Dead Even

by Mariah Stewart

  “Portia’s going to be thrilled that you’re still alive.”

  “Okay. Do it. Just . . . do it.” She stood up. “Was that it? That’s what you stopped for?”

  “Well, as you pointed out, it is dinnertime. I noticed a new restaurant out on Route 43.”

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  She left the room, and Will stood up, stretching his legs. He walked to the front window and looked out across the parking lot. Fortunately, there were only two ways in and out of Miranda’s townhouse. He made a mental note to check the locks on the back door, but he seemed to recall there was a dead bolt there. Not foolproof, certainly. And maybe he’d suggest that she get her security system upgraded.

  He wandered around the room absently, thinking about how they might go about keeping Miranda safe without destroying her ego. He wandered into the hallway and paused at the small sideboard that sat near the front door. An envelope lay open, its contents spread across the top of the table. He leaned closer to take a look.

  “What are you doing?” she asked from midway down the steps.

  “Just looking at these photos,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, they were laying here on the table and—”

  “I do mind.”

  Surprised at her tone, he looked up at her.

  “They’re just baby pictures. You don’t want me to see how cute you and Portia were as babies? These are pictures of you and Portia, aren’t they?”

  She nodded.

  “You were beautiful babies. And your mother still looks a lot like she did back then, you know?” He peered closer at the top photo. “But who’s the guy carrying you on his shoulders? In this picture here . . .” He held it up.

  Without glancing at it, she said, “That’s our father.”

  “Really? I don’t remember him being that tall.” Will frowned. “I met him that time you were in the hospital, after you got knocked out at Kendra Smith’s house. I thought he was kind of short.”

  “That was my stepfather.”

  “Oh.” He looked up at her, saw how guarded her face had become. His eyes went back to the photograph, which he studied more carefully. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that this was—”

  “Jack Marlow.” She named the man in the photo before Will could, her voice touched with frost. “Yes. He’s my father. Can we go now?”

  “Jack Marlow? Mad Marlow, the legendary English rocker and guitar god, is your father ?”

  “I understand these days he’s not quite as mad as he used to be, and perhaps somewhat less of a god, but yes,” she said with strained patience. “He’s my father.”

  Will looked incredulous. “How could I have not known that?”

  “It isn’t something I generally discuss. Are we going to have dinner now or not?”

  Will dropped the photo back on the pile.

  “Learn something new every day,” he muttered, and preceded her through the front door. “And set the alarm, damn it.”

  “Maybe we should get takeout instead.” She activated the system. “Then we can come back and start going through those computer files, at least identify the cases we’re going to pull tomorrow morning.”

  “I already did that.”

  “Well, then, we can make a list of all the reports we want to review from each of the files.”

  “Did that, too.” He grinned. “And before you ask, yes, I printed out copies of all the case logs, all the reports, and all the police records from each. I thought we’d divvy them up between us and see if any one person stands out.”

  “You did all that this afternoon?”

  He nodded.

  “Damn, you really are good.” She started down the sidewalk and passed him, shaking her head. “Annoying, but good.”

  “So,” he said as he caught up with her, “want to tell me how Jack Marlow, the guitar-smashing, drum-bashing rock idol, happens to be your father?”

  “He slept with my mother.”

  She fished her car keys out of the bag that hung from her shoulder. Putting a lock on the subject once and for all, she asked, “Italian or Chinese?”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Burt pulled the pickup off the road and onto the wide shoulder and put the engine in neutral.

  “Tell me again what you are going to do.”

  “I’m going to walk down the side of the road here,” Lowell pointed behind them, “until I get to the woods. I’m going to walk straight into the woods, and when I get to the fields on the other side of the trees, I’m going to walk that way,” he pointed to his right, “until I see the house. The big yellow farmhouse.”

  “And then?” Burt said, with the same tone of voice he’d use for conversing with a five-year-old.

  “Then I’m going to find a tree that would give me a good view of the farmhouse, and I’m going to climb it and sit and just watch.”

  “What are you watching for?” He handed Lowell a pair of binoculars, and Lowell slipped the strap over his head.

  “I need to know who is up there. How many people are at the house. And see if I can figure out what he—Mr. Landry—does all day. If he comes out at any special time each day.”

  “And you think you’re going to remember this because . . . ?”

  “I can remember. Sure.” Lowell’s head bobbed up and down. “No problem.”

  Burt handed him a small notebook and a blue pen.

  “Excuse me for seeing a problem, but I don’t want you getting things mixed up. You’re going to be watching this guy for the next couple of days. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell you’re going to remember what time the mailman comes, what time Landry takes a walk if he takes a walk. Write it all down, then you won’t have to worry about remembering anything. You’re looking for patterns here.”

  Lowell scowled but tucked the notebook and pen in his jacket pocket.

  “Now get out,” Burt directed, and Lowell opened the passenger-side door.

  “But you promise you’re coming back for me, right?” Lowell whined.

  Burt reached over and slammed the door.

  “Walk,” he commanded.

  Lowell sighed heavily and walked past the back of the truck toward the woods. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and wished he was wearing that nice down jacket his mother had bought him. It was so much warmer than this wool thing he was wearing. Buffalo checks, his mother had called the red-and-black plaid, though Archer couldn’t figure out why. He’d been meaning to ask. Now he wondered if he’d ever get the chance. If he’d ever see his mother again . . .

  Shit. Don’t go thinking like that, he berated himself. Just gonna get upset.

  Like he wasn’t already upset. Here he was, going to spy on some man so he’d know when would be the best time of day to go back and kill him. He’d already killed one man, and every night since he’d had nightmares of that old body facedown on the floor of the movie theater, shaking and jerking around, the blood pooling on the floor beside that gray head like syrup from a bottle. It had been just awful.

  And now he was going to have to do it again.

  He hunched inside his jacket and kept walking straight ahead on the shoulder of the two-lane country road. The woods were nearer now, and in minutes he’d be walking right through them. He wondered how long it would take him to get through them and out the other side to the fields. Of course, he wouldn’t walk in the fields. Especially in this red jacket. Someone might see him and call the police.

  And would that be the worst thing that could happen to him, he wondered.

  What would be the worst that could happen to him?

  He didn’t even want to think about that. Burt scared the shit out of him. He still didn’t know what the man’s full name was, though he had tried to get a peek at the registration for the truck when they stopped for gas, thinking that Burt would get out and pump. But the attendant had pumped the gas—not like back in Pennsylvania, where you could pump your own—and he’d lost the o
pportunity to take a quick look through the glove box.

  He stopped at the edge of the woods and looked past the trees. It was dark in there, spooky, even.

  It’s almost Halloween, he reminded himself, and hoped there were no unfriendly spirits about in the woods.

  Shut up. Would ya just listen to yourself ?

  He shook his head in disgust and walked a little slower as a car passed. When the car was out of sight over a rise in the road, he slipped into the woods. Off to his right something crunched softly, and he stopped in his tracks, then slid behind the trunk of a maple tree, his heart pounding. After a few minutes, he peered out from behind the tree. Seeing nothing, he resumed his walk.

  A sign they’d passed down the road claimed that the woods and fields surrounding the town had seen bloodshed during the Revolutionary War, when a lost platoon of redcoats had been ambushed by a handful of farmers. Archer looked over his shoulder from time to time as he walked along, half expecting to see the ghosts of British soldiers creeping up on him. Just the thought of it sent a chill up his spine. Before he could panic, he came to the end of the woods, where he gratefully stepped out into the sunlight and looked around.

  The yellow farmhouse was off to his right. Archer slunk back into the shelter of the woods and, staying behind the trees, walked until he was directly behind the house, which was about three hundred feet beyond the woods. Archer stood and watched the house for a few minutes, but saw no one. He began to look for a tree to climb. There were lots of trees, but none were good for climbing, so he sat down on the stump of a tree and took the lens caps off the binoculars Burt had given him.

  Holding the lenses up to his eyes, he adjusted the focus and scanned the property belonging to Joshua Landry.

  The yellow farmhouse looked neat, like something from a magazine, with the pond and the pool and the tennis court. The barn was painted red, and it reminded Archer of the old toy barn he’d had when he was a kid. It had little plastic animals—a pig, a couple of sheep, a cow, some chickens—and a silo. The roof came off and you could see inside the barn, which had a loft on one side. He and his sister used to fill up the loft with dried grass and pretend it was hay. Archer studied Landry’s barn and wondered if it had a loft. Lofts were good places to hide.

  The back door opened, and a woman came out. Archer readjusted the lenses again, trying to see her face. She looked like she’d be pretty, with lots of blonde hair that sort of floated around her face. She was wearing jeans and a bulky sweater and got into a small white car. She drove the car in a circle, and, just as she passed the back door, it opened; a man walked out and waved to the woman in the car. She stopped and he leaned into the window.

  Archer held his breath and studied the man as best he could. White hair. A little over six feet tall. Blue cardigan sweater. Khaki pants. Under one arm was a folded newspaper. He looked just like the picture Burt had ripped from the magazine he’d found in the library on Monday.

  Archer stared through the binoculars.

  The man laughed at something the young woman said, then stood up and tapped the hood with the newspaper as the car pulled away.

  This was him, then. Joshua Landry.

  His intended victim.

  A shiver ran up Archer’s spine at the thought of this man being a victim. God, but he hated that word. Victim.

  He shook his head. I’m not going to think about that right now.

  Landry walked in the direction of the pond. A small flock of Canada geese scattered at his approach, giving him a wide berth as he drew closer to the water. He stopped at the edge, then stood, hands on his hips, and stared out at the pond. Suddenly he turned and looked toward the woods. Archer’s heart leapt into his throat, and he hunkered down behind a fallen tree where he slipped out of the red-and-black jacket. Landry turned again and took a few steps before stooping to pick up some object from the ground. He turned it over in his hand several times, then slipped it into his pocket. He glanced back at the woods for a moment, then headed back toward the house. Movement near the back door caught Archer’s eye, and he trained the binoculars on the small porch. A second, younger man came down the steps and set out hurriedly toward Landry. When he caught up with him, he gestured in the direction of the house. Landry shook his head and went into the barn while the second man scanned the field behind the house. After a minute or so, Landry emerged with a rake in his hands. He walked toward the area behind the house and began raking leaves.

  Archer watched through the binoculars as the young man studied the field from one end to the other before turning back to the house. Once on the back porch, he sat, all the while staring across the field right up to the woods, and beyond. Archer flattened himself as much as he could into the cold, damp grass, and prayed that the man didn’t see him. All of a sudden he was afraid. He didn’t know who the man was, but he sensed a threat, and it scared him.

  After a while, twenty or thirty minutes, Landry returned the rake to the barn. Then he and the other man went back into the house.

  Taking out the little notebook Burt had given him, Archer opened it and wrote on the first page.

  Pretty lady left the house in a little white car.

  Mr. Landry walked to the pond.

  Another man came outside and talked to Mr. Landry.

  Mr. Landry went into the barn and came out with a rake and raked some leaves under the tree.

  The other man sat on the back steps and watched Mr. Landry and kept looking around.

  Archer couldn’t think of anything else to write, so he lay on the ground and looked up into the sky. A flock of birds flew overhead, so many he couldn’t even begin to count them all. They landed in the trees above him, and he lay perfectly still so as to not scare them away. After a while he grew cold, and he decided he’d had enough for one day. When he stood, the birds directly overhead took off, followed by the others; for a minute, the sky was black with them. He grabbed his jacket and walked farther into the woods before putting it on, just in case that other man was looking into the woods with binoculars of his own. The thought spooked him, and he hurried along, hoping that Burt would come along soon to pick him up.

  Daylight had already started to fade, and suddenly thoughts of ghostly redcoats taunted him. He walked faster and faster, his breath coming in ragged bursts, as he headed toward the road. He breathed a sigh of relief once he reached the tree line, then paused to lean against a red oak, trying to catch his breath. He patted his pocket for the notebook, and his heart took a dive when he realized it wasn’t there. He searched the jacket and the back pockets of his pants, even though he knew he didn’t have the notebook.

  He knew where it was. Right there on the ground where he’d dropped it while he was watching the birds.

  Oh, shit. Now what . . . ?

  Burt was going to have a fit, that’s what.

  Archer looked behind him. The woods appeared even more foreboding than they had just minutes earlier.

  He looked back toward the road. Burt would be along any time now to pick him up.

  Burt was not going to be happy. The thought of Burt sent fear into Archer’s very bones.

  He turned back to the trees.

  Ghosts or Burt?

  He thought about the way Burt’s eyes narrowed and seemed to glow like the devil’s when he got really mad about something.

  Archer buttoned his jacket against the chill and hurried back into the woods. He’d take his chances with the redcoats.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Will leaned over the desk, the phone up against his right ear, while he took notes on the back of an envelope.

  “That would be great, yeah. That’s what we’ll need. Thanks. I owe you one. . . .”

  He hung up the phone and opened a desk drawer, hoping to find a piece of paper to transfer his notes to, when he noticed Miranda in the doorway.

  “That was Evan,” he told her as he opened the center drawer, rooted around, and found a pad of Post-its.

  “Ha
s he been able to identify the deputies who were on duty the day that Channing, Giordano, and Lowell were in the courthouse together?” She came into the office and draped herself over the back of the communal visitor’s chair, which somehow had found its way into Will’s cubicle today. A few days ago it had been in Miranda’s cubicle, and before that she remembered seeing it in Livvy Bach’s cubicle down the hall.

  “He has the names, but he’s only been able to speak with three of them. They were all assigned to the front of the building when the courthouse went on lockdown that day. He still has several others to track down. One retired in August and moved to Phoenix; another is on vacation; and another one just entered the police academy. But Evan will keep on it.”

  “If we can prove they were together, that they had opportunity to hatch this plan, we can go after Giordano on conspiracy charges.” She gazed into space, thinking out loud. “If nothing else, the threat alone might make Giordano open up.”

  “And if we can catch up with Archer Lowell in the meantime, we can avert two more murders.”

  “All good, all around.” She nodded.

  “So what have you got?” Will asked. “You have that look in your eye.”

  “I may have found someone who could have pissed off Channing in a big way.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A guy named Ronald Johnson. He was Channing’s boss in a little restaurant in Wynnefield.” She leaned back in the chair and looked just a little smug. “Wynnefield, Ohio, where three bodies were found within two weeks time. DNA was just recently matched to Channing.”

  “What’s that got to do with Johnson?”

  “Johnson fired Channing. Shortly after he lost his job, the killings stopped. Picked up about three weeks later in Union.”

  “Why’d he fire Channing?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “Maybe we should speak with Mr. Johnson.”

  “I’ve already made a call to the Wynnefield police.” She smiled. “We’re booked on a three o’clock flight to Cincinnati. We’ll pick up a car and drive on down to Wynnefield.”