by Ponzo, Gary
That only made him smile.
Losing all of that? Now that might make him cry.
TWENTY-THREE
Sandy remained lying back in the driver’s seat. He’d gone over and over what he knew.
Brian was a snitch, working for the feds.
Odoms was untouchable, too much of a risk now.
The Keeper was a traitor.
And he’d murdered an innocent woman.
He stared at the car’s ceiling, sorting through the mixture of emotions that came with those pieces of knowledge.
Disappointment. Rage. Guilt. They came over him in intermittent waves, none lasting long enough to gain a toehold before another emotion washed it aside.
His head hurt. He realized after a while that he was clenching his teeth so hard that it was causing the headache. Consciously, he forced himself to relax. The corners of his jaw immediately throbbed and ached when he stopped clenching his teeth. He reached up and rubbed the soreness with his thumb.
It doesn’t matter what you feel, he told himself. It matters what you do.
There would be time enough for sorting out emotions later. Right now, his ass was on the line.
So what to do?
Sandy sat and listened as cars rolled past him. Engines cut out and doors slammed. Businesses were getting ready to open. He needed a plan.
Thoughts of revenge bubbled up, but he pushed them away. Revenge was a luxury he didn’t have time for any more. He’d shot a federal agent. He would be on national teletypes now. He’d be lucky to stay out of custody.
He had to focus on escape.
His anger welled up again, seething in his chest. Most of it was directed at Larson. The son of a bitch manipulated him into murdering an innocent woman. He probably had some little spinner on the side and didn’t want to lose half his retirement and that nice house in a divorce.
Brian, he could almost understand, as much as it galled him. The feds must have caught him somehow, so he cut a deal. It was a shitty thing to do, but at least it was out of some kind of survival. Sandy couldn’t forgive him, but he couldn’t work up enough of a desire for revenge to run the risk of searching him out. Not when Sandy was probably going to be on the ten most wanted list by noon today.
And Odoms? To hell with Odoms. He was just another scumbag who got away with it. He wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. It wasn’t Sandy’s duty any more to do anything about it. Let karma take care of him. Or God, if there was one. It was out of Sandy’s realm.
But Larson? That one burned him. He liked to believe he wasn’t a vengeful person by nature, though that thought was laughable whenever he took an objective look at what he’d been doing for the past twelve years. But that had been his destiny. He’d known it since he was fifteen. He had penance to pay. When Cal Ridley bailed him out of the jackpot he was in and made him a Horseman, he figured that was simply karma giving him a second chance to make good.
Or maybe God.
Sandy let out a small snort of disgust. Didn’t most crazy people who commit murders come to believe that they are an instrument of God at some point? Maybe he’d reached that summit. Hell, maybe he was over the rise.
“Maybe you need to focus,” he said aloud in a low voice.
His mind clicked through all the possibilities, and he kept coming back to the simple answer: Larson was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Escape. That was his mission.
Sandy eased the driver’s seat forward into an upright position. Cars were scattered throughout the parking lot. Foot traffic was light, but he felt safe enough to get out of the car. Besides, eventually cops would be cruising parking lots, looking for this car. He’d pushed his luck far enough.
He pulled his sweatshirt over his head, leaving the .45 in the pouch pocket. The belt that he wore underneath would look odd to even a casual onlooker, so he unbuckled it, rolled it up and put it on top of the sweatshirt. He dug around in the glove compartment and found the emergency twenty dollar bill he kept in there. Grabbing the folded sweatshirt, he exited the car. He tossed the keys on the driver’s floor, locked the door and closed it.
He glanced around the parking lot. He spotted a second hand clothing shop tucked in between a used bookstore and a health food store. Twenty bucks ought to be enough for a change of clothes. He walked purposefully toward the shop. Once inside, he dug around in a bin full of jeans until he found his size. Then he flipped through the hanging shirts, finally settling on a tan flannel that was a size too large. That made for a grand total of six dollars and forty two cents. He splurged, spending eight-fifty on a battered pair of construction boots.
At the register, the clerk was a forty-ish woman that looked slightly retarded. Sandy looked around for a manager but no one else was in the store.
“Hello,” she said, her voice tinged with that particular deepness he always associated with Down’s syndrome.
“Hello,” Sandy replied.
The woman laboriously added the three items and gave Sandy a total. He handed her the twenty. She slowly made change, then gave him a cherub-like smile. “Thank you for giving us your business,” she said in a practiced tone.
“You’re welcome,” Sandy answered. “Hey, I bought these for work today. Can I change into them here?”
She gave him a slightly confused look, then shrugged. “Okay.” She pointed at the changing room in the back of the store.
Sandy smiled at her. “Thanks.”
He made his way to the rear of the store. Quickly, he shed his sweat pants and dressed in the boots, jeans and flannel. He kept his T-shirt on and left the flannel untucked, slipping the .45 into his belt underneath it. He looked in the mirror. The flannel hung loosely, concealing the weapon.
Sandy walked out of the store, giving the cashier a neutral nod. Once he was around the corner, he found a trash can. He deposited the sweats inside.
He checked his pocket. He had five dollars and change. That was enough for the bus.
But where to?
He couldn’t go home. The feds and the cops would be all over that location. And if Brian had flipped, the safe house they had set aside was burnt. So was the office. Anything that any of the Horsemen or the Keeper knew about was now dangerous ground.
He needed cash. That was first. He had some money and false IDs hidden in a wooded area outside of town. But the more he moved around right now, the greater chance someone would spot him. He needed to lie low for a while.
Cal, he thought. The old lieutenant had set up an out for each of the Horsemen in the event that the operation was compromised. But Cal was gone and George Larson obviously wasn’t his ticket out of town.
Sandy walked casually toward the nearest bus stop, realizing that he’d just made his decision. He’d go to Gail. Maybe Cal had a lock box or a safe with an escape plan and documents still inside. If nothing else, he felt sure that Gail would let him stay there until the heat died down. Then he could find his own way out.
He took a seat in the enclosed bus stop and waited.
TWENTY-FOUR
“You two sure made a mess of things,” he said.
Special Agent Lori Carter glanced up from her hands. She’d been staring at the dried blood on her fingers for several hours now, watching as it faded quickly from the bright red that had flowed out of McNichol’s thigh. As she sat worrying in the hospital waiting room, the red became darker until now it was quite black. In the midst of all the clamor at the scene and then here at the hospital, it never occurred to her to wash it off.
When she looked up, she was met by the pinched, condescending expression of her Special Agent-in-Charge, Edward Maw.
Her mouth was open and the wrong words just about spilled out before she caught herself. She snapped her lips shut and exhaled, searching for something to say that would be the right thing but wouldn’t make her feel like a serf.
Maw seemed to take delight in her dilemma. “The scene back there is a mess. I just spent the last hour fending off some M
edusa of a city police captain who wanted to lay claim to the investigation. And Banks is still unaccounted for.”
“He’ll turn up,” Carter said.
Maw’s eyebrows shot up. “He’ll turn up? That’s the best you can do?”
“Sorry,” she snapped. “I’m a little worried about my partner here.”
Maw pursed his lips, then nodded. “Yes, of course. How is Agent McNichol, anyway?”
“In surgery.”
“Still?”
Carter nodded, looking down at her bloody hands. “It was a femoral artery hit.”
Maw let out a low whistle. “That’s too bad.”
She looked up at him in amazement. “That’s too bad?” she repeated. “What planet are you from?”
Maw scowled. “I’m a professional, Agent Carter. I recognize that there is a danger associated with field operations. While it is sad when an agent is injured or killed, it is always a possibility. It doesn’t negate our responsibility to continue with the mission.”
Carter opened her mouth to reply, but he interjected before she had a chance.
“And I am also your superior officer, Agent Carter. Let’s not forget that.”
“Little chance of that,” Carter replied, her tone as neutral as she could muster.
Maw’s scowl deepened. “I’m going to forgive your insubordination due to the obvious stress of the situation. But don’t test the limits of my generosity.”
Carter felt her face flush. She clenched her jaw to hold in a retort. She balled her hands into fists at her sides to resist throttling the officious prick standing over her.
I should stand up, she thought. Not let him tower over me.
Maw watched her silently.
She took in a breath, then two. She thought about standing, then rejected the idea.
Forget it. Who cares?
“The vic was a cop’s wife,” she finally said, changing the subject.
“I know.”
“Are we looking at the husband?”
“Of course.”
“Does he make?”
Maw shook his head. “Probably not. They were having some minor marital discord, but nothing severe. And his alibi has already been confirmed.”
“Maybe he hired Banks,” Carter suggested.
Maw smirked at her. “Unlikely. Banks goes after criminals who have skirted the system. The victim was a civilian.”
“What if the husband could be involved in the Horseman operation?” Carter theorized. “He could manipulate things so that—”
“Doubtful,” Maw interrupted.
“Why?”
“Moore said that he was recruited by Banks, right?”
“Yes, but that could be bullshit.”
Maw frowned at her profanity. “His life is on the line. I hardly think he would lie in that instance.”
“Liars lie,” Carter said.
“Nevertheless,” Maw said dismissively, “Detective Merchant wasn’t even a detective at the time Banks left the police department. He was still a patrol officer. Whoever has been feeding information to Banks and the other Horsemen has to be a higher ranking officer. Or perhaps a civilian.”
“Why higher ranking?”
“It’s sensitive business,” Maw said. “You can’t expect line personnel to carry that off for a dozen years.”
“No, of course not,” she said, barely masking her sarcasm.
Maw ignored her tone. “My theory remains that it is a judge or someone in the court system. That’s the most likely scenario.”
“It still doesn’t explain why Banks would target a civilian.”
“If you and Agent McNichol had apprehended him,” Maw replied, his own voice cut with sarcasm, “we could ask Banks that very question.”
Carter pressed her lips together and swallowed the reply that had flashed through her mind. Instead, she said, “This isn’t random. There has to be a reason for Banks to do this.”
“And I believe that when we discover who the Keeper is, that reason will be self-evident.”
Carter shrugged. “It could be that our snitch is lying and there is no Keeper. Maybe the Horsemen just do their own research. With the Internet and public disclosure laws, it wouldn’t be that difficult.”
“I suppose we’ll see when we get the forensics back on Banks’s computer,” Maw said. “But I don’t think so.”
“You executed the warrant on his apartment already?”
Maw nodded. “And on the storage unit with all the files. I ordered it as soon as I realized that you compromised the operation.”
“Compromised? Sir, it was a matter of life or death.”
“Perhaps,” Maw said.
“There was no perhaps about it. He—“
“If that rationalization makes you more comfortable with your actions, Agent Carter, then by all means cling to it.” He smiled humorlessly. “But we both know that you violated protocol when you broke surreptitious surveillance.”
“Protocol?” She shook her head. “Did you really just say that?”
“I did.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Maw shook his head. “Not at all. Your assignment was surveillance only. You were not authorized to engage the target absence extraordinary exigence. But we’ll discuss this at greater length when things are under more control.”
Carter took a deep breath before speaking. She’d stopped caring about this case. All that mattered was seeing her partner through. “I plan on staying here until Scott’s stabilized and awake,” she said. “After that—”
“I’m giving you twelve hours for that and to get some sleep,” Maw interrupted. “After that, report to me for your next assignment.”
Carter frowned. “You’re putting me with another team for the rest of this investigation?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m transferring you to an administrative position.”
She gawked at him. “An admini—“ She stopped, then said, “You’re joking.”
“Joking would not be appropriate, given the situation,” Maw said. “You blew this case, Agent Carter. Your field days in this office are done.”
She shook her head at him. “You…you…”
“Careful,” he said. “Or your career at the Bureau will be the next thing to go.”
Carter stared at him in disbelief. “Now? You’re telling me this now? While Scott is in there fighting for his life?”
“As I explained, the world marches on,” Maw told her. He glanced at his watch. “Call me to check in at 2200 hours.” He turned to go, then stopped and pointed at her lap. “And wash your hands. That’s disgusting.”
Carter didn’t reply. She watched Maw stalk from the waiting room. Then she resumed staring down at her blood-blackened hands.
TWENTY-FIVE
Sandy got off the bus several blocks from Gail Ridley’s house. He approached cautiously, taking a seat on a park bench up the street and watching for a full hour before he felt sure there was no surveillance.
As he sat and watched, he let the events of the past day rattle around inside his head. He relived his last conversation with Brian in his mind, hearing his words in a different light.
Sorry, Sandy.
I hate doing this to you.
I just don’t feel like I have a choice anymore.
Sandy reflected again on the strong likelihood that Brian had been wearing a wire that day. He tried to think about his own replies. What had he said? How incriminating had they been?
He shook his head. It didn’t matter now. Shooting Kelly Caper this morning was enough to earn him the death penalty. If the federal agent he’d shot died, too, that sealed things. Brian’s testimony would merely be icing on the cake.
Sandy pushed those thoughts away. They had to catch him for that to matter, and he didn’t plan on being caught. Still, he wondered how much Brian had told the feds when he flipped. Did he say anything about Cal? Or did he just pretend to be in the dark about the nuts and bolts of the operation
? Hell, he could have passed Sandy off as the mastermind of the whole thing.
But if he mentioned Cal, investigators would eventually think to contact Gail. Probably sooner rather than later.
If he hadn’t, her house was safe.
Sandy replayed his last conversation with Brian, trying to recall as many details as he could. Had they talked about Cal?
He was almost sure of it.
So was Gail’s house safe, after all?
Sandy worked through the question in his mind. Even if they knew about Cal, they knew he’d been dead for a decade. Would they even have thought about his widow? They couldn’t suspect her of being part of the project, so why would they?
No, Sandy figured. Gail’s house was safe from the Feds.
Larson knew about Gail, though. He’d been there once before. Would he come back now, looking for Sandy?
Sandy scratched the stubble on his chin. Larson wouldn’t be looking for him, he realized. He’d done Larson’s dirty work, for whatever reason the Keeper wanted it done. He probably hoped Sandy disappeared forever.
Forget Larson for now, he told himself.
Focus.
He needed a place to lay up, at least until dark. Gail was his best bet. And if Cal had a safe or a lock box, it might contain a better out than his own that he could use.
He made his decision. He rose from the park bench and headed up the street toward the small residence. No one passed him on the short walk.
As he approached the front door, he could see that the curtains were drawn. A faint flicker of light from the television danced behind them. Sandy pulled open the screen door and knocked.
No response.
He waited for a full thirty seconds before knocking again, this time louder.
