Moon watched them go around the car and into the house. The woman’s house sat slightly higher than Bill Waylon’s, giving it a clean look down at the entire front of the property.
Moon looked at himself in the car’s rearview mirror. He swept back his long hair and smoothed it down. He checked his teeth. He grabbed his schoolbag from the passenger seat and swung it over both shoulders and he hurried across the street toward the driveway.
* * *
Lori O’Keefe was tired and her body ached. but it felt good. She’d gotten up at five A.M. to do hot yoga at the gym. She posted a selfie on Facebook and on Instagram when she arrived and again when she left, letting everyone know what she’d done and filling the rest of the post with as many hashtags as she could think of. Blessed, Goals, Motivated, StayFit, ActiveMom, HotYogaBod, MyKidsRule, and her favorite, JustSayin.
She came home, packed her husband’s lunch, and saw him off to work. She showered and got dressed. By the time she came out, her daughter, Peyton, was already awake and sitting up in her bed, reading. Lori got her son, Kayden, up, changed his diaper, and brought both kids downstairs for breakfast.
By the afternoon, they were both driving her crazy. She got changed into workout clothes again and packed them up to go back to the gym. If you’re good, we’ll get a treat after the gym, she’d said. She got them situated in the daycare center and made it to spin class, just in time.
After spin class, she collected the kids. They asked if they’d been well-behaved, and she said yes. They asked for ice cream. She drove them across town to a gluten-free bakery for salty peanut butter quinoa and chia bars made with organic, fair-trade chocolate.
She stretched out in the kitchen, feeling good. She sent the kids upstairs by calling out, “Time for naps.” She clapped at them to get them to move, corralling them up the steps like small calves.
She opened the refrigerator and took out the water bottle with the smoky purple crystal at the bottom of it. She popped the lid and took a long sip. Her husband had complained when he found out she spent a hundred dollars on a water bottle. She told him if he’d just try it, he’d be able to taste the difference in the softness of the water, because it had been restructured by the crystal.
Once the kids settled down upstairs, she was going to post all the selfies she hadn’t had time to during the day, and meditate.
* * *
Gregory Moon went up the driveway, checking to see if anyone was watching through the front windows. When the SUV pulled in, the woman hadn’t checked her mail. Moon peeked inside, seeing several bills addressed to Lori O’Keefe. He stopped at the SUV and looked inside. A yoga mat on the floor. A handful of sage in the first cup holder. A paper bag from a bakery that read Gluten and Guilt Free! Environmentally-Friendly, Absolutely Organic, Free Trade Guaranteed. You’ll Taste the Goodness. A book on the passenger seat titled How To Be More Woke.
He walked up to the door and knocked.
Lori O’Keefe opened the door and said, “Hello?”
“I’m so sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m with Advocates for Social Change and I got separated from the rest of the group. Have you seen anyone else walking around? My cell phone’s dead and I’m kind of lost.”
She leaned out of the door and looked around. There were only her neighbors. “Are you guys doing fund-raising or something?”
“Oh no, ma’am,” Moon said. “We’re just raising awareness. Talking about different campaigns in the area that people can participate in. Right now we’re sponsoring Free Yoga in the Park to help low-income women be more active and healthy.”
“You’re kidding! That sounds amazing. I do yoga.”
“You do? Well, if you’re interested, I’ll give you the number for the coordinator. She’s always looking for volunteers to help her teach. Excuse me.” Moon coughed into his hand and rubbed his throat. “Sorry. Would it be okay if I bothered you for a glass of water?”
“Of course!” Lori said. “Come in and sit down. Have you tried crystal-infused water?”
“No, but it sounds amazing,” he said.
“It so is! Come in, come in. I’ll find you a phone charger.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” she said, opening the door and inviting him inside.
“Thank you so much,” Moon said, and closed the door behind him.
21
Carrie closed her eyes as the phone rang. She leaned forward against the steering wheel, resting her forehead against her right arm. “Please pick up,” she whispered.
The phone rang two more times and went to voice mail.
“God damn it,” she said, and hung up. “Bill’s not answering. Should I call the radio room to send cars?”
“Wait,” Rein said. “Can you call anyone else inside the house?”
“I think I still have Jeri’s number.” Carrie scrolled through her phone. She pressed the call button and waited.
“Hello?” the voice said on the other end.
“Jeri?”
“Hey. What’s up? I’m making dinner.”
Carrie listened before answering. She could hear the sink faucet running in the background. Metal scraped against metal, the sound of a spatula hitting a frying pan. “Is Bill there?”
“He’s upstairs sleeping.”
“How about Kate?”
“She’s doing her homework.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m looking right at her. What’s going on, Carrie?”
Carrie looked at Rein. He shook his head. She gritted her teeth and pursed her lips together. Rein waved his hands.
“Nothing,” Carrie finally said. “Everything’s good. I was just looking for Bill. Have him call me when he wakes up.”
Carrie hung up the phone. “We have to warn them. They’re sitting ducks if we don’t.”
“We can’t risk it.”
“Risk what? That maniac wants to skin Kate alive!”
“Moon is watching them,” Rein said. “If you tell Bill what’s going on, he’ll press the panic button and have every police car in the county there in the next five minutes. Moon will see that a mile away and we’ll lose him. He’ll vanish. We either catch him now or no one will be safe again.”
“What if we’re wrong? What if he’s inside Bill’s house right now, ready to kill them all?”
“Then people we care about die excruciating deaths.”
Carrie smacked him in the arm. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Well?” he said. “We’d better focus on winning, then.”
Carrie took a deep breath. “Now what? I’m assuming we aren’t going to Bill’s house.”
“No.”
“So where are we going?”
“Do you know the U-Haul on Route four-two-six?”
“Next to the Home Depot?”
Rein pointed forward. “Drive.”
* * *
They parked Carrie’s car at the Home Depot and walked to the U-Haul. Rein told the man at the counter that they needed to rent a van for the hour. The man began to explain different pricing options and Rein waved him off and said, “Just give us the best one.”
“Well, you’re a big spender all of a sudden,” Carrie said.
“I am now,” Rein said. “Give him your county credit card.”
“Typical,” she said. She reached into her pocket for her wallet and pulled out the credit card and handed it over. “What do we need this van for again?”
Rein took the keys from the man’s hand and made his way toward the van parked out front. He jumped in, waited for Carrie to get in, and backed the van up, only to drive it into the Home Depot parking lot and park it next to Carrie’s car. He jumped out again and hurried across the parking lot into the store. Carrie ran to catch up.
Rein flew through the aisles, checking their placards. “Washing machines and dryers,” he repeated to himself as he walked. He flagged down an employee. “Washing machines and dryers?”
“Right d
own this aisle, sir.”
He walked past the first few luxury models. He ignored the compact apartment designs with washing machines and dryers stacked on top of one another. He wanted the ones in the back. The older, larger, units. Rein stopped in front of a dryer that was half his height. He checked the size of it and said, “Go find me a salesperson.”
“Rein, why are we buying a washing machine?”
A salesperson came from around the corner. He drew the pencil tucked behind his ear and pointed the eraser end at the machine, saying, “This model’s from last year. I’ve got a few high-intensity models with vibration reduction out front that I think you’d be happier with.”
“Does this model come in a box?” Rein asked.
The salesperson raised an eyebrow at him. “Sorry, sir?”
“You said it’s from last year. Do you only have this floor model, or are there new ones in the back still?”
“I’ve got a couple in the back, or I can make you a deal on this one. But I’m telling you, the ones out front are the ones you want.”
Rein looked at Carrie, assessing her, and then back at the machine. “Bring out this model, new in a box, and meet us at the register.” He winked at her and hurried down the next aisle toward the wall of duct tape.
“Rein?” Carrie called out to him. “Rein! I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.”
“You have good instincts.”
She watched the salesman wheel the washing machine down the aisle, toward her.
* * *
It was dark by the time Jacob Rein drove the U-Haul van back to the Bridge Motel. He stopped when he pulled into the parking lot. The parking lot was empty.
The Mexicans who’d taken the grass-cutting job from before were back. They were sitting in front of the motel room now, drinking beers. Charcoal smoke billowed out of the grill. One of them was cooking, turning over hot dogs and hamburgers.
Rein parked the U-Haul and reached into his pocket for his wallet. He had twenty dollars to his name. It was the last of his money for the month. He pulled out the bill and held it up to show the men. “I need two drivers for a local delivery. Whoever’s not drunk.”
Two men set down their beers and came forward. Rein looked them over. “Lean your heads back, close your eyes, and touch your noses.”
The men did it.
“Walk to the van in a straight line.”
The one on the right made it there no problem. The one on the left wobbled slightly.
Rein pointed the one who could walk straight and said, “You’re the driver.”
He let them into the van and went around the driver’s side to get in. “Squeeze in on that side, you two,” he said. He backed out of the motel parking lot and drove back toward Home Depot.
“What’s the delivery, señor?” the driver asked.
“A washing machine,” Rein said, cocking his thumb toward the back of the van. The washing machine box was strapped to the back of the van so it didn’t slide around. As Rein drove, it bounced on the rough road and off the van’s side walls. “It’s extremely fragile so you have to be very careful with it. Don’t drop it.”
“Okay,” the man said.
Rein handed the men a clipboard with Bill Waylon’s address and specific instructions for the delivery. “Make sure you follow those if there are any problems.”
The driver said, “No problem.”
Rein drove to the Home Depot parking lot and got out of the van. “I’ll be following you there. Take it slow.”
Rein got into Carrie’s car and started it. He backed out of the parking space and gave the van plenty of room to get out. He flashed his headlights at them, then waved for them to go.
The driver backed up, turned the wheel, and pulled out of the lane to make a right turn past the Home Depot to get back on the road. As he turned, the van went up and over the curb and landed with a hard jolt. Rein cringed. The driver stopped, held his hand up through the window to apologize and kept going.
* * *
Bill Waylon heard a vehicle come to a stop in front of his house and he raced up the stairs for his gun. He pulled it out of his dresser. The rubber grips of the large-frame silver revolver felt good in his hand. His hands were shaking as he unsnapped the holster and pulled the gun free.
“Dad?” Kate called out from downstairs. “What’s going on?”
“You and your mother get into the den!” He hurried back down the stairs, his bare feet slick with sweat on their smooth wooden surfaces. He was only wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that he hadn’t bothered changing out of that morning when he spilled coffee and egg yolk on it during breakfast. His throat hurt. He was sucking wind and wheezing and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. None of that mattered.
He looked through the curtains. There were two men in front of his house, going around the back of a U-Haul van. Waylon opened his front door with his gun at his side. They weren’t moving fast, and they didn’t look nervous. He watched them remove a hand truck from the back and set it beside the van. Together, they wiggled a large box onto the rear bumper and bent with their knees to lower it to the ground. One of them jammed the hand truck under the box and the other one tilted the box backward to get it on.
“What is it, Bill?” Jeri called out.
“It looks like a delivery,” Waylon said. He tried seeing what the box was. “Did you buy a washing machine?”
“No.”
“Well, one is coming up our driveway.”
“Must be the wrong house,” Jeri said.
Waylon hid the gun behind his back.
“Is it a good one?” Jeri asked. “Let me see it before you send it back.”
“Just stay put,” Waylon said. The two deliverymen were wheeling the box toward him. “You guys have the wrong address.”
“We were told to bring it to this house for Mr. Waylon,” the driver asked.
“Take it back. I didn’t order anything.”
They wheeled the box up to his door. “This is from your friend.”
Waylon cocked the hammer of his pistol back, where they couldn’t see. “What friend is that, amigo?”
“Some guy just paid us to bring it. That’s all I know.”
Waylon put his finger on the trigger. “What did he look like? What was his name?”
“Tall, crazy-looking guy. He had a beard.” The driver raised the clipboard and read the instructions. “It says to tell you it’s from The Burt Reynolds Foundation For Men Who Can’t Grow Mustaches.”
They tilted the hand truck backward to get the box over the threshold to the front door. It came down hard on the other side, and Waylon had to scurry backward to keep it from falling on his feet. The two men slid the hand truck out of the way and were back down the driveway and into the van before Waylon could slide the box out of the way and close his front door again. He de-cocked his pistol and laid it on the lowest step.
“Bill!” a muffled voice called out.
He flinched in surprise.
“Bill! Let me out of this goddamn thing.”
Waylon tore at the tape on top of the box as his wife and daughter came into the hall. As he ripped at the cardboard flaps, someone was pushing from inside, trying to get out. He got one flap free, and Carrie Santero burst up through the box in a flutter of Styrofoam packaging. Chunks of foam and tape were caught in her hair, and she reached for Bill’s shoulder to steady herself after being tossed around so much.
“What the hell is going on?” Jeri said.
“We have trouble,” Carrie said. “Someone’s coming for you, tonight.”
22
The alarm clock on the nightstand next to him went off at four A.M. He opened his eyes, sat up, and stretched. He’d lived in enough institutions to know that by four A.M., most of them were asleep. Even the guards who worked steady overnight shifts got drowsy at four A.M. He’d catch them nodding off at their desks, or tucked away in a vacant room, snoring. He’d seen the craziest inmates, ones who sp
ent the better part of each night howling, fall quiet at four A.M.
The outside world was no different, he’d found. There was traffic on the highways almost continuously throughout the day and night. It started around five A.M. Trucks entered the roadways hauling cargo. People who worked in the big cities but lived out in the sticks entered the highways, trying to beat rush-hour traffic. It kept up, steady all the way through, until midnight when it slowed down. It got busy again around two A.M. when the bars let out. Drunks and bartenders and waitstaff and strippers all closed up for the night and made their way home. It only got truly quiet after they were gone.
At four A.M., most of the cops in the area had returned to their stations and gone inside, or found some tiny corner to park in and close their eyes for a bit.
It was human nature. It was hard for someone to fight their own biological inclinations. There were circadian rhythms wired into humans by eons of evolution that told them to wake up when the sun came up and sleep when it went away.
Gregory Moon knew that even if Bill Waylon was expecting him, no matter how vigilant the man might be, that vigilance would ebb as sleep overcame him. Especially if he’d been staying up for several nights already.
Moon got up from the O’Keefes’ bed and bent down to retie his shoelaces. He’d slept with his boots on, as he always did, but he needed to make sure they were nice and tight.
He stopped in front of the mirror and tied his long black hair back, to keep it out of his face. His hair was clean and still damp. The O’Keefes had a good shower with two jets, and he’d stayed in there for almost an hour, until his skin was pickled and pink, long after all of the blood had washed off.
He picked his bag up from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. He made his way downstairs and walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, making sure not to touch the bloody handprint smeared across its pearl white door. He pulled out a bottle of water and found a plate of leftover pork chops and mashed potatoes and green beans. He walked around the puddle of coagulated blood in front of the kitchen counter and put the plate into the microwave, setting it for two minutes. He waited while it cooked. He tapped the counter with his fingers and whistled.
Blood Angel Page 23