Dead Even

by Mariah Stewart

  “No. You eat it.” The thought of food made Archer want to hurl. Everything about this entire day, from the minute he’d opened his eyes till now, seeing the pizza in front of him, had made him want to hurl.

  “Put the television back on,” Burt told him. “The news oughta be coming on again soon.”

  “I don’t wanna see it again,” Archer all but moaned. “I saw it twice already.”

  “Put it on anyway.”

  Archer found the remote and turned on the television. The tape taken from a helicopter that hovered over Landry’s barn and fields was on again. The same tape the networks had been running over and over all afternoon.

  “. . . though police are still not giving any information as to motive,” the anchor’s voice spoke above the sound of the helicopter’s blades.

  A shot from a handheld camera on ground level showed numerous law enforcement agencies on the scene.

  “Hey, look at that, Archie. You got ’em all running around like chickens with their heads cut off, damned if you don’t.” Burt’s laugh was raw and loud. “This was one important dude you wasted, man. I had no idea he was such a big shot.”

  “Yeah. He was famous.” Sicker still, Archer went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Burt took the slice of pizza he was chewing and moved to the end of the bed closest to the TV. He turned the sound up, clearly enjoying the play-by-play. The police think the killer waited in the barn, yada yada yada.

  He moved back slightly on the bed and, in doing so, knocked Archer’s jacket to the floor. He glanced down and saw the cell phone he’d loaned Lowell the week before slide out from the pocket. When he leaned over to pick it up, he noticed it was turned on. He held the phone in his hand for a long minute, thinking.

  Then he hit the scroll button, looking for the last number dialed.

  Cahill, M. 410-555-1143.

  Burt stared at the phone.

  Cahill, M.

  As in Cahill, Miranda. Special agent, FBI.

  What the fuck . . . ?

  He continued to stare, thinking carefully.

  Behind the closed bathroom door, the toilet flushed. Burt heard the sound of running water. He slid the phone back into Archer’s jacket pocket and took another bite of pizza, chewing slowing, still thinking.

  What had Archer told her?

  The son of a bitch had called her. He had called the FBI, for chrissake. What the hell kind of moron had he gotten mixed up with?

  Archer had called the fucking FBI.

  The bathroom door opened, and a white-faced Archer stepped in the room, then all but fell upon his bed. An attack of conscience, or anxiety because he was waiting for something to happen? Had he told her where they were?

  Archer lay quietly on the bed, his head on the pillow. Burt watched him until the soft rise and fall of his chest assured him that Archer slept. Burt dug into the pocket for the cell phone and pulled up the last call. The call had been connected for less than thirty seconds. Long enough to leave a very short message. Or not.

  Maybe that’s all that had happened. Maybe there was just a brief message.

  Yeah, real brief, like we’re in the Park Motel on Route 1 outside of New Brunswick.

  Burt tossed the phone from one open palm to the other, then tossed it onto the room’s other bed. He piled the pillows up against the headboard and sat back against them, watching the news coverage of the murder of Joshua Landry and considering his next move.

  If Archer had told Cahill where they were holed up, the FBI would have been there already, wouldn’t they? So Burt felt he could reasonably assume that no one knew where they were. At least, not now. Who knew how many ways they might have to trace a call from a cell phone. Burt didn’t know of any, but then again, he wasn’t with the FB-fucking-I, and you never knew what the feds could do.

  So even if he assumed that while the FBI didn’t know where he and Archer were now, it didn’t mean that Cahill couldn’t find them soon.

  Which meant it was time to leave and go someplace else.

  But where? Burt bit his nails and thought it through.

  He could go anyplace. No one even knew he was involved in this mess. Archer, however, wasn’t going anywhere. Not anymore. He was a liability with a capital L. The sooner Burt got rid of him, the better things would be.

  Burt closed his eyes and considered several scenarios. Once he’d made up his mind, he got off the bed and poked at Archer.

  “Come on, man, it’s time to go. Wake up, Archie.”

  “Go where?” Archer mumbled.

  “Someplace else. We gotta get rid of the gun.” Burt began to gather his things. They wouldn’t be coming back tonight, or any night.

  “Get your shit together, man. I want to leave now. I’m getting restless. I spent enough time working this all out for you. I’m done, and I’m moving on. We’ll get rid of the gun, then I’m going my way, you’re going yours.”

  “But what about the last one? The lady FBI agent?” Archer, sleepy-eyed, sat up.

  “What about her?” Burt kept his voice steady even though, for two cents, he’d have beaten Archer’s head in. Stupid fuck.

  “I’m supposed to, you know . . .” Archer was awake now. “You said you’d help me.”

  “Yeah, well, that was then. Before I knew how much trouble this whole thing was going to be.” Burt stuffed his belongings into a black-and-gray gym bag.

  “You’re not gonna help me no more?”

  “No, I’m not gonna help you no more.” Burt mimicked Archer’s whine. “You’re on your own. So get up, get your shit together, and we’re outta here.”

  Archer began to do as he was told, whining the entire time.

  “Why aren’t you gonna help me? If you throw the gun away, I won’t have anything to . . . to do that lady agent with.”

  “You should have thought of that before you called her.” Burt spun around, his index finger pointed at Archer.

  “Wh-what?” Archer went white. “Called who? I didn’t talk to no one—”

  “Don’t make it worse by lying about it, asshole. You called her. The number is right there on the phone I gave you to call me with.” Burt got right into Archer’s face. He towered over him by more than half a foot.

  Archer’s eyes went wild with fright.

  “I didn’t talk to her, I didn’t talk to no one, I swear—”

  “Only because she didn’t pick up, right? If she’d a picked up, what would you have said?” Burt grabbed Archer by the throat. “What were you going to say, huh? What were you going to tell her?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Archer began to tremble all over.

  “Were you going to tell her what you did, or what you were going to do? Is that it? You were going to call her and taunt her, hey, you’re next, FBI lady?”

  “N-n-no. I mean yes. Yes. I mean, no . . .”

  “Bullshit.” Burt threw Archer nearly across the room. “Get your stuff, and get it now. We are outta here. Now.”

  Hands shaking, his head pounding with terror, Archer picked up his belongings and threw them into the brown paper bag he’d brought them in. Burt opened the door, and Archer went through it, headed toward the truck.

  “You get in, and you don’t say a word, understand?” Burt growled.

  “Yes. Yes. I understand.” Archer climbed into the passenger side of the pickup and watched Burt walk around the front toward the driver’s door. For a minute, Archer was tempted to lock the doors and lean on the horn until someone from one of the other rooms came out to see what the problem was. But he didn’t think of it fast enough, and before he could blink, Burt was in the cab, tossing his gym bag into the space behind the seats and jamming the key in the ignition.

  “Where . . . where are we going?” Archer asked.

  No response from the driver.

  “I didn’t mean no harm. I wasn’t gonna tell her anything. Honest. I don’t know why I called her. I don’t know why. . . .”

  No response.

 
“But I wasn’t gonna tell her about . . . about none of this. I swear, I wouldn’t have told her. . . .”

  They drove in silence for another fifteen minutes.

  “This is the road that goes to Landry’s,” Archer said, confused. “Why are we going there?”

  No response.

  The pickup drove a mile past the Landry farm, where police cars and media vans still congregated, before turning into the small county park that sat between a pond and a wide field, the crop of which had recently been cut. There were no other cars in the lot, nor had they passed any on the road. All the local folks were home right about now, watching the news reports of the drama that had unfolded right down the road, or so Burt suspected. The truck drew to a stop all the way at the end, and Burt cut the ignition. This being farm country, no one would think twice about seeing a pickup truck parked near the pond.

  “Out.” Burt gestured to Archer. “Out of the truck.”

  “You’re gonna leave me here?” Archer looked out the window. “With all those cops down the road? They’re gonna find me.”

  “That’s the idea, asshole.” Burt pointed to the door and said, “Don’t make me say it again, Archer.”

  Archer sighed and jumped out of the truck and stood next to the door, as if waiting for instructions.

  “Walk,” Burt told him, pointing toward the play equipment near the pond.

  “Wait.” Archer took a few steps toward the truck. “I forgot my stuff.”

  “Don’t bother.” Burt pulled the gun from his belt. “There’s nothing in that bag you’re gonna need.”

  It took a moment for Archer to realize what was about to happen.

  “No, you can’t. You . . . can’t.” He shook all over, and he looked around frantically for an escape route. There was none.

  “Tell you what I’m gonna do, Archie. I’m gonna count to five. I’m firing on five. So when I say one, you make a run for it. Five seconds, give you time to run into the woods, find a place to hide. Maybe I won’t find you.”

  “B . . . but . . .”

  “That’s your choice, Archie. You can run when I say one, or I can shoot you where you stand. It’s up to you.” Burt spoke softly, enjoying himself. “I’m gonna start counting now, Archie, so you turn around and get ready to run. One . . .”

  “But—”

  “You’re wasting time, asshole. Two . . .”

  Archer turned and ran toward the trees.

  “Three.” Burt fired and hit his target square in the back. Archer fell face forward onto the stones that covered the parking lot. “I was only kidding about giving you till five.”

  He walked over and put a second bullet in the back of Archer Lowell’s head.

  Tucking the gun into his belt, Burt walked back to his truck and drove from the parking lot, careful not to kick up stones that might further mar his paint job. He’d noticed a few pockmarks on his rear fender that morning, and he was determined to avoid adding to them. He took his time as he drove back the way he had come, easing on the gas as he passed the Landry farm. Laughing to himself, he sped up. The sooner he left the fields of New Jersey behind him, the better.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  “Where are we?” Julianne stirred in her seat in the small plane, then sat up and rubbed her eyes as if it were a huge effort.

  “We’re on an airplane, sweetie.” Genna leaned forward and tucked back the hair that had fallen over Julianne’s face.

  “A plane?” The girl sat up groggily. “Why are we on a plane?”

  “Because we’re taking you home,” Genna replied, dreading what came next.

  She’d been coached by Anne Marie, who, as a psychologist, had stressed the importance of answering truthfully any questions Julianne might ask. But Anne Marie wasn’t here, looking into those blue eyes, anxious even through the residual effects of the sleep she’d been coaxed into by Jayne Young, the agent who’d been sent to assist with Genna’s flight from the Valley of the Angels with Julianne. A little sleeping aid into the hot chocolate had been all it had taken to rock Julianne gently to sleep.

  Just as well, Genna thought, since the ride to the airport over treacherous roads had been anything but smooth. When they’d finally reached a stretch of highway that was all but closed due to drifting snow, Jayne had called for assistance, which had arrived in the form of a road crew and several agents who’d blocked the way from Linden with a mock accident that prevented the inevitable caravan that had been sent to find and return Julianne to the compound. By keeping her car directly behind the snowplow, Jayne made it to the airstrip in time for the small jet to take off before the worst of the storm hit. All in all, it had been a hair-raising trip, and Genna wasn’t sorry that Julianne had missed the worst of it. No doubt the drama of the ride would have scared her half to death.

  All behind us now, Genna reminded herself.

  Then again, for Julianne, perhaps the worst still lay ahead. How to convince this child that her beloved father was a kidnapper and a liar, not to mention a conspirator in a scheme that sent her friends into slavery of the most debauched sort? That he’d told his worst lie to her?

  And why now, Genna wondered, would Julianne believe the truth, told to her by a stranger?

  “Why are we on a plane to go home? We can go in the car. . . .” Julianne sat all the way up and looked out the window. “Where is my daddy?”

  Genna exchanged an anxious glance with Jayne, then said, “Julianne, there’s something we need to talk about. . . .”

  The girl’s head turned toward her.

  “Why did you call me that?” The look on her face was total shock. “My name is Rebecca. Rebecca West.”

  “No, honey, I think you know that’s not true,” Genna said in her softest voice. “Think. Think hard . . .”

  “My name is Rebecca. I don’t know why you called me . . . that other name. I’m Rebecca,” she insisted, her face white, her fingers clutching the arms of her seat.

  “Do you remember when your father first started calling you Rebecca?” Jayne asked gently.

  Julianne stared at her.

  “It was when you were five, do you remember?” Genna tried to take one of the girl’s trembling hands, but Julianne pulled them out of reach.

  Genna looked up at Jayne, who understood. The girl felt double-teamed. Without another word, Jayne walked to the front of the cabin.

  “Do you remember when your father first told you that he wanted to call you Rebecca?” Genna asked again.

  Slowly, Julianne nodded her head.

  “Did he tell you why?”

  She nodded again. “Because my mommy had named me . . . the other name. And my mommy died and went to heaven and took my name with her. So I had to have a new name.”

  Genna closed her eyes and squeezed them tightly shut to close out the girl’s pain.

  “Do you remember when you were called Julianne?”

  She stared at Genna, then out the window. When her eyes returned to Genna’s face, she whispered in the voice of a very small child, “I’m not supposed to. Daddy said it would make us both too sad to think about Mommy, so I’m not supposed to remember her. I’m not supposed to remember being . . .” She could not bring herself to speak the name.

  “Do you remember your mother, Julianne?” Genna asked.

  Another nod of the head. “Don’t tell my father.”

  “I won’t, sweetheart.” Genna turned her seat around to face Julianne, wondering how she would get out the words she knew she had to say. She wished this hadn’t come up until they’d landed. Surely Annie would know the best thing to say. Genna had only her instincts to guide her, and she wasn’t sure how good they were. “But there is something I need to tell you.”

  Looking wounded and scared, Julianne waited.

  “Your mother . . .”

  Tell her the truth, Annie’s words rang in Genna’s ears. Don’t make the situation worse by telling her more lies. Whatever she asks, you must tell her the truth.
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br />   Easy for you to say, McCall, since you’re not the one who has to break the news.

  “Your mother didn’t die, Julianne.”

  The girl made no reply, but simply stared as if Genna spoke in a foreign tongue.

  “Julianne, did you understand what I said?”

  “Why are you lying, Miss Ruth?” Julianne’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not lying, honey. And my name isn’t really Miss Ruth. It’s Genna. Genna Snow. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I was sent to Reverend Prescott’s compound to find you, and to bring you back to your mother.”

  “NO!” Julianne’s hands slammed into Genna’s chest. “You’re making this up! Why are you making this up?”

  She began to cry, punching out at Genna, then at Jayne, who rushed to help subdue the young girl.

  “You are lying! My mother is dead! She is dead!” She sobbed. “My father told me! He told me . . . he wouldn’t lie to me.”

  They let Julianne sob and rail against them until she simply went slack, like a doll. Genna moved back into the seat next to her and cradled her in her arms until the girl could cry no more.

  “We’re taking you to your mother, Julianne. I’m sorry we had to do it this way. I’m so sorry.” Genna rocked her gently. “But your mother has waited seven years to have you back, and it’s our job to take you there, do you understand?”

  “Why would he do that?” Julianne’s whisper was almost inaudible. “Why would he lie about her? If she didn’t die, why would he take me away?”

  Genna looked over Julianne’s head to Jayne and grimaced. She didn’t want to answer these questions, didn’t feel it was her job to tell the daughter that the father was an egotistic fool who’d kidnapped her rather than permit her mother the joy of watching her grow up. She wasn’t sure how best to phrase it.

  Oh, hell, let the psychologists explain that part. I might end up doing more harm than good, Genna rationalized. “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Julianne grew restless and pushed Genna away. “I don’t believe you. If my mother was alive, why wasn’t she with us?”

  “Your parents divorced, Julianne. Didn’t you know that?”