The Watcher in the Wall, page 22
“The fuck does it matter?” Rodney replied. “Do we care about Earl Sanderson?” The Lincoln was beyond the bridge already, gaining ground, fast. “Well? What are you waiting for, B? Follow him.”
<<<
Gruber watched the Malibu in his rearview, the car and the apartment receding quickly—too quickly—behind him. The plan wouldn’t work if the men from Ohio didn’t see him. If they didn’t take the bait.
Come on, he thought, easing off the gas. Come on, here I am. Follow me.
He was halfway down the main drag, closing in on the outskirts of town, before the Malibu moved behind him. Jerked to life and pulled out fast, like the men in the car had just realized what was happening. Gruber nudged the gas just enough to keep the big Lincoln moving, let the Malibu gain some distance. Wanted them close enough to see what he had planned, but hoped to keep enough space between them that they couldn’t fire on him until he was ready.
It wasn’t the best strategy in the world, what he was thinking about doing. It was risky, borderline stupid, and it would take up some time. And it assumed a hell of a lot about his own abilities with a shotgun. But it was the best he could come up with, the clock ticking down as it was, and anyway, it would keep the cops clear from Earl’s place, and wasn’t that all that mattered?
He would have to rework his plans, though. He would deal with these men. Then he would find Madison. Then he would come back for Earl. A few minor revisions, but no matter. It was good to be back in southern Indiana, good to be home. And Gruber realized he knew exactly where he would take Madison, just what kind of special game they could play.
But first, the men in the Malibu. Gruber made a right-hand turn at the end of town, eased onto the Ohio River Scenic Byway, drove due west, the sun already settling toward the horizon between the thick stands of trees that lined the drive. He kept the Lincoln moving, the traffic thinning out, made sure to keep at least a couple of cars between Donovan’s ride and the Malibu.
The men in the Malibu followed all the way to where the byway spit out near Maplewood, followed as he ducked under the interstate and onto the state road through Georgetown, still pointed west, the sun almost blinding ahead of the windshield.
His phone was buzzing in the center console. Madison. I’m almost here, she wrote. Can’t wait to see u.
Gruber checked the rearview. Saw the men clearly, two of them, big men, and mean, watching the Lincoln like they knew he was prey. He typed a response to Madison one-handed. Running a little late. Car trouble. I’ll be there as soon as I can. XO.
He kept driving. Glanced at the Smith & Wesson on the passenger seat and the shotgun in the back. Prayed the men in the Malibu held off until he had them where he wanted them.
>>>
Marcus shifted in the driver’s seat. Rubbed his stomach. “God-damn, I’m hungry,” he said. “This guy needs to hurry up and die so I can get something to eat.”
In the passenger seat, Rodney squinted out the windshield, the sun catching every grease stain and bug spatter on the glass, the Lincoln barely visible up ahead, somebody’s gleaming red Ford Super Duty the only thing in between.
Rodney reached for the MAC-11 beneath his seat, felt the familiar grip, the cold steel. In front of the Ford, the Lincoln was speeding up, opening some distance. The pickup truck lagged behind, in no hurry.
“I can pass this guy,” Marcus said. “Give us a clear shot. I’ll come up behind and you fill him with holes, cool?”
Rodney was about to tell Marcus, Yeah, cool, step on the gas. But then the Lincoln flashed its brake lights, a turn signal, right.
“Hold up,” Rodney said as the Lincoln turned down a narrow dirt road. “Be easy. We’ll nail him soon as you make this turn.”
< 100 >
Gruber hit the gas as soon as his tires hit dirt. Heard the Lincoln roar, felt the suspension bouncing, jarring, bottoming out. He kept his foot planted. Knew the men in the Malibu would aim to catch up here, this empty stretch of dirt. Knew they would see their opportunity.
He drove, bouncing in his seat, dodging potholes best he could, his eyes on the turn at the end of the road. This was a place he remembered only vaguely, from the occasional family drive out to the Hoosier National Forest, some twenty-odd miles farther west.
Bill Brothers Limestone, the place was called, and he’d always craned his neck as his mother drove past, peering in at the heavy machinery, the graders and the haulers, the deep pits in the earth. The place had closed down, just before his mother had taken up with Earl; Gruber could remember the last time they’d driven past the quarry, the trucks and equipment all gone, just a few boarded-up outbuildings and a couple big holes in the ground, slowly filling with water.
The place was deserted. Gruber reached the end of the road, made the turn, pointed the Lincoln west again, the sun a spotlight aimed square in his eyes, the Malibu hidden back there, somewhere in the dust cloud he’d kicked up as he drove.
There was a gate swinging loose off a rusted-out lock, signs of the odd party here and there—piles of discarded beer cans, old barbecue pits. Used condoms and cigarette butts, and beyond it all, the pits, brimming with water, deep blue and cold.
Gruber drove through the gate. Swung the Lincoln around an old storehouse weathered gray from the quarry dust, and near falling down from twenty years of neglect. He killed the engine with the car out of sight, stuffed the Smith & Wesson back in his waistband, and reached for the shotgun.
He heard the Malibu slow as he stepped from the Lincoln, the gravel crunch beneath the tires. Felt his heart start to pound, the adrenaline ramping up. Shouldered the shotgun and crept around the far side of the storehouse and back toward the gate, excited and terrified for what was to come.
>>>
Marcus stopped the Malibu. Fiddled with the sun visor, squinting in the glare. Rodney looked around, too. Couldn’t see a thing, just the blinding sun up ahead and some ruins alongside, trash everywhere and detritus, the dust hanging in the air from how the cars kicked it up.
Marcus rolled down the window. Coughed. “The fuck did he go?”
Rodney noticed the storehouse off to the left and figured it was obvious, was about to point out to Marcus to follow, when something caught his eye in his peripheral vision, coming from beyond Marcus, behind him.
Gruber.
There was no time to warn Marcus. Rodney shouted something, wasn’t even a word. Then Gruber was at the window with a big fucking shotgun, and Rodney was fumbling with the MAC-11, swinging around, and the shotgun roared once and blew a hole into Marcus, and Marcus jerked backward, into Rodney, knocked the MAC-11 from his hand. As Rodney bent down to grab the gun from the floor, he heard Gruber rack and reload with the shotgun and knew he’d never be fast enough.
He reached for the door handle instead. Wrenched it open and dove out to parched dirt and gravel just as Gruber put another slug through the windshield. Rodney scrambled away, the MAC-11 still in the Malibu, useless, heard Gruber behind him and pulled himself up and booked it, stumbling away from the car on uneven terrain as Gruber circled around from the driver’s side.
Go. Move. Get the hell out of here.
But Gruber had the open gate behind him. There was nowhere to run but farther into the quarry, toward the pits, the water, skirt the edge to the far side and hope Gruber kept missing.
Rodney made it ten, fifteen feet before the shotgun roared again, and then he was flying, launched in the air from the force of the impact, and he knew he was hit, somewhere vital, too, because when he landed hard on the gravel and tried to scramble up again, he found he couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t make them cooperate.
Rodney clawed his way instead, pulled himself forward on his belly, legs trailing useless behind him. He heard Gruber’s footsteps somewhere close, heard the freak breathing, laughing a little, taking his time.
There was nowhere to go, no escape but the pit itself, the lip three or four feet from Rodney’s outstretched hands. He pulled himself toward it, heard Gruber load another slug into that shotgun, knew if he didn’t find cover immediately, he was dead.
He lunged for the lip with the last of his strength. Reached it, looked down and saw black water and stone. Hesitated, just briefly, expecting another blast from behind him, another horse kick, then black. Jump or die.
Rodney jumped. Pulled himself over the edge, more like, tumbled down the jagged wall toward the water. Knew halfway down he was fucked anyhow. The water was deeper in the pit than he’d realized. There was no way back up the walls, not with that slug in him, not without his legs. He plummeted through open space, hit the water hard and felt the bite, cold, felt the slug hole in the small of his back for the first time, a terrible fire.
He plunged deep in the water, racking, twisting with pain, the shock of the impact. Got his head above water somehow, gasped for air, struggled to keep himself afloat with his arms, keep from blacking out, keep alive.
And then Gruber appeared at the lip of the pit, the shotgun in his hands, a little smile on his face. He stood there and watched Rodney struggle to stay afloat, trained the gun on him but didn’t shoot, and Rodney gasped for more air, swallowed water, his strength waning, wished the bastard would shoot, get it over with, end the fucking game.
But Gruber didn’t shoot. He just stood there at the lip in the twilight, watching Rodney fight the inevitable, smiling to himself like this bullshit was fun.
< 101 >
They commandeered a Cessna Citation Mustang, took off from Tampa Executive Airport, ten miles east of Madison Mackenzie’s house.
“This is a teenage girl in jeopardy,” Windermere told Drew Harris when she called to request the jet. “We need whatever you can get us. Jets, tactical, helicopters. SEAL Team Six, too, if you happen to have the number.”
Harris okayed the private plane. Told her he’d call Agent Wheeler in Louisville, set up a welcoming committee. Kick-start the search for Madison Mackenzie on the ground. Told her he’d do his utmost to help them, however he could.
Windermere thanked him. “I just hope we’re not too late.”
The flight was supposed to take two hours. Felt like seven or eight, the way the night sky never seemed to change through the Cessna’s porthole windows, the way Windermere kept thinking about Madison Mackenzie out there, somewhere far below.
This would be a hell of a lot easier if we could call her, she thought. Track her through GPS, or something.
But they couldn’t. They’d had the thought already, after Paul Dayton pointed them to Louisville.
“Like the last case, right?” Stevens had said. “Triangulate Madison’s location through her phone, find her and Gruber both.”
But Paul had overheard them, interrupted. “She sold her iPhone,” he told them. “Even with my savings, she didn’t have enough for the bus ticket. She sold that phone for fifty dollars to some dude at the Greyhound station.”
“Sold her phone?” Windermere repeated. “How’d she expect to meet this Brandon character with no phone? He was just going to show up at the bus station?”
“She bought a burner,” Paul said. “So they could be in touch. He’s the only one with the number.”
Windermere ran her hands through her hair. Let out a long, frustrated breath. Come on, honey, she thought. You gotta be smarter.
“I tried to get the number from her,” Paul said. “She wouldn’t give it. Said she was afraid I would sell her out. I gave her my number, though.” He ducked his head a little, looked hopeful. “So, you know, maybe she’ll call?”
Stevens was already turning for the door. “Forgive us if we don’t wait around.”
• • •
Now Windermere stared out the window as the plane shuddered its way toward Louisville. It was a cloudy night, visibility limited, and she couldn’t see much outside, just condensation on the windowpanes, and an inky deep blue quickly turning black beyond.
They’d talked to Agent Wheeler in Louisville, sent him to the bus station. Told him to call the plane the moment he found Madison Mackenzie. But so far, Wheeler had been silent. Madison was still missing.
“Could be Gruber doesn’t have the balls to do it in person,” Stevens said from across the cabin. “Or maybe Madison freaks out when she sees it’s him waiting for her, and not some pretty-boy teenager.”
“And, what?” Windermere replied. “Gruber just lets her go? He has to know that she’s going to flip out when she finds a thirty-something man waiting in the bus terminal where her dream boy is supposed to be. He has to have planned for this.”
She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “No,” she said, “he’ll have her, partner. And he’ll kill her, too. He didn’t come all this way for a freaking tea party.”
The plane shuddered again, dove into the clouds, night settling in, the day pretty much over, and Windermere could see nothing but her own reflection in the little porthole window.
Where are you, Madison? she wondered. We’re coming, honey. Just keep yourself alive a little while longer.
< 102 >
The police were already there when the bus arrived in Louisville. There was a young cop in uniform waiting at the gate; Madison watched him as the bus pulled in, felt a fear growing in her stomach as he lingered by the door. The police were here, and that meant what, exactly? Had Paul sold her out already?
What the hell, Paul? You had one job.
She sunk low in her seat as the bus stopped at the gate, tried not to stare at the young cop. Pulled her hood over her face, tucked her hair underneath, hid her face as best she could. Filed off the bus in a crowd, her head down, stuck close to the people in front of her. They were a young couple, in their twenties, tattoos and piercings and band logos on their duffel bags. Madison shadowed them, close as she could, nudged the girl ahead of her as they reached the step down.
“Excuse me,” she said, pasting a smile on her face, like they were all longtime friends and they’d traveled together. “Are you guys from around here?”
The girl stepped down to the pavement, then glanced back at Madison, matched her smile. “Sure we are,” she said. “Well, I am. He’s from down in Knoxville.”
“Oh, cool,” Madison said, eyeing the cop over the girl’s shoulder as she stepped off the bus. “That’s awesome. Are you guys, like, together?”
“Four months,” the girl replied. “I’m trying to talk him into moving here, but—” She reached ahead, hit her boyfriend’s shoulder. “He keeps saying he likes Tennessee too much.”
The cop was staring straight at them. Madison turned away quickly, laughed, loud, like she and this girl were all-time BFFs. Kept her face hidden from the young cop until she was past him and headed toward the terminal doors.
“You know anywhere good to eat around here?” Madison asked the girl.
The girl thought about it. “I mean, there’s the big entertainment center on Fourth Street. There’s, like, a Hard Rock Cafe and a bunch of other things, if that’s what you’re into.”
There were more cops inside the terminal. Madison could see them from the door. Patrol cops in uniforms, and plainclothesmen, too. Madison could see their cruisers parked in front of the building. Shit.
“Awesome,” she told the girl. “Thanks so much. Have a nice night!” Then she ducked away from the doorway, slipped between a baggage handler and a bus, hurried down the driveway toward the street, didn’t dare to look back, imagined the young cop was right on her tail.
She made the end of the driveway. The cop hadn’t followed, hadn’t picked her out. Amazing. She turned, fast, away from the bus station, and started running toward the lights of the skyscrapers downtown, the traffic, searching for a place to meet Brandon, somewhere the police wouldn’t find her.
She ran three or four blocks. Then she slowed, ducked into the shadows alongside a hotel. Pulled out her phone.
Good thing you’re running late, she wrote to Brandon. That bus station is swarming with cops.
< 103 >
The sun was gone when Gruber left the quarry, the last light of day all but slipped away. He kept the Lincoln roaring as soon as he hit open road, the gas pedal to the floor. Came in hot on Interstate 64, made New Albany and kept on driving, across the Sherman Minton into Louisville.
He’d wasted too much time on the mopes from Cleveland. The second one had died slow. Gruber had watched him struggle in the water, fighting to stay afloat, thought about shooting him, but decided against it. No sense wasting ammunition; it was a tough shot from the lip, and, anyway, Gruber had never watched a man drown before. He could still hear the mope’s last strangled pleas before the water took him under.
The trip to the quarry had been exhilarating, a worthy digression. But there was no time to deal with Earl now. Madison’s bus had arrived ninety minutes ago, and the girl would spook and bolt if he didn’t get to her soon. He’d intended to take her with him, somewhere safe, when Earl was gone and dealt with. He would have to deal with Earl later. He decided that was fine. He had somewhere special in mind for Madison.
His cell phone buzzed as he came off the Sherman Minton and into downtown Louisville. Another text message from Madison.
I ducked the cops. I’m down the block now. Fourth Street, some crazy covered mall thingy. Are you almost here?
Fourth Street. The entertainment complex, bars and chain restaurants, spanning an entire city block. Gruber put the phone down. Steered the Lincoln down Liberty Street, the complex in the distance, lights and music, heavy traffic, a crowd. Madison would blend in there. Too many faces. Good girl. Good thinking.
Gruber parked the Lincoln as close as he could. Typed a response to Madison. Car’s still effed up. Sent my friend to pick you up. He shouldn’t be too long. XO.
