Dead Even

by Mariah Stewart

  Miranda had been impressed with his handling of the case, with the respect he showed the body they found tossed behind some rocks and covered with leaves and brush. She’d been almost flustered—almost—when, hours later, after their work was completed, the evidence gathered, the body removed, he’d asked her to join him for a bite to eat.

  He’d taken her to a Middle Eastern restaurant downtown, where they’d eaten and talked and laughed until midnight. They’d connected, right from the start, on several levels. Certainly the chemistry had been dynamic. Even now, her cheeks burned as she recalled that she’d taken him home, and he’d stayed the night. Something she’d never, ever done in her life—before or since. Mostly she hadn’t even kissed on the first date. But there’d been something about him that had turned her inside out and had banished rational thought along with most of her inhibitions.

  Of course, it had made for an awkward next morning, an awkward day in the office. She’d been spared having an awkward week or two, however, since Will had been sent to Florida to assist in a drug bust. By the time he returned, she was in North Carolina, investigating the kidnapping and assault of several young girls on the Outer Banks.

  It had been several months before she’d seen him again.

  Will appeared as if out of the air and plunked a file down on an empty chair. “I’ll just grab a cup from the buffet, and I’ll be right back.”

  Miranda moved the window curtain aside and watched the neighborhood kids gather at the bus stop on the opposite side of the street.

  “So what’s your plan, Agent Fletcher?” she asked when Will returned.

  He sipped slowly at his coffee, then set the cup back into the saucer. “We’ve already agreed that we need to identify people from Channing’s past who may have irritated him sufficiently that he might have wanted a little revenge. Other than Albert Unger, of course.”

  “Right. And I suppose you’ve come up with a means of identifying them?”

  “I’ve come up with a starting point.”

  “Which would be . . . ?”

  “I think we need to start at the beginning, with Claire Channing.”

  “Curtis’s foster mother.” Miranda nodded. “Good choice. She might know of someone from his past who had done something that Channing might have wanted revenge for.”

  “And from there, we move on to Albert Unger. We can stop and see him while we’re in Ohio. Maybe he’ll know of someone Channing had a problem with.”

  “Unger, yes. I guess that’s as good a place as any. I don’t recall there being too many other people from his past mentioned in the file.”

  “There wasn’t anyone else mentioned. Just these two.”

  “So when would you like to go?”

  “You tell me. You’re in charge of the case.” He drained his cup and, without waiting for her reply, pushed his chair back and returned to the buffet for a refill.

  “Is that bothering you?” she asked when he sat down again. “That John made me the lead on this case?”

  “No, not at all. It makes perfect sense. You know the players. You have the history.”

  She stared at him.

  “And you’re a damned good investigator. You’re a natural for this one, Cahill. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smiled. “So. You make the call. What next?”

  “We go to Ohio. We chat with Mrs. Channing, Mr. Unger. I don’t know that either of them will have much to contribute. Channing left home as soon as he graduated from high school, and I don’t think he’s seen Unger since the man was arrested for murdering his mother. But since we have nowhere else to start, I say, let’s break out those frequent flyer miles and give it a shot.” She finished her coffee. “I’ll check in with John and let him know what we’re doing. Meanwhile, I have a meeting with the chief of the Fleming Police Department.”

  Miranda slid her purse from the back of the chair where she’d hung it, then stood.

  “So, while you’re finishing your breakfast and getting ready to leave, I’m going to have a chat about Archer Lowell.”

  “You’re going to ask him to keep an eye on Archer for us while we’re gone?”

  “Her.” Miranda grinned. “I’m going to ask her to keep an eye on him for us.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to come along?”

  “What for? I think I can handle a conversation with the local chief all by myself. Good to know you’re here, though, in case I need backup.”

  “Well, then, I guess I have time to sample the eggs Benedict, after all.” He looked pleased at the prospect.

  “Just as long as you’re ready to roll when I get back.”

  “You know where to find me.” He smiled and returned to the buffet.

  The Fleming Police Department was housed in what must have been at one time an elegant private home. Of course, that time had been well over a hundred years ago. Fleming had an abundance of old buildings, and it appeared to Miranda that the borough had made an effort to repurpose as many of them as possible.

  Chief of Police Veronica Carson was waiting, as promised, promptly at eight-fifteen.

  “So, Special Agent Cahill,” the chief said after Miranda had introduced herself, “what can the Fleming PD do for the FBI?”

  Ignoring the tiny bite in the question, Miranda sat where she’d been directed to sit.

  “Actually, I’m here to share information with you.” Miranda crossed her legs and settled into the chair.

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve been following a case for several months,” she explained. “It has, ultimately, led us to Fleming. We thought you should know.”

  “Go on.” Chief Carson removed her glasses and laid them on her desk. Without breaking eye contact with Miranda, she buzzed the receptionist and asked that coffee for two be brought into her office.

  Miranda explained the connection between Fleming and Archer Lowell, Vince Giordano, and Curtis Channing.

  “I followed those cases.” Chief Carson nodded. “I know Sean Mercer down in Broeder quite well. He’s a great cop. And I’ve known Evan Crosby for years. He’s at the National Academy right now, I heard, for some special training.”

  “He is. It was my good fortune to work with him on the Lyndon case. I worked with Chief Mercer on the Broeder case, as well. They’re both top-notch.” Miranda turned as the door opened and the woman she’d met minutes earlier at the front desk brought in two mugs of steaming coffee.

  “Did you make this, or did Sergeant Foley make it?” the chief asked.

  “I made it,” the woman told her.

  “Thanks. Foley’s coffee could peel the paint off a cruiser.” Veronica Carson smiled for the first time since Miranda had entered the room. She passed a mug to Miranda, who moved closer to the desk to take it from her hands.

  “So, Agent Cahill,” she continued. “I have to think this visit is more than merely giving me a heads-up.”

  “Yes, to be truthful, I was hoping to enlist your assistance in this case.”

  Chief Carson sipped at her coffee, burned her tongue, and set the mug back down. “Hot. How can we help you?”

  “If you could keep an eye on Lowell . . . let us know if he does anything out of the ordinary. Call me if he leaves town . . .”

  “You want the Fleming police to do your surveillance so that you can go do something more important, is that it?”

  “No, that’s not it.” Miranda’s back arched just slightly. “We’re trying to identify and track down Lowell’s potential victims.”

  “If in fact there are any potential victims.”

  “Yes. Ohio—where Channing grew up and made his early kills—appears to be the logical starting place. It’s tough to be in two places at the same time.”

  “So we keep an eye on Lowell while you see what you can dredge up in Ohio.”

  “Yes. If you’re willing.”

  “Agent Cahill, I have a very small force here. There’s no way I can spare an officer to watch one person all the time. It just isn’
t possible.” The chief leaned forward in her chair. “Especially since it really isn’t clear if Lowell is going to do a damned thing. You said yourself it’s unlikely he’ll go through with whatever deal you think he made with these two killers.”

  “Believe me, I understand the situation you’re in. Unfortunately, the Bureau is shorthanded now, too. We have more agents overseas than we’ve ever had, and it’s hindered us in investigating cases like this.”

  “Okay, I will do this, because I’d hate like hell to have something happen to someone if I could have prevented it. I’ll instruct the officers to watch for him at night at the Well. That’s the bar you spoke of. I can’t think of a better way to monitor his comings and goings. If he fails to show up on any given night, chances are he’s either ill or he’s left town. There’s really no place else to go around here, if you’re that age. I can have someone stop in there at night. Several of our officers do, anyway.”

  “Thank you. We appreciate that.” Miranda slid a business card across the desk. “The quickest way to reach me is on my cell. Call any time, day or night.”

  “I’ll give this number out to the entire department, if that’s all right with you.” The chief stood to indicate that the meeting had concluded. “If anyone sees anything you should know about, we’ll let you know.”

  “We can’t ask for more than that. Thank you.” Miranda took her cue, shook the chief’s hand, and found her way out to the parking lot, relieved that someone would be keeping an eye on Lowell while she and Will searched Channing’s past for likely victims. While Chief Carson had not agreed to surveillance, at least someone would be watching to see if he left town. Miranda really couldn’t ask for much more than that from the small department.

  She glanced at her watch. There was still plenty of time to stop in Lyndon on her way home and check in with Lowell’s probation officer. Since she and Will arrived in separate cars, she’d just make a quick stop at the inn to pick up her bags, check out, and be on her way by noon.

  “Archer? Archer Lowell?”

  The voice on the phone was low, but forceful all the same.

  “Who is this?” Archer rubbed his eyes and turned over to look at the clock. It was ten in the morning.

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “What friend?” Archer sat up.

  “A friend at High Meadow.”

  Archer’s jaw moved, but no sound came from his mouth.

  “You there, Archie?”

  “I don’t have no friends at High Meadow. And I don’t like to be called Archie.”

  “Oh. Right.” Even in agreement, there was menace in the tone.

  “Who are you? Why are you calling me?”

  “Your old buddy Vince asked me to.”

  “Vince who?”

  “Don’t even try to play me, Archie. It pisses me off no end when people try to play me. And you do not want to piss me off. Understand?”

  “Yeah . . . yes.” Archer wrapped the blanket around himself. All of a sudden, he felt very cold.

  “Okay, then.” A long drag off a cigarette, a long exhale. “I want to know what your plan is, Archie.”

  “My plan?”

  “Your plan to carry out your part of the deal. The deal you made with Vince and that other friend of yours, the one who died. I want to know what you’re going to do.”

  “I . . . ah . . .” Archer slammed down the receiver.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered. “Holy shit . . .”

  He went into the tiny bathroom and relieved himself, then splashed cool water onto his face with hands shaking so badly they barely held water.

  Calm down. You don’t know who that was. Coulda been anyone.

  Anyone who knew about the game . . .

  Then it had to have been Vince. Yeah, that’s it. It was Vince. Calling from High Meadow. Pretending to be someone else.

  Why would Vince pretend to be someone else?

  To scare me. Yeah, just to scare me into thinking it was someone on the outside.

  Had the caller said he was on the outside? He couldn’t remember.

  But it had to be Vince. It had to be.

  No one else knows, right?

  Right?

  Could even have been the FBI. Yeah, it coulda been them.

  He tried to remember if he’d said anything that could incriminate him. He didn’t think he had.

  He pulled on the jeans he’d worn the day before and a flannel shirt from the pile of laundry in his room. Grabbing his jacket, he left the trailer, then paused out front. He avoided the road and walked along behind the other trailers until he reached the end of the mobile home village. He looked around and, seeing no cars, no strangers, he exhaled deeply.

  Still, he felt jumpy. As if he were being watched.

  He debated with himself, then set out across the field that lay between the trailers and the back of the Well. A short walk and he’d be at the bar, a cold beer in his hand. He’d taken that route on several occasions when he couldn’t beg a ride home from anyone. It was dark and a little creepy late at night, but this was broad daylight.

  It was with great relief that he rounded the corner of the building and pushed open the door. He went straight to the bar and ordered a shot and a beer, then another. His nerves mildly anesthetized, he finally relaxed, entered into some mindless chatter with the bartender, who was obviously bored. There was only one other person drinking at that hour of the morning, a regular from town who never spoke to anyone.

  By noon, Archer was buzzed. By three in the afternoon, he was sleeping in a chair in the back room. Later that night, he was back at the bar with his friends. At midnight, the morning’s fear forgotten, he left the bar by the back door, intending to return home the same way he’d arrived.

  The door was barely closed before a large hand grabbed him by both lapels, dragged him around the corner, and shoved him back against the back wall of the bar.

  “Who . . . ?”

  “I hate it when someone hangs up on me before I’ve said what I had to say.”

  The figure was large, the face indistinct in the dark.

  Archer cringed and tried to melt through the wall.

  “Now, I’m going to ask you one more time. What are your plans for carrying out your end of the deal?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. I just got out. . . .” Archer tried to calm himself. Tried to sound as if he wasn’t ready to pass out from fright.

  “Well, then, let’s think about it now. You and me.” The man dragged Archer deeper into the shadows.

  “Who are you?” Archer asked, hoping to buy himself time.

  “You can call me Burt. And I’m the man who’s going to make sure that you don’t fuck up, little buddy.” His breath was hot and sour in Archer’s face. “I’m the man who is going to be watching every move you make until the job is done, understand?”

  “No.”

  “Think of me sorta like your conscience.” He chuckled, but to Archer it sounded more like a growl. “You know how your conscience tells you what to do? Keep your word, that sort of thing?”

  Archer nodded slowly.

  “Well, I’m gonna make sure you do what you said you’d do.”

  “I was gonna do it,” Archer whispered. “Soon as I could, you know, get a plan together.”

  “This is your lucky day, Archer. Because I am here to help you with that plan.” His grip on Archer never loosened. “Tell me the names. Convince me that you’re still in the game, that you know what you have to do. . . .”

  Archer whispered the names.

  “Very good, Archie. Very good. At least you know that much.”

  “Hey, I know what I’m supposed to do, okay? Just haven’t gotten around to doing it. First I need to get a job, I need some money to get around, you know what I mean?”

  Archer felt himself lowered so that his feet once again touched the ground.

  The stranger backed off slightly, then stuffed something into Archer’s left jacket pocket.
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  “Now that’s one excuse you don’t have anymore. Tell me what your plan is, Archie. Walk me through it. . . .”

  Jesus. Jesus.

  Archer sat on the ground behind his mother’s trailer and shook all over. He’d run all the way back from the bar in the dark, all the way across the field, stumbling, his neck craning this way and that. Terrified that the stranger was following him, that he’d let him get halfway across the field and then he’d pop up and just break his neck or slash him to ribbons. Like one of those bad scary movies. Jason. Michael. Freddie.

  Burt was scarier.

  Archer was crying softly by the time he arrived home. Not soft enough to risk going inside, though. He’d wake up his mom, sure enough, and there was no way he wanted her to see him like this. Geez, he was crying like a girl.

  I can’t help it. He was scary. Burt was the scariest person I’ve ever seen close-up.

  Scarier still, knowing that he was going to be watching until this was over. Until he’d . . .

  Archer started crying all over again.

  I don’t want to kill anyone. I never did; I never want to.

  He thought of the photographs of Vince’s victims, the ones the chief of police from Broeder had shown him while he was still in prison, when they wanted him to talk about Vince. A man with a single hole in the back of his head, a larger one in the front. A woman with her throat slashed, her chest a mess of stab wounds, blood everywhere. Her eyes had been open.