186
It took a couple hours before Lind picked up the trail. He drove around Durham in the Mustang, stopping every few minutes to rack his brain for the memory that would lead him down the right path.
Finally, he broke through. Found himself on Interstate 85 again, headed toward Greensboro. He remembered this drive. It had been a bright, sunny day. Warm. The air-conditioning blasted, giving Lind chills. The man sat in the driver’s seat, humming along to classical music on the radio. He smiled at Lind. “Bach,” he said. “The Brandenburg Concertos. My very favorite. You know them?”
Lind had shaken his head. “No.”
“Six of them, written for the margrave of Brandenburg in the early 1700s. A margrave was a kind of governor.” The man paused. Listened. “My favorite’s the third,” he said. “Three violins, three violas, three cellos. It’s marvelous stuff.”
Lind stared out the window. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’m taking you home, Malcolm.” The man was smiling. “You’re safe now.”
NOW LIND DROVE WEST in silence, the only sound the unceasing roar of the wind through the empty driver’s-side window. It was early evening by the time he reached Greensboro. His stomach rumbled a complaint, but still he pressed on, unwilling to risk losing the trail for the sake of a cheap hamburger. He followed the interstate as it curved southwest toward Charlotte, the sun sinking lower in the sky.
Soon it would be dark. He would have no way to follow the vision once the sun set completely. He wouldn’t remember the terrain. Then what? He would be lost, hungry, and cold, marooned until morning—assuming he could pick up the trail again.
Lind pressed harder on the gas pedal, and the big Mustang accelerated. The miles began to blur past. Lind stared out at the road, searching for signs, racing the setting sun to the horizon. There was no time to waste.
187
The lake house was musty inside, and very still. Light filtered in through grimy windows. There were no sounds. The asset sat in a moldy armchair and looked at the gun in his lap.
He didn’t know why the house made him afraid. There was nothing strange about the place. It was a crummy old shack in some trees by the water. There was dusty furniture and a broken TV and a couple ugly paintings on the walls. It wasn’t a scary house. But it scared the asset nonetheless.
He sat in the armchair for a long time and looked down at the pistol and wondered what to do. He hoped the man would come soon. Except the man scared him, too. The man scared him as much as the house did.
The target in Delaware claimed the man had brainwashed him. Said he was using the visions as tools. The asset hadn’t listened. He enjoyed killing. And, anyway, the man had promised to help.
The asset shifted in his seat. He hadn’t completed his assignment. He’d failed the man, twice. And now he was here, in this lake house, and he was afraid.
The asset stood and walked to the window. The old Chevy sat alone in the trees. The man still hadn’t arrived. There was nobody around. He surveyed the cabin. The old furniture. The back door to the deck. The cramped kitchen.
In a corner of the kitchen was a wooden door. The asset walked to the door and swung it open. There was a stairway down, into blackness. The asset stood at the top, wishing he could close the door and go back to that moldy armchair and wait for the man. Instead, he gripped the pistol tighter and descended the stairs. Reached the bottom and fumbled for the light switch.
The fear was even worse here. The basement stank of shit. The asset stood at the base of the stairs and looked around the low room. He recognized his cell, the door yawning open. He understood now why he was so afraid.
The asset shivered and turned away from the cell. He crossed the basement to a recliner in the corner. There was a remote control there, a DVD player, and a small TV. The asset turned on the power and a harsh sound blared from inside the cell. Lights and grating noise. The asset quickly turned off the DVD player, feeling the panic thudding in his skull. He put the remote down and tried to catch his breath.
He left the remote alone. He continued to explore. There were drawers beneath the DVD player. The asset opened the top one. Found paperwork, ID cards, wallets. He recognized his own wallet. Picked it up and examined it.
The wallet was slim. There was an old video store membership. An expired credit card. A Georgia driver’s license with the name Wendell Gray. The asset looked at the picture. The name, the address. Wendell Gray. That was his name.
He felt a faint twinge of recognition. A shudder of panic. He pushed the memories back, and the panic disappeared with it.
The asset started to replace the wallet when something fell out of a pocket. A picture. The asset stooped and picked it up. A tiny picture, cut out, a woman’s face. She had graying curly hair, a flowered dress, concerned eyes. The asset’s eyes narrowed. He remembered this woman.
He put the wallet away. He kept the picture. He tightened his grip on the gun.
188
Windermere pulled the Camry over to the curb. Pointed up the road to a pristine white two-story Colonial perched across from a park at the top of a small hill. “That’s the place,” she said. “Parkerson’s home base.”
Stevens nodded. “And there’s the gray Cadillac.”
They’d followed Michael Parkerson’s trail to a quiet suburban street in Cornelius, an outlying community twenty miles north of Charlotte along Interstate 77. It was close to Magnusson Aerospace, and just as important, it was close to Lake Norman, the vast man-made inland sea that provided hydroelectric power and recreation to metropolitan Charlotte’s more than two million residents.
Malcolm Lind told Caity Sherman he was headed for a lake house, Windermere thought. Plenty of those on Lake Norman.
She glanced across the Camry at Stevens. “Everything cool on the home front, partner?”
Stevens nodded. “Sounds like it.”
“Andrea’s okay? Nothing to worry about?”
“She’s mortified that her dad’s such a sap,” Stevens said. “That’s about it.”
“Good,” she said. “Then let’s get our game faces on.”
Stevens nodded. “I’m ready.” Reached into the backseat and dug out a Kevlar vest. Windermere watched him, marveling at the voodoo he’d done to get them here. Parkerson drove a big gray Cadillac. He had Defense Department clearance. And, hell, he even looked like Thomas Gardham. He was Killswitch, no doubt, and Stevens had found him.
He’s made for this stuff, she thought. She studied her colleague across the Camry and suddenly thought of Mathers. Felt a quick pang of guilt and chased it from her mind.
Stevens is your partner, not your boyfriend. Get your head in the game.
Windermere straightened and pushed Mathers away. Pushed Stevens away, too. Behind the Camry, a Cornelius PD cruiser pulled to a stop. Windermere studied it and knew there was another patrol car up the block, ready to guard Parkerson’s house from the rear and ensure their suspect didn’t get far if he ran. She watched in the rearview as a uniformed police officer climbed out of the cruiser and stood stretching on the pavement, his movements measured and deliberate. Then she reached for her Glock, checked it. “Ready?”
Stevens checked his own sidearm. “Always.”
Windermere squared her shoulders and climbed from the car, the adrenaline pumping electric through her body. “Killswitch, partner,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
189
Parkerson was finishing the last of his lasagna when the doorbell rang. Before he could put down his fork, Krista was up and out of her seat, running for the front door. Parkerson glanced at his wife. “We expecting anyone?”
Rachel stood. “I don’t think so,” she said, frowning, and followed her daughter from the room. Parkerson heard the front door swing open, the low murmur of voices. Beside him, his son played with his food, shifting in his seat. Parkerson grinned at
him. “Probably that neighbor girl from down the block,” he said. “Guess she has her eye on you.”
His son’s eyes snapped up and his cheeks flushed bright red. “Come on, Dad.”
“Hard to blame her,” said Parkerson. “You’re practically a grown man now.” He bent down to his lasagna again. Then Krista came running back into the room.
“They want you, Daddy,” she said.
There was something in her tone. “Who wants me, honey?”
“A man and a woman. They don’t want Mommy, they want you.”
“They didn’t say who they were?”
She shook her head. “They showed Mommy badges.”
Parkerson felt his heart syncopate. He stood, forcing a grin at his son. “Guess they finally caught me,” he said, walking to the kitchen doorway and peering down the hall.
There were two of them, a man and a woman, just as Krista had described. The man was middle-aged and slightly paunchy. The woman was taller and beautiful. They were talking to Rachel. They were in plain clothes, but they had guns on their hips. Parkerson recognized them. They were the Feds from the airport in Las Vegas.
Shit.
Parkerson ducked back from the doorway. He leaned against the wall and looked across the kitchen, trying to focus his thoughts. “Dad?” His son frowned at him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Parkerson told him. “Give me a minute, Stevie, okay?”
“Michael?” Rachel called from the hallway. “Somebody wants to talk to you, honey.”
Parkerson looked around. Through the kitchen window he saw movement, a shadow. Then another cop appeared at the window, this one in uniform, his hand at his holster. Parkerson looked away quickly.
If the police had tracked him here, it was over. They knew who he was. They could figure out the rest. As soon as they attached him to Killswitch, he was done for, and that wouldn’t take long. The data was right there on his computer.
It was over. There was no bullshitting to be done now, no fancy cloaking devices. If the police had tracked him here, the whole game was over.
“Honey?”
Parkerson pushed himself off the wall and walked across the kitchen toward the closet by the back stairs. Smiled at the cop through the window and kept his movements deliberate. Behind him, Stevie stood up, confused. “Dad?”
Parkerson ignored him. Slipped on a pair of his old runners, nice and easy, and walked across to the back door. Grinned at the cop as he pulled the door open. “Evening.”
The cop frowned at him. “Mr. Parkerson—”
Parkerson made a fist and hit him as hard as he could. The cop reeled back. Parkerson pushed past him and ran. Behind him, someone shouted, but Parkerson didn’t look back. He crossed the backyard and jumped the small fence at the end of his lot. Cut through the neighbors’ backyard and kept running.
190
Windermere ducked past Rachel Parkerson and ran through the house, dodging two confused kids and a stunned city cop on her way out the back door. God damn it, she thought. I guess that settles that.
They’d barely shown Parkerson’s wife their badges when the bastard started running. He’d known what they were there for. Hadn’t even bothered with pretense.
Ahead of her, Parkerson had hopped the fence into his neighbor’s lot and was slipping around the side of the next house. Windermere gripped her Glock tight and ran. “Stop,” she yelled. “FBI!”
Parkerson ignored her. Disappeared around the side of the house. Windermere ducked her head and ran.
PARKERSON BURST OUT into the neighbors’ driveway, one street over. The street was quiet, peaceful. A couple kids played basketball a few houses down. Someone was watering his lawn. Another night in the suburbs.
A blue Ford Explorer pulled around the corner and started up the block. Parkerson recognized it. Gulped some air and hurried toward it, met it as it turned up a driveway. “Jerry,” Parkerson said, a sheepish smile on his face. “Man, glad you’re here.”
His neighbor stepped out of the car, a concerned look on his face. “Everything okay, Mike?”
“Rachel needs milk,” he said. “My car’s in the shop. Do you mind?”
Jerry frowned. “Mike—”
Parkerson heard voices behind him. The Feds burst from between two houses, guns drawn. Parkerson turned back to his neighbor. Ripped the keys from his hand and slid behind the wheel. Slammed the door closed and fired up the engine as Jerry banged on the hood, shouting something, chasing him back down the driveway.
Parkerson shifted into drive just as the cops approached. Stood on the gas and heard the big engine roar. The Ford surged down the street, leaving the cops sucking exhaust. He reached the corner and turned and just drove.
“SHIT.” Windermere watched the big SUV disappear. “God damn it.”
Beside her, Parkerson’s neighbor was losing his mind. Windermere tuned him out. Stevens appeared beside her, panting for breath. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “This bastard is slippery.”
Windermere holstered her Glock. “We need backup,” she said. “Whoever we can get. Every eye on the road looking for blue Ford Explorers.”
Stevens nodded. “We’ll get him,” he said. “He won’t get far.”
“We’d better goddamn get him,” she said. “We’ve come too far to watch him flee the freaking coop, Stevens.”
She stood in the center of the road, staring down at the empty intersection. Watched a Cornelius PD cruiser speed past, lights blazing, siren loud. She waited until it had disappeared, then turned around and hurried back to Parkerson’s house.
191
Parkerson watched the rearview mirror and hardly dared to breathe. The street was empty behind him. The cops were gone. He kept driving.
They’d be calling in his plates, he knew. There’d be police on his tail, locals and state troopers and FBI alike. He had to get out of Jerry’s Explorer. Hide out somewhere and figure a plan.
His heart wouldn’t stop racing. Fifteen minutes ago, he’d been eating lasagna with his kids. Now he was running for his life. How the hell had they found him? Didn’t matter; they’d done it. The only important thing now was escape.
Escape.
The asset was at the lake house. He’d driven down from Delaware in a dead man’s car. Maybe they were lucky and the police hadn’t ID’d the victims yet. Maybe the car wasn’t made. They could swap the plates, anyway. And the asset was armed. There were guns at the lake house. And nobody but Parkerson and the asset even knew the place existed. They’d be safe there, for a while. At least until dark.
Parkerson drove north, avoiding the interstate. He circled the lake and took side roads until he reached Mooresville, where he risked a heart-stopping five minutes on busy Highway 150 before ducking off onto rural roads again. He kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, searching for cops. Didn’t see a one. He was close to the lake house now. Almost in the clear.
The lake road was deserted. Parkerson waited at the intersection until he was sure nobody had followed him. Then he turned and followed the shore to a little grove of trees at the end of the road. Drove into the grove and parked beside an old Chevy truck next to the cabin. Killed the engine and sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for his heart to slow. The lake twinkled through the forest, a late-evening show. Soon the sun would be down. Night would fall, and he could escape undetected.
Parkerson looked out at the old truck alongside. The house was dark behind it. There was no sign of life, but Parkerson knew the asset was inside, waiting for instruction. Waiting, though he didn’t know it yet, to die.
Wendell Gray would have to be disposed of. He was an anchor now, a liability, even if he’d shown potential. It would be messy. It would be violent and difficult and altogether unclean. Parkerson felt slightly sick as he thought about it.
Still, it was a necessity. Gray had to die, and
so he would. Parkerson straightened and reached for the door handle, steeling himself to the task. The sun was setting. It would be nighttime soon. In a few hours, he could escape.
192
Windermere and Stevens circled back to Michael Parkerson’s house in time to meet a cavalry of assorted police vehicles—state patrol cruisers, local radio cars from the Cornelius PD, a couple unmarked sedans and SUVs from the FBI detachment in Charlotte. As they walked up to the house, another FBI agent emerged from the front door.
“Wife doesn’t know shit about any lake house,” he told Windermere. “Claims she has no idea where her husband might have gone.”
Windermere looked down the driveway at the chaos in the street. “I’ll handle the circus,” she told Stevens. “You talk to Parkerson’s wife.”
Stevens watched Windermere wade into the mess of law enforcement, her hands raised, her presence commanding. Watched the cops swarm to her like iron filings to a magnet. Better her than me, he thought, turning toward the house. He walked up to the porch and pushed open the front door.
Rachel Parkerson sat in the kitchen, dinner half-eaten around her. She looked up as he walked into the room. “You catch him?”
Stevens shook his head. “Not yet.”
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Where did he go? The last guy said something about a lake house?”
Stevens sat down opposite Rachel at the kitchen table. A couple kids watched from the doorway, a teenage boy and a young girl. “Right now, we’re not sure where your husband went,” he said. “We’re hoping you can help us.”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know anything,” she said. “What’s this about, anyway?”
“We think your husband was using his position at Magnusson to run an online crime website.” Stevens glanced at the kids in the doorway. “Effectively, he killed people for money.”
Kill Fee Page 32
