The Watcher in the Wall, page 21
“Not to my knowledge,” Windermere said. She looked back at the body, whoever it was. Wished on her life it was Gruber, would have traded anything to make it that way. “We messed up, partner. We need to be in Tampa, like, yesterday.”
< 94 >
Gruber left Akron as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning.
He’d known what he’d found in Donovan’s trunk the moment he’d seen it, a canvas bag, long and slender, a satisfying weight when he held it. He’d savored the moment like that kid with his Christmas present, looked past the bag at the boxes of ammunition stacked up by the spare tire, and knew he was into something good.
There was more ammunition for Donovan’s revolver, boxes of Winchester .44 Magnum rounds. And there were other boxes, too, boxes of spare ordnance for whatever waited inside that canvas bag.
It was a shotgun, Gruber discovered, a Harrington & Richardson twelve-gauge, the barrel rifled and fitted to fire a slug. The boxes were Brenneke Black Magic slugs for the shotgun, bear stoppers.
Gruber cradled the shotgun, looked skyward, the black night, the clouds racing past the moon. Muttered a silent thank-you, to Donovan and to God, knew Earl would shit his pants when he caught sight of Gruber and his boomstick.
• • •
He slept well past dawn. Woke up to the sun shining and cars on the road, figured he was lucky he wasn’t staring down a cop.
He ate a cheap, greasy breakfast at a diner on the outskirts of town. Picked up a newspaper, scanned for anything relevant. Nothing. Maybe the police weren’t on his trail after all. Or maybe the fine people at USA Today just weren’t ready to spill about it yet.
He stopped at a shopping complex on the way out of Akron, found a Home Depot, bought a hammer and crowbar, a high-powered flashlight, a roll of duct tape for good measure. Used the crowbar to pry off the door handles inside the Lincoln, every one but on the driver’s side. Used the claw end of the hammer to tear out the mechanics beneath.
Then he climbed in the Lincoln and kept driving. He stuck to the back channels again. State roads, two-lane blacktop, Route 42. Skirted Columbus and came down over the top of Cincinnati, crossed the Indiana state line on Route 50, nudged the Ohio River, with Kentucky on the other side, veered west where the river dipped south, took the long way.
He switched off the news radio, found music on the dial, a radio station playing classic rock, the hits of the seventies. Whistled along to that old Looking Glass song, the one about the barmaid in the harbor town, as he pulled into New Albany, the sun high in the sky. He felt good.
Earl and DarlingMadison. Two birds, and plenty of ammunition. Whatever tomorrow held in store, Gruber knew the night ahead would be epic.
< 95 >
Stevens and Windermere touched down in Tampa in the early afternoon. Got a rental car, drove out of the airport. Found themselves on a busy highway, eight or nine lanes wide, nearly flattened the rental car—and themselves—underneath a tractor trailer as they tried to cut across to their exit.
“Cripes,” Stevens said, gripping the armrests in the passenger seat. “Careful, Carla. These guys are maniacs.”
Windermere didn’t answer. Wasn’t listening. She’d spent the whole flight from Buffalo beating herself up about DarlingMadison, and she figured she still wasn’t even half done yet. Might not ever be, if the girl didn’t turn up.
You should have gone to Tampa the first time, she screamed at herself. A missing girl, and you didn’t think it was suspicious? You wasted yesterday and most of the morning in Buffalo, and that girl’s long gone. She’s probably dead.
Stevens reached out, touched her arm. Jolted her out of her thoughts. “We’ll find her, Carla,” he told her. “It’s not over yet.”
She kept her eyes on the road. “Maybe not, partner,” she said. “But it’s close.”
• • •
They found Madison Mackenzie’s mom’s house, found an army of city cops running around like the proverbial headless chickens, nobody quite sure which way was up.
“Who’s running this show?” Windermere said, parking the rental car and buttonholing the nearest uniform.
“FBI’s supposed to be on their way,” the policeman told her. “But we haven’t seen them yet.”
“You’re seeing them now,” she told him. “Grab your five smartest pals and follow me.”
She led them into Madison Mackenzie’s house, where another couple uniforms stood guard over an exhausted-looking woman and a pair of crying girls. There was a wad of spent tissues on the kitchen table, an empty box beside them.
“She didn’t tell me anything,” Catherine Mackenzie informed Stevens and Windermere after the introductions had been made. She dabbed her eyes with a fresh tissue. “I don’t have any idea where she could have gone at all.”
Stevens sat down at the table opposite her. Windermere remained standing, every minute feeling like the girl was getting farther and farther away.
“Did Madison ever talk about meeting someone online?” Stevens asked. “A new friend or anything?”
“Nobody,” Catherine said. “We hadn’t talked very much at all recently. Between trying to work a couple jobs and taking care of the little ones”—she gestured to the two girls, who looked to be about six and eight—“I just thought she could handle herself, you know?”
“So you wouldn’t have noticed if she seemed down,” Stevens said. “Depressed or disengaged, anything like that.”
“She was in her room a lot,” Mackenzie said. “She was on her phone, the computer. I figured it was better she was at home than out screwing around, doing drugs, drinking.”
“Sure.” Stevens turned and met Windermere’s eye, and his expression said pretty much the same thing she was thinking. This woman doesn’t have anything that will help us.
Windermere turned to the nearest uniform, the guy she’d dragged in from the street. “I want an Amber Alert set up,” she told him. “I want Madison’s picture on the news, the Internet, in the freaking newspapers. I want people looking out for her, and I want it done now.”
The uniform nodded. Turned and hurried off, radio to his lips, barking orders.
“And get me some capable cops who can help with my search,” Windermere called after him. “Move it. There’s a girl’s life at stake.”
The cop flashed the thumbs-up. Windermere watched him go, reached into her jacket and felt around for her cigarettes.
You’re too late, she thought. You should have locked that kid down before you took off for Buffalo. You chose wrong, Supercop.
That girl’s dead already.
< 96 >
Victor Rodney and Marcus Smart made New Albany early in the afternoon. Took Marcus’s Malibu, some piece-of-shit blue rustbox, Marcus pulling off the interstate every twenty minutes to take a leak, buy a hamburger, shit, fix his mascara.
They’d driven up to Buffalo first. Punched in Randall Gruber’s address on the maps in their phones, followed the directions. Knew they were too late from a block away, the whole street a mess of firefighters and police cars and ambulances, somebody wheeling a body bag out of a burned-down house.
Donovan. Rodney didn’t know, but he knew, felt it deep inside like a sickness. Knew he would feel the same way for a long time, it gnawing at him, asking him why he’d sent the kid for the money. Asking him why he hadn’t called the kid home.
Anyway, they were here now. They’d driven all night from Buffalo, found Sanderson’s shithole apartment building with no problem, the same shady-ass bar on the ground floor. Marcus parked the Malibu across the street, other end of the block, and they settled in to wait, no idea if Sanderson even lived there anymore, but the way Rodney had it figured, it didn’t really matter.
“You sure Gruber’s going to be here?” Marcus asked him. “I mean, what the fuck’s his beef with this guy?”
“I have no idea what his beef is,” Rodney replied. “But he killed Curtis to get ahold of the address. So we’re going to wait here until he turns up.”
At the mention of Donovan’s name, Marcus went silent. Studied the building through the windshield. Rodney followed his gaze, saw the kid in his mind’s eye again instead.
Too late now, he decided. And there was a fully loaded MAC-11 machine pistol waiting under Rodney’s seat to make things right, or as right as he could make them, anyway.
Marcus didn’t say anything for a while. Neither did Rodney; he figured he didn’t mind the quiet, figured maybe he’d get a little peace for a change, at least until Gruber showed up.
But then Marcus’s stomach growled and he shifted in his seat. “I’m starving,” he said. “We gonna get lunch, or what? And I gotta take a piss, too.”
Rodney looked out the window, looked up and down the street. Nothing moving but the goddamn interstate traffic on the bridge. Sooner or later, though, Gruber would be here. Rodney was sure of it.
“Piss in a bottle,” he told Marcus. “And save your bitching. We eat when we put a hole through this dude.”
< 97 >
Paul Dayton was watching TV in the family room, one of those high-stakes poker tournaments, when the local news anchor cut into the commercial break with an urgent announcement.
“An Amber Alert has been issued for Madison Mackenzie, a sixteen-year-old North Tampa girl who the FBI fear has been victimized by an online predator. Anyone with any information regarding Madison’s whereabouts should contact the authorities immediately.”
There was a picture of Madison on-screen, some artsy shot—her ducking away from the camera but twisting back to scowl at it, the typical Madison Mackenzie facial expression—but Paul was already reaching for his phone, wasn’t really paying attention anymore.
“Hello?” he said when the 911 operator picked up. “I’m calling about that Amber Alert that just happened.”
<<<
Stevens and Windermere were posted in Catherine Mackenzie’s living room, having turned the house into a mini mobile command center, when the Tampa PD uniform came in with a teenage boy following close behind.
He was an unremarkable kid, brownish hair, could have used a haircut, but what struck Stevens about him was the expression on his face as he took in his surroundings. It was the look of a kid who’d just realized the game he was playing had higher stakes than he’d ever imagined.
“Paul Dayton,” he told Stevens and Windermere after they’d found him a chair to sit in. “I go to school with Madison.” He kind of laughed. “I would say we’re friends, but she wouldn’t.”
“What we hear, she doesn’t have any friends,” Windermere said, glancing at Catherine Mackenzie, where she sat in the kitchen.
“That’s valid,” Paul said. “She keeps to herself, anyway. She—” He seemed primed to go into a long description of Madison Mackenzie as he saw her, checked himself, though not before Stevens caught a glimpse of just how Paul and Madison fit. He’d been a teenager himself once, had his own share of unrequited crushes. Figured he’d looked at one or two girls the way Paul was looking right now.
“Just tell us what you know, son,” Stevens told him. “Can you help us find her?”
Paul scanned the living room—uniformed cops everywhere, plainclothesmen, some FBI agents from the local regional office. News crews outside, reporters doing their spiels. The house was chaos, and Stevens couldn’t blame the kid for feeling daunted. But Paul squared his shoulders. Looked Stevens and Windermere direct, face-to-face.
“Yeah,” he told them. “I can.”
• • •
“She’s head over heels for this guy from the Internet,” Paul told them. “Brandon something, this dude from Iowa. She was always texting him in class or whatever, getting in trouble. One time, I got in trouble, too, just for helping—”
He stopped himself. “Anyway. This Brandon guy was going to come to meet her and they were going to run away together, like sometime pretty soon. But yesterday I get this message from Madison on Facebook, real desperate. She said plans had changed and she needed to get out of town. She was going to meet this guy in, like, Louisville, I think?”
Louisville. Sarah Gruber was from near Louisville. Louisville was not a good sign.
“She didn’t have enough money for the Greyhound,” Paul said. He glanced into the kitchen, hesitated. “I lent her the money for the ticket. I even offered to drive her. I should have stopped her, I guess. I should have realized.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Stevens said, thinking the kid was probably so lovestruck he’d have jumped off the proverbial bridge had Madison given the order. “She left yesterday, you said?”
Paul nodded. “She took the afternoon bus to Orlando, then overnight from there. She said it was going to take her like twenty-two hours to get to where Brandon was.”
“Twenty-two hours.” Windermere had her notebook out. “And you put her on the bus when?”
“Seven-fifteen,” Paul said. “Well, it was a couple minutes after, because she was so late, but they still let her board.”
“Seven-fifteen,” Windermere repeated, and Stevens knew what she was thinking. It was four-fifteen now. Twenty-one hours had passed since Madison Mackenzie boarded her Greyhound. Assuming she’d made her connections, she would arrive in Louisville in about an hour.
Stevens stood. “We need to get Agent Wheeler to that bus station,” he told Windermere. “And then we need to get our asses to Louisville.”
< 98 >
Gruber found Earl’s building with no problem. Knew it was the right place from halfway down the block.
It was a grimy brick walk-up in the shadow of the Sherman Minton Bridge, a few blocks from the flood wall, a low, grassy hill that protected the town when the river overflowed. The building was three stories tall, run-down and old. The ghost of a bar on the first floor, all faded beer posters and boarded, blacked-out windows, the throb of some low-rent rock music wafting out from within. Above the bar were two floors of apartments, the windows narrow and greasy, bedsheet curtains and darkness behind.
It was a shithole. It was exactly the kind of place Gruber expected to find his stepfather, the kind of by-the-hour/by-the-week residence that housed only derelicts, ex-cons, the desperate, and the dying. It was hardly a step up from the Shady Acres Motor Court, probably wasn’t a much better accommodation than the state pen. It was Earl’s kind of place, Gruber figured, for sure.
It was late afternoon. The drive had taken eight hours—longer than Gruber had expected, but safer than the interstate. He’d made it to New Albany without any police trouble. Madison Mackenzie’s bus would arrive in an hour. Gruber figured he’d left himself just enough time to deal with Earl before he met the girl, even factoring in how he wanted to take his time, do things right. Make Earl suffer a little bit.
Of course, that assumed the whole plan played out without a hitch. And as Gruber slowed Curtis Donovan’s big Lincoln to a stop down the street from Earl Sanderson’s apartment building, he could see one big hitch standing directly in his way, in the form of a rusted-out Chevy Malibu parked across the street, those red, white, and blue Ohio plates standing out like a beacon, two men inside, just hanging out.
You told them where you’re going, Donovan had said. They’ll just send more guys down to meet you.
Gruber had laughed him off. Figured he could deal with whatever Rico Jordan’s crew threw at him. And he could, but he hadn’t really counted on the reinforcements showing up so soon.
Gruber turned the Lincoln down a cross street, drove up the block before the men in the Malibu could see him. Circled around to the back of the apartment building and parked, looking for another entrance. Found a rusted fire escape ladder and a back door for the bar, a heavy steel door by the dumpster that required a key. No luck. If he wanted into the building, he would have to go in through the front. And the men from Ohio had the front door covered.
Gruber walked back to the Lincoln. Popped the trunk and came out with the shotgun in its case, filled his pockets with ammunition. Slammed the trunk closed again. Then he stopped.
He’d been thinking he would just ambush the men, blast a couple new holes in that Malibu’s bodywork, end the standoff, nice and easy, before he went in to find Earl. But that plan had some flaws in it. Most notably, what if Earl wasn’t home? Second, someone was bound to notice a couple of dead mopes in a Malibu, midafternoon. They would call the police, and the police would investigate, and it would surely complicate matters if there were cops crawling around outside.
Gruber wanted to take his time with Earl. He wanted Earl to see just how grown-up he’d become, wanted to savor the fear in his stepfather’s eyes. He didn’t want to blow his shot because he had to clean up the trash outside first.
Shit.
Gruber went back to the Lincoln. Slid in behind the driver’s seat, stared out at the apartment building. Sat there a long time until he’d figured out a plan. He turned the key in the ignition. Checked the time on the clock on the dash. Less than forty minutes before Madison’s bus arrived. Well, she might have to wait a little while for old Brandon to show. Gruber knew he wouldn’t get anything done until he shook the Malibu clear of Earl’s apartment.
< 99 >
Rodney nudged Marcus as the Lincoln pulled out from the alley beside Earl Sanderson’s building.
“There,” he said, pointing. “That’s Curtis’s Continental. That’s the bastard right there.”
Marcus watched the Lincoln pull out, make a right turn, drive away slow toward the Sherman Minton Bridge. “What’s he doing leaving already?” he said. “You think he already got done what he came here to do?”
