finding people who don’t want to be found.”

  Agent Banner was leaning toward me now. Her long, shiny dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and the gray skirt suit should have looked stuffy, but somehow it flattered the curves of her body. Her dark, dark brown eyes were sizing me up.

  You always want to make a good impression on a client; that’s just good business. I told myself that explained why I suddenly found myself wanting to get a passing grade.

  “And in your . . . advisory capacity, Mr. Blake, what would you suggest is our best course of action?” Her tone was even, betraying none of Castle’s heavy skepticism. I didn’t doubt that the skepticism was there; she was just a little more ­polished in her approach.

  I looked at my watch. It was approaching nine thirty, which meant that our quarry had been on the loose for just over six hours. A quarter of a day. Every time, I thought again. Every time I worked with government agencies, I encountered this problem. Territory. Professional pride. Perceived loss of authority. I wondered if the slight was particularly pronounced for an FBI agent, far more used to being on the other side of the equation: swooping in to take the big case out of the hands of some backwoods cop. Which, of course, had already happened here. But I doubted any of them would see the irony of that if I pointed it out.

  “We’re wasting time,” I said. “So I’m going to lay everything out for you: I’m not here to take your case away. I’m not here to show you how to do your job. I’m not here to take the credit. I’m here to offer my skills and get paid in return. All right?”

  Castle opened his mouth to say something, but Donaldson, obviously tiring of the delays, cut him off. “You’re leading the task force, Agent Castle. That hasn’t changed.” He shot Castle a lingering look that supplied the unspoken coda: but it could.

  Castle sat back in his chair. He looked like he was mentally organizing his worry list and deciding that, for the moment, this new element wasn’t near enough to the top to dwell on any longer.

  In the break in conversation that followed, my eyes were drawn to Wardell’s mug shot, lying where Edwards had dropped it on the table. Like the name, the face was reasonably familiar. Or rather, the likeness was familiar. I guessed it was the picture they must have used on the front pages and the nightly bulletins around the trial.

  But was that really what had drawn my attention back to the picture? There was something about the eyes. Something from the past that I couldn’t quite put my finger on . . .

  “Is there anything else we need to know at this time?” Banner asked Donaldson, snapping my attention back to the present.

  “Not at this time,” Edwards said.

  Donaldson smiled coldly, wordlessly signaling that the meeting was over.

  “Then he’s right,” Banner said. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get moving on this.”

  As if to underline the point, Donaldson’s phone rang—a brief businesslike chirrup. It was an almost retro tone, like the way cell phones sounded in the nineties.

  Donaldson tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear. He said his name and paused while the caller spoke. Then he took a sharp breath. He stood up slowly, turned around to face the plate-glass windows overlooking West Roosevelt Road, ten floors below. “When?” He paused again and swallowed after hearing the response. “How many?”

  Edwards’s jaw tensed as he watched Donaldson’s face. Banner and Castle shared a glance. Donaldson cut the call off without saying anything else.

  “There’s a mall in a town called Cairo, about twenty miles south of the crime scene. Somebody just shot a deliveryman in the parking lot. Witnesses didn’t see anyone approach him. They say he just fell down.”

  6

  9:57 a.m.

  Too soon, that was the problem. Too soon, or too early.

  Wardell glanced at the sign as he passed it by at a scrupulously legal fifty-five miles per hour. Truck stop five miles, bus station seven, it told him, which meant that the truck stop was five and a half minutes away, give or take. Good. He needed to make a phone call, and he needed to change. Wardell was hardly slight in build, but the Russian’s clothes were almost comically big on him.

  A white car emerged from behind a bend in the road ahead and sped past. White, but not a police car. That reminded him that he should probably change the car as well, come to think of it. A pity—the Ford Taurus had only fifty thousand miles on the clock. It was a smooth ride and had reasonable trunk space. He even liked the color.

  What had he been thinking about before the sign for the truck stop had distracted him? There were so many distractions on the outside, so many colors and lights and signs and . . . variations. It would take some getting used to. Oh yes—too soon, that was it. That was what he’d been thinking: He had broken his long fast too soon.

  Wardell regarded the killing of the fat delivery driver as an embarrassing failure. It had taken two shots to kill the man. Two. The first shot to the chest had missed the heart, catching the driver midway between that point and the left shoulder. Luckily, the guy had been too confused to fall down, giving Wardell the opportunity to place the second bullet on target and finish the job.

  Two shots.

  Sure, he could make excuses. He was out of practice, natur­ally, and firing an unfamiliar weapon cold-bore, but still . . . he’d jumped back in too soon, acted too early. That had to be the problem. He ought to have bided his time, put a few hundred miles between himself and that field where he’d left dead men like unharvested crops. The PSG1 from the prisoner transport van had come with a full twenty-round detachable box magazine. Not a lot of ammunition in the scheme of things, but for a former United States Marine Scout sniper it was plenty. He ought to have hunkered down in the woods somewhere, spent a while investing some of those rounds using deer or squirrels for target practice, gotten properly acquainted with the weapon.

  But then again, that’s
exactly what they’d have expected him to do: play it safe, lie low, slink away like a chastised schoolboy smarting from a punishment. No, that didn’t figure into his plans.

  He thought back to that first shot. Visualized the ritual: breathing in and out, regulating his heartbeat, selecting the target, taking aim, squeezing the trigger. In the mental reconstruction, he finally found himself able to admit what it was that had made him miss. It hadn’t been a lack of practice, or even the new weapon. It had been something that Wardell had not encountered in a long, long time: fear. Fear that he’d lost it, that he wouldn’t be able to make the shot.

  Fear was the cold sweat that had prevented him from blanking his mind, the nagging voice that had whispered in his ear and broken the ritual.

  But when that first round had gone a little wide of perfect, something had clicked back into place. All of a sudden, there was an urgent, time-sensitive task before him. A job to be finished. And so his mind had cleared and he’d waited for the next space between breaths, made a microscopic, instinctive adjustment, and put the second bullet where the first should have gone: right through the fat man’s overworked heart.

  He still had it; of that there was no doubt. The next one would prove it.

  Wardell flicked his blinkers on and slowed to make the turn into the truck stop. It was a small, down-at-the-heels operation. An expanse of cracked and pitted concrete surrounding a series of squat, one-story buildings: a diner, a gas station, a convenience store. The buildings looked like they’d been thrown up in the midsixties and left to their own devices ever since, the only cosmetic update the rising gas prices on the sign. Wardell’s eyes scanned the lot and the buildings, surveying the location for warning signs. He saw none, but still, he’d seen more inviting premises in Baghdad, post-shock and awe.

  He made a wide, slow circuit of the lot. It was all but empty: three big rigs, a smattering of cars, no people in evidence. He parked the Ford at the far end facing a grassy slope and a line of trees. Almost, but not quite, the farthest point from the main buildings. He twisted the ignition key, cutting off both the engine and the radio midway through a local news report.