The Killing Season

by Mason Cross

  “He’s pissed?” she asked, equally unnecessarily.

  From Castle’s answering expression, she knew that was an understatement.

  “He wants the red van, and Wardell, half an hour ago. Do you realize how many red Ford E-Series vans there are registered in Iowa?”

  “Actually yes, there are eight hundred and sixty-seven. We’re working through the list as we speak, and we’ve got every cop in the state running stop-and-searches on them.” She paused. “Are we going to give this to the media? About the van?”

  Castle put his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands in front of his mouth. “I think so. Donaldson thinks they’re going to skin us alive for this priest shooting. He keeps bitching about resources, manpower, like that’s my fault.”

  Banner knew that this was the real issue for Donaldson: his own personal public standing. Better that someone like Wardell killed ten victims in secret than one victim that everyone knew about. That had been the real reason for the news blackout: not to free up the investigation, but to cover Donaldson’s ass, along with that of the director. Nobody would blame the FBI for the initial escape, of course, but they’d certainly blame them for not catching him quickly enough. And they couldn’t assign blame on an operation they were unaware of.

  “You think they will?” Banner asked.

  “Skin us alive? I don’t know. We’ve been keeping them in the loop since the story leaked. They knew we were focusing here in Chicago, but nobody had any reason to think he’d show up in Fort Dodge.”

  “Blake did.”

  Castle’s complexion darkened a shade. “Thanks for reminding me. Just make sure that never gets out. We don’t need a lucky guess making us look even worse.”

  “Come on, Castle. You know that’s bullshit. Blake called it exactly right. The only reason we don’t have Wardell accounted for right now is because we didn’t back him up.”

  Castle kicked his chair back and hauled himself up to his full six feet two inches. “You’re out of line, Agent Banner.” His voice was just a notch below shouting. “We’re chasing a military-trained killer who thinks the entire Midwest is his playground. I don’t have the manpower to waste chasing up every goddamn hunch brought to me by every asshole that walks in off the street.”

  “Off the street? This is what we brought him in for. This is what he does.”

  “I didn’t bring him in!”

  There was a moment’s silence, during which both of them became very aware that the main office chatter outside had dropped away. Only the periodic ringing of phones pierced the quiet.

  Castle sat back in his chair and lowered his voice again. “We don’t need another Ashley Greenwood on our hands just because you think you know best.”

  The words hit Banner like a slap in the face, but she didn’t show it. She moved in closer, leaned on his desk with both hands. “I’m going to Lincoln.”

  Castle shook his head, his voice calmer after the outburst. “We coordinate from this office until we get a lead on—”

  “He’s headed for Lincoln,” she said. “I don’t care which direction the red van was or wasn’t going; the target is the father. Fort Dodge is practically on a straight line to him.”

  Castle held her gaze, waited for her to finish. “The father is a possibility,” he admitted. “But we have agents in the field looking for Edward Nolan. We need to be here, because nobody really knows where this son of a bitch is going to strike next. Not you, not me, and not Blake.” He spoke the other man’s name with mild contempt. “And somebody needs to be manning the helm.”

  “Not much good manning the helm when the ship’s sinking.”

  Castle just looked back at her. Didn’t reply.

  After twenty seconds of silence, Banner said it again. Quietly but firmly. “I’m going to Lincoln.”

  Castle’s phone rang. He ignored it for the first three rings, holding the stare, then picked it up and turned back to the window. Banner strode back to her own office, picked up the phone, and dialed her sister’s number, steeling herself.

  Helen’s voice betrayed an undercurrent of disappointment when Banner asked the favor, even though she said it would be fine. Banner had known she’d say that, but she hated to take advantage of her yet again.

  “It’s just for a day or two,” she said, hoping she wasn’t promising something she couldn’t deliver.

  “It’s fine, I guess,” Helen said. “And compared to the rest of the brood, Annie is no trouble.”

  Banner believed that. Helen already had four boys and a girl, with another on the way, and as a group they seemed to get more boisterous with each new addition. Annie could be as much of a handful as any seven-year-old, but she usually behaved herself impeccably at her aunt’s.

  “You’re sure? I really hate to ask again.”

  Banner heard Helen sigh and then a pause a little too long for comfort. When she spoke again, she’d lowered her voice. “It’s not me, Elaine. Annie’s growing up. She’s big enough to understand that she’s being off-loaded.”

  “Helen, I promise—”

  “Stop promising. That’s part of the problem. I know about the job. I get that what you do is important. But Annie was really looking forward to going home tonight. I mean, between you and Mr. Big-Shot Ex . . .” She paused, and there was another sigh. “I’m sorry, Elaine.”

  Banner swallowed. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say in this conversation.

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Sure. Hang on.”

  Helen put the handset down. In the background, Banner could hear her yelling at one of the boys to put that down immediately, and a moment later another voice appeared.

  “Mom?” As usual, Annie’s voice was level, serious for her age. Banner felt a pang in her stomach as she realized she couldn’t remember when Annie had started calling her that instead of “Mommy.”

  “Hi, angel. Did Aunt Helen tell you?”

  “Yes. You can’t come and get me tonight.” Annie’s voice was matter-of-fact. Did she just expect this now?

  “I’ll try to be back as soon as I can. How about we go for ice cream when I’m back?”

  “Daddy says you give me too much ice cream.”

  Banner bit her tongue. She was surprised Mark had time to monitor his daughter’s junk-food consumption, given how rigidly he resisted seeing her outside of his regular time, every other weekend.

  “He’s probably right,” she said. “Movie instead?”

  Annie considered this carefully. “That would be nice,” she agreed finally. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you coming to see my play on Tuesday?”

  Banner closed her eyes and fought the easy urge to say yes and hope it would be true. “I don’t know, Annie. But I’d really like to go if I can make it.”

  There was a pause while Annie absorbed this. “Will you come if you catch the bad man?”

  “I’ll do my best, sweetheart,” Banner said, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve got to go now.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Be good for your aunt Helen.”

  “I will be.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  25

  4:57 p.m.

  There were two signs. The first one was the approved size and shape and shade of green mandated by federal regulations, and it advised drivers that the town of Stainton was a half mile off the highway at the next exit. That wasn’t the sign that caught Wardell’s attention, though. The second sign was big and colorful and unconstrained by any style guidelines, and it advertised:

  juba’s x-press stop

  main street, stainton

  gas station * coffee shop * convenience store

  Wardell blinked and had time to read the name of the place again
before the sign flew by. Juba. He glanced at the fuel gauge and saw that the tank was half full. Then again, that also meant it was half empty. No harm in a small detour to top up.

  He slowed for the turn and signaled. He had the driver’s side window rolled all the way down, enjoying the sting of the cold, fresh air on his face. As a man who’d spent the best part of the previous five years confined to a tiny, airless cell for twenty-three hours of every day, this felt like the lap of luxury.

  This was more like it, traveling under his own steam. It was more than worth the risk of stealing the vehicle. The three separate bus journeys it had required to get to Fort Dodge had been uneventful, but there was always the constant nagging pressure that one of the other passengers might recognize him, even with his new look, and make a phone call once they disembarked. Then the game would be over before it had properly begun. Besides, there was something institutional about bus travel that was a little too close to the way he’d been living the past few years. You had to be at a specific place at a specific time to be taken by someone else to a specific destination. There was no room for deviation from the schedule, for detours.

  Wardell had a destination, of course. He’d thought about it almost as soon as he’d been freed and had confirmed and finalized those arrangements in the course of the five-minute phone call he’d made the previous morning. But he wasn’t on a bus anymore, and he had more than enough time so that he could afford to take a detour.

  As promised, Juba’s X-press Stop was perched on the main street of Stainton. As far as Wardell could see, it was the only business in what was a minuscule town. He pulled in and parked beside a self-service pump. Before he turned off the engine, he surveyed the area. There was a kid in a red hooded puffer jacket with his—or her, Wardell couldn’t tell—back to him, standing over by the ATM that was built into the wall of the store. The only other human in sight was the clerk inside, an overweight man with a thick beard. The man was reading a magazine and hadn’t looked up when Wardell pulled in.

  There were security cameras, of course, but that was fine. Wardell didn’t think his pursuers would have any way of knowing what kind of vehicle he was traveling in. Their attempts to keep up with him had been almost depressingly ineffective so far. He hadn’t expected them to fall so completely for the green shirt ruse.

  Wardell opened the door, got out, and unlocked the fuel cap. The guy with the beard authorized the pump without looking up. It started with a thump, and the nozzle thrummed in his hand.

  Wardell glanced up at the clerk a couple of times as he waited for the tank to fill, but the only sign that he was even conscious was the occasional flick of a magazine page.

  “Mister?”

  Wardell’s head snapped down and he saw the kid in the red jacket staring up at him proprietorially. It was a boy, nine or ten years old maybe. Wardell glanced around again, but there was no one else in sight.

  “What do you want, kid?” he asked.

  “Are you scared?”

  Wardell shook his head briefly and looked away, annoyed. He didn’t particularly like kids, especially ones who invaded his space and asked nonsensical questions. When he looked back, the boy was still there, still expecting a response.

  “Why the hell would I be scared?”

  “Because of the news.”

  “The news?”

  The boy nodded solemnly. “The news. It says people are scared to fill up their tanks. Because of the sniper.”

  Wardell smiled. Maybe he liked this kid after all.

  “I heard about that.”

  “The lady on the news said people don’t want to fill up their cars. ’Case they get shot. My daddy says that’s all we need, less customers.”

  “Your daddy owns this place?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that your daddy?” He indicated the clerk with a brief nod.

  The boy grinned indulgently. “No. that’s just Phil.”

  “Right,” Wardell said, as though he’d got it straight now.

  The pump clicked off automatically as the level of fuel in the tank hit the sensor in the nozzle. Wardell pulled it out and replaced it in the slot.

  “Aren’t you scared?” he asked the kid as he screwed the cap back into place.

  The boy considered this carefully for a moment. “Not really. I’m here to look out for the bad guy. Make the customers feel safer.”

  Wardell bent at the knees to drop closer to the boy’s level. He put a hand on his skinny shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  “You’re a pretty brave kid. I bet your daddy appreciates you looking out for the business. A boy should always look out for his pop.”

  The boy shrugged a little, uncomfortable now. “I guess.”

  “But I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “No?”

  “I mean, look around. There’s nobody here. Nobody but you and me. And Phil over there, of course. Why would the bad guy want to come here?”

  “But the news says nobody knows where he is.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Uh-huh. So that means he could be anywhere. And if he could be anywhere, he could be right here in Stainton.”

  “You have a point there, partner. Difficult to argue with that. He could be right here with us.” He laughed out. “Why, he could be you or me, I guess.”

  The boy swallowed and glanced over at Phil, who was oblivious. “I think I have to go in the store now.” He tried to move backward, but Wardell tightened his grip on his shoulder.

  “Not so fast, partner.”

  The boy looked back at him and stared, wide-eyed.

  Wardell reached down with his free hand, not seeming to disturb the pocket of his jeans. Then his hand flashed up, holding something against the boy’s face. He flinched and focused on what Wardell was holding, relaxing a little when he saw it was a fifty-dollar bill.

  “I’m in kind of a hurry, to tell you the truth. If you could drop that inside for the gas, I’d be mighty grateful. And make sure Phil gives you the change. You can keep it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the boy said quickly as he took the bill.

  Wardell released his shoulder at last and opened the ­driver’s door. “You know something?”

  “What?”

  “Even if the bad guy was here, I think he’d leave you alone. I think he’d like the name of your pop’s store.”

  The kid looked puzzled, then glanced up at the sign. “That was just the name when my daddy bought the place. I think Juba’s kind of a dumb name.”

  Wardell smiled and tipped a finger to his brow in a little salute; then he got in and started the engine. As he pulled out of Stainton, he realized that the daylight was already beginning to fade from the sky. He’d find a place to stop soon, somewhere safe to rest up for the night. There was work to do in the morning.

  26

  9:40 p.m.

  The evening was well advanced by the time I arrived in Lincoln, and the clear blue sky of the morning had long since given way to dark gray clouds and then to nightfall. Lincoln was the state capital of Nebraska and the second largest city in the state after Omaha. Nebraska being what it was, that meant the town held a sizable proportion of the total state population.

  Eddie Nolan’s last-known address was a one-bedroom dive in the Westwood Terrace Apartments, a run-down building located in the part of town called Clinton. Clinton, Lincoln. Being named after two different presidents hadn’t helped make the location any more desirable. Westwood Terrace was a dirty concrete block, U-shaped and gathered around a trash-strewn patch of grass. The building superintendent was an obese, husky-voiced man in jeans and a flannel shirt. Although hostile at first, he warmed considerably after I explained I wasn’t an FBI agent.

  The agents who’d come by earlier in the day had evidently got the super’s back up when they
’d made him open Nolan’s apartment door, so much so that I suspected I could have gained access merely by listening to the guy bitch about their attitude for ten minutes or so. The twenty-dollar bill I produced cut that down to three minutes, which in my estimation was money well spent.

  As the super let me in, I noted that the lock plate was shiny, and there was evidence of recent repair to the doorframe.

  “The police do that?” I asked, nodding at the lock and the evidence of damage.

  The big man shook his head wearily. “That was last week. Lot of people looking for Mr. Nolan.”

  “Must be a pain in the ass,” I said. “Having to deal with this, I mean.”

  The super shrugged and looked around, as if to say this kind of incident was hardly unusual with his tenants. I guessed the guy was probably just happy the rent was paid up.

  The apartment was cramped and smelled of stale cigarette smoke and dampness. Despite the scarcity of furniture, it was a mess, and probably had been almost as bad even before agents Gorman and Anderson had conducted their search. Takeout menus and magazines devoted mainly to guns and barely legal teens mingled with empty beer cans and stained pizza boxes. The agents had gone through the mostly emptied drawers, opened Nolan’s junk mail, and moved the furniture around: not exactly what you’d call thorough. Maybe they’d refrained from a more rigorous search because Nolan himself wasn’t actually wanted in connection with any crime, and they’d decided he was so tangential to the manhunt that finding him didn’t justify much more than the time it took to knock on his door. I thought different, and perhaps that was why I came up with a different result.

  In ten minutes, I had kicked loose enough leads to put me on what I thought was the right track. In the otherwise empty closet, I’d found a single clipping from a magazine article about Caleb Wardell. One corner of the clipping was creased over and flattened, as though it had been stored in a box or file under a lot of other papers. Probably a lot of other news clippings in a proud father’s collection.