Garrett fired up the Mustang and drove through the snow at speeds that would’ve made LaSalle grip the “Help me Jesus” handle. When Melvin Davis opened the doors to the hardware store at seven a.m., Garrett got out of his car and joined him. “Morning, Mr. Davis. You still carry those laser rangefinders?”
“Uh, well, yeah. Give me a minute to cut the lights on and get the heat goin’.”
While Melvin fiddled with the thermostat, Garrett went past all the aisles of power tools, nuts and bolts, and gardening implements. He needed the hunting department.
The cold made the fluorescent bulbs overhead stutter for a few seconds before they came to full brightness. Garrett squatted down and perused a glass case containing high-end binoculars, rifle scopes, and on the far end, what he wanted.
Binoculars with a laser rangefinder built in.
“What do you know? On sale and everything,” Garrett said.
Melvin came around and took about two minutes going through a jumble of keys on one of those retracting things hung on his belt. Normally, Garrett would have ground his teeth flat waiting for the old fart to get his shit together. But he felt free, at ease. He knew enough about himself to know that was a bad sign.
Melvin got the case open and retrieved the binoculars.
“Yup. On sale, thirty percent off. Plus, comes with a case from the manufacturer. Kinda cheap plastic, but it’s free,” Melvin said.
“A free case to boot? This must be the luckiest day of my life,” Garrett said.
Melvin didn’t seem to get the joke. “Okay. I’ll ring you up at the register.”
Over Melvin’s shoulder, Garrett saw a beautiful Ithaca shotgun, twelve gauge pump action, with flying ducks engraved along the barrel. “How much you want for the Ithaca?”
Melvin’s eyes darted to the door and back, like maybe he was hoping someone would come in and at least increase the odds to two sane people versus one crazy.
“I’m sorry, Garrett, but I don’t believe I can sell you that,” Melvin said.
And he genuinely did look sorry, too. Garrett remembered Melvin being one of the first to shake his hand at Dad’s funeral. Davis Hardware had sponsored every little league team Garrett ever played for. But he wasn’t the gangly kid too tall to be playing shortstop, anymore; he was a grown man with drawn cheeks and a manic shine in his eyes.
“No problem, Mr. Davis. I understand. We still good for the rangefinders?” Garrett said.
“Of course. Come on over.” Relieved, without a doubt, Melvin rang him up and probably was never happier in his life to accompany a customer to the door. He tried to be quiet about it, of course, but Garrett heard the subtle scrape of the deadbolt behind him.
He didn’t blame Melvin one bit.
Garrett drove out to Two Trees Road, the one that led to Smiley’s house. Pulling onto the shoulder, he rolled the Mustang forward, taking readings with his rangefinder binos as he went. He stopped when the laser told him he was exactly one hundred and two yards from the front post of Smiley’s driveway.
He kept the motor running for the heat and... And what? What was he doing? Trying to provoke Smiley, but why? As smart as he’d proven to be so far, surely Smiley had destroyed whatever the hell led LaSalle back.
Serial killers often collected news clippings and kept trophies, for excitement and for a feeling of control. Garrett had a lot riding on Smiley being an “average” serial killer. He knew Smiley considered himself smarter than Whit Abercrombie for sure. So maybe. Maybe Smiley’s pride made him keep something, whether it was in the barn, the house, or on his property somewhere. Maybe the killer’s ego wouldn’t let him get rid of it.
The Mustang’s interior got so warm, Garrett started to nod off. His chin dropped and he let out a loud snort, waking himself up. His eyes focused up the road and the coppery taste of panic hit the back of his throat. Smiley’s Jeep Willys idled just over one hundred yards away from him.
He didn’t pick up the binoculars, but he knew Smiley’s icy blue eyes were glaring his way. The Jeep backed up a bit and parked. Smiley didn’t get out, so Garrett knew what came next.
He left the warm cocoon of the Mustang and used his digital camera to take a few random pictures of the woods north of the road. Within two minutes, an Artemis PD unit slid to a stop behind him. Dougie Armstead stepped out and his normally cheerful round face collapsed into a frown.
“Geez, Garrett, come on. I don’t want anything to do with all this,” Dougie said.
“All of what? I’m just taking pictures of the woods. My friend Tracy, you know Tracy Ellsworth, right? She’s a painter and I always take pictures of cool scenery for her.” Garrett watched Smiley pull onto the road and head in the opposite direction, toward the County Yards.
“There’s legal a restraining order. Whit says to cuff you on the spot,” Dougie said.
“You tell Whit I am exactly one hundred and two yards away from the property I’m supposed to be one hundred yards from,” Garrett said. He leaned into the car and picked up the rangefinders. “Wanna take a look?”
“No, I do not want to take a look. Garrett, man, I like you and everything, but I got a wife and kids to feed. I’m not gonna get fired because you think you’re smarter than Whit, and the two of you wanna have a big dick contest,” Dougie said.
“Which I would totally win. But I see what you mean. I don’t want to make your life miserable, Dougie. I’ll go take some cool tree pictures somewhere else,” Garrett said.
Some of the frown came out of Dougie’s cheeks. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
Garrett got back in the Mustang and made a three-point turn to head back the other way. He stopped in the middle of the road and took another reading with his rangefinder. He rolled down his window and said, “So there’s no misunderstanding, I am now one hundred and one yards from the victim’s property.”
“Now you’re just being a dick,” Dougie said.
What could Garrett say? Dougie was right. He flipped down his visor against the morning sun and drove away, actually feeling bad about channeling his Whit-shit onto poor Dougie. The guy became a cop because he had a pregnant wife and needed a steady job. He wasn’t looking to be a hero out here, he just showed up to clock in and do his job for eight hours.
Garrett made a right, drove about half a mile, then made a left on Fourth Street so he could drive past Nadine’s house on the way home. He remembered her story about calling out to the trucker in the parking lot, asking him about his kids while he was picking up a hooker.
He had a feeling she’d appreciate what Garrett did this morning.
***
Smiley blinked at the piece of paper in his hands. Folks had them all over the County Yards by now. He could hear them whispering even when they weren’t moving their lips.
A flier made by photocopying two old newspaper articles. Local Youth Arrested.
And the article about Papa’s arrest. Dirty son of a bitch. Dirty, dirty son of a bitch Garrett Evans. Smiley couldn’t muster so much as a grin, much less his trademark smile. He couldn’t even look his coworkers in the eye. He got back in his Jeep and went home. If they called him, he’d tell them he felt short of breath and was going to see his doctor.
He roared up his gravel driveway, not taking any care to keep it neat. He leaped out of his Jeep and stormed into the house. Once he had Hank blaring on the stereo to crush out the whispering, insulting, teasing voices, he sat at Ma’s kitchen table and drank for a spell.
Warmth traveled from his belly to his cheeks, but it didn’t stop him grinding his teeth. He went out into the cold and took great gulping breaths. The barn called to him like a lover ignored too long. A visit to his trophies might cheer him up. At the very least he could go down there and piss on that investigator’s skull. He’s the one started the whole downward spiral when he convinced Garrett Evans to get involved.
Coward.
“I ain’t,” Smiley said. He didn’t look at the well, but it didn’t help. He plugged h
is fingers in his ears, but that didn’t help either.
The Hunter is stronger than you. Always has been. You’re worthless. You let ‘em push you around, just like the Tunney kid.
Smiley tasted blood and remembered Dudley Tunny. Had a good twenty pounds on Smiley when they were little kids. Papa made him fight Dudley because Smiley complained about Dudley bullying him. After Dudley got in a few good licks, Smiley curled up in a ball to protect himself and Papa’s lip curled in revulsion.
If you’re not willing to put up more of a fight than that, how the hell are you gonna make your way in this world?
Something welled up from deep inside, an emotional festering volcano, the pyroclastic flow burning away any self-control. He covered the distance to the barn in big jerky strides and unlocked the door. Snatching the shiny double-headed axe off the wall, he used big overhand swings to hack at the remains of the ancient whipping post, sending new splinters flying, revealing shiny wood beneath the dried gray surface.
You think hacking that old post will stop it?
Smiley hurled the axe across the barn. It stuck deep in one door. “I stop it when I want to,” he said. Heart hammering from the axe work, thin walls of muscle threatening to give way at any second, Smiley’s gaze bounced all around the barn. Papa was nowhere to be seen, though.
Of course he wasn’t. Smiley pushed him out that damn loft door right up there. Heard his neck crack and went down there to piss on him. And none of the fools who came to see figured it out. Smiley showed them the sad face he’d practiced and they hauled Papa’s stinking carcass away and cremated him on the County dime.
Garrett wanted to provoke the Hunter did he? When his redheaded mistress got her brains spilled on the snow in front of him, Lamar’s ignorant son would cry like a little boy. Once the tears stopped, Smiley would offer him an escape from his pain, as well.
He went back into the house, reset the needle on the record player and let Hank soothe his nerves as he poured himself a tumbler of whiskey. In the back bedroom, he kept a behemoth antique Mosler gun safe filled with rifles, shotguns, and various handguns. He sipped liquid fire and spun the dial with one hand.
He ignored his own guns. He put his drink on the top shelf of the safe and squatted down, his knees popping like those white paper snappers they sell on the Fourth of July.
He dug under a folded American flag on the floor of the safe. (Papa had served in the Army during Dubba-ya Dubba-ya Two. Stateside, but still.) Beneath the flag, he found a Colt Single Action Army .45 revolver. Second Generation model, made from the 1950s into the late ‘70s. Years of sliding in and out of a holster had worn the bluing down to the silver around the trigger guard and along the cylinder and top strap.
The gun once belonged to Garrett’s dad.
He and Smiley went to the range and perforated some tin cans a few months before Lamar died, and Smiley took a shine to the old revolver. They made a cash deal right there on the spot, no paperwork of course.
It was still registered in Lamar Evans’ name. It wouldn’t be a far stretch to assume Whit’s boys had missed the gun on their search and Garrett had tragically stumbled across it.
25
Garrett spun the cylinder of the old .38, watching the shiny brass circles of the casings spin into a blur of gold before slowing to become individual purveyors of death again. He closed the cylinder and heard the latch click into place. His mind pulled up an image before he could stop it.
A suicide. Guy used to be an LA County deputy back in the ‘70s. Got old, was constantly in and out of the hospital, and decided one last ride in, apparently. He fucked it up, angled his service revolver wrong in his mouth and cut an artery in his neck instead of blasting his medulla. Furniture overturned, curtains pulled down, the walls look like someone put blood in a paint gun and had at it.
The chirp of his phone made Garrett drop the gun on the bed like a hot coal. He dug the cell out of his pocket and saw her name.
“Hello?”
“Are you still sure about tonight?” Tracy said.
He’d half expected this call all day. “Just watching. Nothing else, I swear.”
“And if you see a big bonfire going? What then?” Tracy said.
“Maybe I’ll take some marshmallows with me just in case. Smiley used to love s’mores when we went camping,” he said.
“Not funny.”
Part of him felt remorse at what happened last night. From this point on, they’d never go back to the shoulder-bumping and cutting each other off at the knees like wisecracking friends. He may have spoiled the one pure thing he’d found when he came back to Artemis.
“Listen, I’m trained to arrest people under high risk situations. If worse comes to worse, I know what to do, and he’ll be in the open where I can see him,” Garrett said.
“Okay. I trust you. Just...you know.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said.
“Call me when you start home, no matter what time it is.”
“I will, I promise. Now try to relax. Bye.”
“Bye,” she said.
He put the phone on the bed and performed a ritual he used to do before his team served big warrants, taking deep breath and chuffing the air out in chunks, flexing his core.
A garment bag hung in his closet that Whit’s boys and the assisting deputies had opened, spotted the gray suit inside, and closed right up again. Garrett unzipped it and took the suit out. It felt much heavier than any suit should. He unbuttoned the jacket, exposing the white shirt underneath. He opened the shirt to reveal a Kevlar vest, a heavy one with a trauma plate over the heart area.
He put it on and adjusted the Velcro straps nice and tight. The vest smelled of stale sweat. The last time he wore it, it had been 108 degrees in the San Fernando Valley and he’d chased what seemed like the world’s fastest gangster through four blocks worth of alleys in Reseda.
In a spiteful move, Whit even took every holster he found in the house. Garrett had to put together a half-assed shoulder rig with an old belt and a cracked leather holster he found in the garage rafters. Made to hold a slimmer .45, the holster was too tight for the .38, but he forced the fat cylinder into the holster anyway and donned the rig over his vest. He checked himself in the mirror and decided he looked like an ambulatory military surplus store. It would have to do. He threw on a heavy down coat and grabbed his phone off the bed.
His gaze fell on The Box tucked back into its normal spot in his closet.
Snatching it up, he ran to the back patio before he could change his mind. He kept his plan for Smiley’s place foremost in his mind so the act of spilling lighter fluid all over the cardboard talisman of his past became a pure mechanical motion.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he said. Soft, barely a whisper, meant to be a chant against the memories. A tossed match and it all became a blue flame that melted a clear spot in the snow on the patio. It brought to mind all the briefings he’d had on dealing with suicidal subjects. One major warning sign was getting rid of all their possessions and putting affairs in order.
Thinking on it, he decided he had no plans to die tonight. So maybe this was his way of clearing up old business for a different reason. He kicked The Box gently and it came apart at the seams. Garrett looked away from the faces curling in the flames and thought of what might be, instead of what had gone before. For the first time in more than a year, there actually was a “might be.”
Satisfied the flames would claim the past, he strode back through the house, shutting off lights along the way and locking the front door behind him.
Wet snow blew through the brilliant cone created by the Mustang’s headlights. The kind of snow that stuck and piled up fast. Wonderful. He was glad he’d invested in battery-powered heated boots when he first moved back home. If he died of exposure in the woods tonight, at least his toes wouldn’t be black with frostbite when they found him.
The low-slung car bucked and kicked a little going up the hill to the rest stop. He planned
to follow the route LaSalle mapped out for his first scouting mission.
And his second one, too, Garrett reminded himself.
He had to admit, he hadn’t felt fear like this even during the hairiest pursuit or shootout he’d been in. Smiley had somehow gotten the drop on LaSalle, who by all recent accounts seemed to have some experience taking people out.
Garrett had plenty of training, but it was of the direct confrontation type, not stealth missions and ambushes. What he really hoped was to see the old bastard loading up something nasty in his Jeep to dispose of it. Then Garrett could just call in the County boys, or maybe the Troopers. No one Whit Abercrombie could control, in other words.
***
Smiley packed the mean blade, just in case. He knew he didn’t want to use it tonight, but it served the Hunter so well for so many years, he couldn’t bear to leave it behind.
He had his own Smith and Wesson .357 in its holster, but he would use the big Colt owned by Garrett’s daddy for this one. He rigged a shoulder holster for it and tucked it under his white snowsuit.
He paced and paced last night, listening to Hank, sipping whiskey, and letting the Hunter think. It came to him about three in the morning. He could shoot Tracy and leave her there. (As much as it saddened him to leave his trophy of her gorgeous red mane behind.) He’d wait there for Garrett and dart him, then take him into the mountains and shoot him in the head like a suicide. Smiley knew all the game trails the predators frequented. By the time anyone found Garrett, he’d be so chewed up any subtle evidence that he hadn’t killed himself would be gone. The ketamine would have broken down by then, as well, so they could ‘topsy all they wanted, to quote Angela.
Inside the cold barn, he prepared the snowmobile. He’d need the sled tonight because he planned to bring Garrett back here and use the Jeep to haul him into the mountains. The quiet exhaust system smoked a bit while the snow machine warmed up. He dragged the sled across the barn floor and hooked it up. A rough fingertip traced the word Hunter carved into the front rail of the sled. He carved it the first time he brought a trophy back on it. Stunned, he realized that was almost forty years ago.
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