by Tim Green
The black Schwinn bumped over a wooden bridge. The smell of stagnant water filled his nose. He shot through the green area at the end of the block, dressed all in black, speeding like a mink.
The sidewalk was littered with fallen leaves. Red and brown and dead. Many still clung to the trees overhead. They rattled in the small breeze. It was turning cool.
He rode past the house. The black truck sat like a stupid dog in the driveway. Yellow squares of light seeped from the downstairs windows. He looked at his watch. Not bedtime yet.
He rode around the block. Around and around he went, his tongue skipping over the pointed tips of the two sharpened teeth, the wind filling his mouth, mosquitoes bouncing off his helmet, his glasses.
Then something different. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked. The lights had shifted to the upstairs. Bedtime. It was the little girl. She was wearing the pink nightdress. The pretty one with the white frill.
He watched from the darkness, invisible. Smiling.
Then the night exploded with light.
He hit the sidewalk hard, splitting his helmet. The bike crashed down. He screamed, a high pitched, blood-curdling scream.
Something hit him in the mouth, then the eye. Someone was on him, pounding him. He fought, scratching, biting, screaming.
They had his throat. They were choking him. Killing him.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER 70
Amanda’s phone rang five times before she could bring herself to answer it. She expected McGrew. It was Parker.
“Parker?” she said, her spinning stomach dropping ten thousand feet at the sound of his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Everyone’s okay,” he said. She knew instantly by his tone that it wasn’t.
“What’s wrong?” she said, hysteria rising like a flood. Sensory overload. In front of her was a dead man. She stumbled outside into the moonlight.
“The kids are fine,” he said, “and so am I, but I think you should come home. I . . . Mike Collins is here—”
“At the house?”
“—I think he can explain it better.”
“Hello?”
“Mike?” she said. “What the hell is going on?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said. “I got him before anything happened.”
“Got him? Who?”
“Charles Wheeler,” he said. “The guy Hanover told you about. The guy I’ve been following. Oswald’s partner.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
There was a long silence and then Collins said, “He didn’t tell you?”
“No one told me anything.”
“The guy you saw ducking out of Oswald’s kitchen in Jackson is a guy named Charles Wheeler. They were cons together and when they got out, they were a couple. When I found the guy, he was living about ten minutes from your house. I told Hanover and he was supposed to tell you.”
“My God.”
“But it’s okay,” Collins said. “We caught him sneaking around your neighborhood about a half hour ago and I body-slammed the son-of-a-bitch and tossed his ass in jail. I came to check on your husband. We checked on the kids and talked to them. They’re fine, but I guess Wheeler was with them in the park. He didn’t do anything, just let them play with a couple of kittens. He said they could have them, but the kids didn’t take them.”
“Oh my God,” Amanda said. She was shaking uncontrollably. She started for the car. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”
CHAPTER 71
During the search of the marsh, a lieutenant asked McGrew about Tupp. The two of them stood in front of the relief map outside the nature center. They had been divvying up the park among search teams with dogs.
“I have no idea,” McGrew said.
“Did anyone call an ambulance?” the lieutenant asked. He was a short man with a crew cut whose dark blue uniform possessed every brass accoutrement known to law enforcement.
“I don’t know,” McGrew said. “Did you?”
“I didn’t.”
“I guess we should.”
“I guess so,” the lieutenant said with a sour frown.
McGrew made the call and found a patrolman to send back to the cottage. He was busy out in the marsh with a K-9 unit when the lieutenant radioed everyone in. He was calling it off.
McGrew snatched the radio off of his belt.
“What the hell?” he said over the airwaves. “You can’t call this off.”
“Detective,” the lieutenant said. “Report to me immediately.”
A pink ribbon of light lay across the horizon, brightening the purple sky. The stars were fading one by one, and the lusty smell of salt water floated in the chilly air. McGrew, angry and weary from his search, trudged back up the trail to their impromptu command center.
“Well,” the lieutenant said his eyes clear and sharp, almost accusatory. “You’ve got another murder on your hands.”
“He got Tupp?”
“Got him good,” the lieutenant said. “Right between the eyes.”
“Between the eyes?” McGrew said. “How the hell . . .”
“He went back,” the lieutenant said. “That’s why I called it off. They found footprints in his blood. Whoever it was, he came back and finished him off while we were out here.”
“It was Ruskin,” McGrew said forcefully. “That’s who it was.”
The lieutenant considered him for a moment before saying, “Well, the chief wants to see you before you go harassing Ruskin again. I guess his lawyer already filed some suit.”
“The chief? I’ve got to get back to that cottage. I’ve got to get this thing going.”
“No. You don’t,” the lieutenant said. “The chief said he’ll see you in his office in a half hour.”
“I’ve got to see the fucking scene,” McGrew said.
“That’s an order, McGrew.”
“My uncle—”
“The chief already spoke to your uncle,” the lieutenant said, smiling now. “He’s not happy. I guess you’re kind of out of favors, so you might want to bring your hat when you see the chief.”
“My hat?”
“Yeah, you know, go ‘hat in hand.’ Your ass is in deep.”
CHAPTER 72
Hanover’s ears were hot. He’d seen the article in the New York Post, so he was expecting the call. What he didn’t expect was that it would come from the director himself. Why couldn’t anything ever go right for him? Things weren’t even his fault.
He got up from his desk and straightened a chrome frame that held a photo of him next to the country singer George Jones before returning to his seat. He then picked up his phone, trembling, and said to his secretary, “Get Mike Collins in here.”
On his way in, Collins paused briefly, filling the doorway.
“Sit down,” Hanover said.
“I have to talk to you,” Collins said.
“I said sit down.”
Collins sat, glowering.
“You were supposed to tell Amanda,” Collins said.
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Hanover asked. He held up the Post. “Did you see this yet? I just got off the phone with the director. I’m getting blamed for what you did. Me!”
“I probably saved those kids’ lives,” Collins said.
“You dumb ass,” Hanover said. “You’ve got nothing on Wheeler. You even said so yourself sitting in this office. He had an assault charge fifteen years ago for God’s sake. He was practically a kid. He’s been clean ever since.”
“Clean my ass,” Collins said. “He’s been cutting up little kids.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Hanover asked. “You think you’re J. Edgar Hoover? It’s all conjecture. We don’t even know if he was with Sanderson or Oswald or whoever. Shit. You embarrassed the entire Bureau. You attacked a man for riding his bicycle down the sidewalk and threw him in jail. They’re going to have a press conference today. A goddamn press conference, him and his lawyer, post-nine-eleven intimi
dation tactics by the FBI and all that bullshit . . .”
Collins’s angry scowl turned into a look of complete stupefaction.
“What?” he said. “That creep was stalking those kids. We can’t put two and two together anymore? Is that where we’re at now?”
Hanover stared at him.
“Don’t talk so goddamn stupid,” he said. “You’re an FBI agent, goddamn it. You’re on paid leave.”
“On leave? And that psycho is still loose?” he said. “I know him better than anyone. I’ve been on this for months. How the hell can you expect anyone to just step in?”
“No one’s stepping in,” Hanover said, opening his drawer and removing some papers. “Mr. Wheeler is to be left alone. We’re not going to embarrass ourselves any more over this . . .”
“‘Mr. Wheeler’?”
“I’ve got my orders and now you do, too,” Hanover said, pretending to begin his study of the papers in front of him. “You stay away from him or you’re finished.”
“Finished? Ha! You’re lucky, Ben. You’re lucky I . . .”
“Are you threatening me?” Hanover’s voice broke with excitement. “Was that a threat?”
Collins was on his feet, towering.
“You take it how you want,” he said. “I don’t give a fuck. But if anything happens to those kids, it’s on you.”
CHAPTER 73
Jack loaded up his Saab and then unloaded it again. He couldn’t stand just waiting, but he didn’t want to run. That would make things worse if he were arrested. If he ran, no judge would let him out on bail. If he was charged and things looked bad, he needed to get bail. He had the money to jump it and disappear. But that would be a whole other program. A last resort.
Jack turned on the TV, then turned it off. More than twenty-four hours had passed since he killed Tupp and still there was nothing. It was bizarre. The media he could understand. The police sometimes didn’t release specific information for days when it suited their purposes. But what about McGrew? More important, what about the woman, Amanda Lee? He wondered if or when she’d come for him and what made her tick.
Jack went to the desk in his library and started up his computer. As a federal agent, any trial testimony, former cases, or task forces she had been a part of would be in newspapers around the country. He could find that information using LexisNexis. Accessing the service through AOL, he was able to get on and use the firm’s general billing information to conduct a search.
He typed in Amanda Lee and FBI and waited. The first thing up was a news article from the Washington Post. It was dated today. Jack clicked on it. He sucked in his breath. His face grew dark as he began to read.
Va. man claims to be harassed by FBI agent
Agent claims the man was stalking a colleague’s children.
By a Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, October 17, 2002; Page B1
A man accused of stalking an FBI agent at her Manassas home was released by a county judge Wednesday. The judge says the man had committed no crime.
Charles Wheeler, a self-described artist, said at his appearance before County Judge Ladale Lloyd that FBI agent Mike Collins threw him from his bicycle and beat him the day before, causing the apparent welts on his face and hands. He said he was just riding his “black Schwinn” bicycle through the suburban neighborhood.
However, Wheeler’s arrest report from the incident stated that he’s a known pedophile who was allegedly stalking a colleague of Collins. Louisiana Department of Corrections files show Wheeler was convicted in 1988 of an assault stemming from an incident in New Orleans. Further details were not known late Wednesday.
“I’m 110 percent innocent of anything,” Wheeler said in court. “I was just riding my bike, like I always do, and these guys just jumped out of the bushes and started beating me up for no reason.”
The arrest report stated Wheeler targeted Collins’ colleague Amanda Lee and her children because Lee had killed Wheeler’s former cellmate. Department of Corrections files do show that Wheeler bunked with Hubble Sanderson while at Angola prison. They were later separated for what prison records called “deviant behavior.”
Sanderson was killed in a shootout with the FBI last spring outside Atlanta, Georgia. A suspected serial killer, Sanderson stabbed and killed FBI Agent Marco Rivolaggio during his apprehension before being shot by Lee.
“As with all cases, the FBI will investigate the allegations,” said FBI spokesperson Melinda Norris.
Jack kept going. He found the articles on what had happened to Amanda and her partner in Jackson. He cross-searched for Hubble Sanderson, the man the FBI called Oswald. He was a serial killer. A pervert who preyed on kids.
Jack closed the file, got off the Net and then into the northern Virginia phone directory. In the town of Manassas, he found “Lee, Parker & Amanda.” MapQuest gave him directions from the train station in D.C. He knew how he could repay Amanda and make sure she never testified against him. Now all he needed was a gun.
CHAPTER 74
It was broad daylight and Jack worried, but he shouldn’t have. Drugs were available 24/7 in Upper Manhattan. Once you got north of Central Park, things started to go down. Jack went up Lenox Avenue almost to the Harlem River before turning off onto a mean-looking side street. The very next corner showed him what he wanted: two kids in ridiculously baggy jeans and oversize NBA jerseys beneath heavy leather coats and awkward caps. They stood on the corner. Chains of gold hung from the tall skinny one’s neck. The round one backed crablike into a doorway as Jack’s Saab rolled to a stop. He put down the passenger’s window.
“You a cop, man? No, you ain’t no cop.”
The tall skinny one in the purple Lakers jersey swaggered up to the car. The round one shifted his small dark eyes nervously. He edged his hand toward the bulky shape beneath his red Hawks shirt.
“I got rocks and I got bags,” the skinny one said. “What you want?”
“I’ve got a thousand bucks,” Jack said, holding up the money fanned out for him to see. “I’m looking for a gun.”
“Man, we ain’t selling no guns,” he said. “You crazy?”
“How about his gun?” Jack said. He nodded toward the round one. The kid couldn’t be more than fifteen.
“Shit, that gun’s worth ’bout two thousand dollars,” Lakers said.
“Let me see it,” Jack said.
Lakers motioned with his chin for Hawks to come over. Hawks slid up to the car and whipped a big nickel-plated Colt .45 out of his pants, pointing it at Jack. His hand was stone still.
“Okay,” Jack said. He swallowed. “Two thousand. You put the gun down on the seat.”
Lakers whipped out a Glock. Pointing it at Jack, he said, “Go ahead, Chino.”
Hawks dropped the gun.
“I’ll get the money, okay?” Jack said. He reached slowly into his pant pocket and took out his wallet. He emptied it, added the bills to the ones he’d already fanned out, then handed them across the seat. Hawks snatched it up.
“Come back an’ see us again,” Lakers said. He lowered the Glock.
Jack exhaled and drove away. At the next light he stuffed the big .45 into his briefcase.
He drove downtown and found a parking garage near Grand Central Station. In his trunk was an envelope fat with cash. He loaded up his briefcase and his wallet, then pulled a Yankees cap down low on his head. He looked at himself in the side mirror. He had on an old tortoiseshell pair of glasses and his beard wasn’t half bad. No one said a word to him. No one whispered or pointed. Fifteen minutes later he was on the express train for D.C.
CHAPTER 75
Amanda stared out the kitchen window past the swing set, past the sandbox and the bike Teddy left on the lawn. She was looking at the trees. There were houses like hers on either side, each neighbor marking their property with lines of shrubs and more trees. Through the woods out back were more homes, homes she could only see in the wintertime. She liked the fall foliage, red and orange h
ardwoods mixing with the green undergrowth. But now she only saw it as shelter for the enemy. She held the phone tightly.
“He’s an asshole,” Collins said, summing up his feelings on their boss. “I don’t know what to tell you, Amanda. I don’t know if you can go over his head . . . if they’ll even listen. The director is really bent on this. Believe me, I know.”
“But you think Wheeler will come back, Mike?”
“I know he will. I don’t give a shit about Hanover. Listen, I told Parker I’d hang around, but he said no. I want you to know that. He told me he’d handle it. I don’t know. I got the Manassas cops to send a patrol car over to keep an eye on the school anyway. This guy will be back.”
“Why?” she said, twisting the phone cord around her finger. “Why do you say that?”
“I know this creep,” he said. “I’ve been studying him. He’s smart, but he’s also arrogant. He knows he jammed me up. He and that asshole judge knew just the right buttons to push high up. I’m worried about you and your family . . .”
“I mean,” Amanda said, “I just have to sit here and wait for him to do something?”
“No one’s going to touch this guy until he does something,” Collins said. “He’s safer than the pope.”
Amanda thanked Collins for everything he’d done and hung up. She went into the living room where Parker was playing Super Mario. She had sent the kids to school again, not wanting to alarm them. When she found out about Wheeler’s being set free, she called and alerted the principal. He told her there was already a patrol car outside and assured her that they would keep a special watch.
“What’s up?” Parker asked.
Amanda told him the story and then asked, “Why did you send Mike Collins away?”
Parker turned off his video game and stood up. He went to her and held her.
“Hey, I can take care of my own family,” he said. “You don’t have to be an FBI agent to do that. But if he’s right about this guy, then I say we should go away for a while.”
