The Watcher in the Wall, page 26
He could still be alive. Would be, if you’d taken Gruber out like you were supposed to, back at that shady-ass trailer. But you didn’t.
“That road spits out in Elizabeth,” Stevens was saying. “State patrol’s looking out for him on all four points of the compass. He won’t get far, Carla.”
Windermere pushed herself to her feet. “So what the hell are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s track the bastard down.”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “You have a direction in mind?”
“Any direction,” she told him. “Any which way at all. Just get me out of this ambulance and back on Gruber’s trail before he puts another body in the ground, okay?”
Behind her, the medic made to pull her back down. “Ma’am, I really think . . .” he said. “This cut here, you’re going to need stitches if you want it to heal right.”
“You hear what I said?” Windermere replied. “We got a killer on the loose, pal. Bandage me up fast and let me do my job.”
The medic stared at her. At Stevens and Windermere. Sighed, and reached for the gauze.
“Hurry,” Windermere told him. “It’s not even my shooting arm anyway.”
< 120 >
They had Madison in an ambulance. The cops had insisted, even though she kept telling them she was fine, no injuries, nothing psychological. They’d piled her in and they were going to take her back to the city, to Louisville, “for observation,” they said. Bull crap. Madison was hungry. All she really wanted was to eat. She’d figure out the rest later.
She knew she should be happy to be alive. She wasn’t. She knew a night like tonight should come with some kind of epiphany, some realization about the worthiness of her life. It hadn’t. All Madison could think about was going home to her mom, her sisters, Lena Jane Poole, and Paul, everybody knowing she’d fallen for some pervert on the Internet and nearly gotten herself killed. She figured she might choose death over having to walk back into her school again.
And Gruber was still missing. She’d overheard two cops talking outside the ambulance.
“Killed Stu Crowley,” the one cop said. “Pistol-whipped him to death in the back of the park. Disappeared down that back road, got away clean.”
“They put out an APB?” the second cop replied.
“Sure they did, but it’s all four points of the compass. So many back roads and dirt tracks around here, could be days before they find him.”
Madison knew this wasn’t true. She knew the police would find Gruber soon, real soon, whether they wanted to or not. She gathered they hadn’t heard about Earl. She figured she’d better tell them.
“Hey,” she called out to the cops outside. “Who’s in charge out there? I need to talk to somebody.”
<<<
Stevens and Windermere commandeered an FBI Charger from the trailer park gate. Windermere was sliding behind the wheel, trying to figure out a way she could drive with her arm all bandaged up and hurting, when Agent Wheeler tapped on the driver’s-side window.
“You guys have a second?” he said. “Got the girl over there—Madison? She said she wanted to talk to you before they take her to hospital.”
“We don’t have time for a visit,” Windermere said. “Hop on board and patch her in through the radio.” She reached for her seat belt, jarred her arm on the door handle instead. Winced and killed the ignition. “I think you’d better drive, partner,” she told Stevens. “That creep really screwed me over back there.”
<<<
She’d called for the police, and now here they were, a man’s voice and a woman’s voice on the other end of a radio—the FBI themselves.
“Stevens and Windermere,” the man told her. “We tracked you to the trailer park. That phone call of yours was some smart work, let me tell you.”
Madison looked at the cop next to her manning the radio. Felt stupid, this whole crazy night and everything was her fault. “Thanks, I guess.”
Then the woman came on. “You have something you wanted to tell us?”
Madison nodded. Pushed her reluctance aside, forced the words out. “In the car,” she said, “on the way here, Gruber kept talking about his sister.”
“Sarah, yeah,” the woman cop said. “We think he chose you for the resemblance.”
“That’s what he told me. I guess he was in love with her or something?”
“Obsessed,” the woman said. “I don’t think Gruber is capable of love.”
“Whatever. He wouldn’t shut up about her, anyway. And his stepfather, too, Earl?” She paused. “I don’t know if you guys know about him. The things he did to them, both of them.”
“We know,” Stevens said. “We have the backstory.”
Ah, Madison thought. So they know all of this. Waste of time, just like always.
You suck.
“Okay, never mind, sorry,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “You know everything about Earl, I guess.”
Radio silence. Road noise. Then: “Try us,” Windermere said. “What do you know?”
Madison looked down, looked away from the cop by the radio. Didn’t want to keep talking. They knew all this, and she was wasting their time. Useless, useless, useless.
“I just think he might be going to see him,” she said.
Another long pause, too long to be normal, and Madison wondered if they maybe didn’t know everything after all.
“What makes you say that?” Stevens asked her.
“He kept talking about Earl, about . . . what he’d done to Sarah. What he’d done to him,” Madison told them. “He said he tried to go see Earl today, but he couldn’t for some reason. So when he was finished with me, he would go back and try again, have a reunion.”
“A reunion,” Stevens repeated.
“Sounds like revenge to me,” the woman said. Madison heard an engine roar, urgent voices. Figured that was pretty much it for her involvement in the case. Was about to tell the cop to go ahead, turn it off, when the woman cop—Windermere—came on again. “Madison?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve been a really big help tonight,” Windermere told her. “Hang in there, honey, okay?”
Madison felt her face go red. “Whatever,” she said, and didn’t say anything else until she was sure Windermere was gone. Couldn’t unhear her words, though.
You’ve been a really big help.
It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation.
< 121 >
Windermere’s cell phone rang as Stevens drove. She checked the number: Mathers. Answered. “Kind of a bad time if you’re hoping to talk, Derek.”
Mathers coughed. “I could call back,” he told her, “but I think you want to hear this.”
Windermere looked out the window, trees flying past, Stevens with both hands on the wheel, at the ten and two, his mouth a thin line as he watched the road. “Shoot,” she told Mathers. “But you start with the lovey-dovey crap and I’m out.”
“Got a phone call from the Erie County Medical Examiner’s Office,” Mathers said, and Windermere forgot about the chase outside and zeroed in on his words. “Someone named Lily Yoshida, asking for you.”
“Yeah, Yoshida,” Windermere said. “Okay. What did she want?”
“She said she ID’d the body you and Stevens were asking about.” He paused, and she could hear him flipping pages. “Somebody named, ah, Curtis Donovan, a young guy from Cleveland, nineteen years old. He did a six-month stint in juvie, happened to get a couple cavities, so they had his dental records.”
“That’s convenient,” Windermere said. “She tell you anything else about the guy? Like why he wound up in Randall Gruber’s house?”
“She didn’t, but I called Cleveland PD, and they filled me in. Apparently this guy Donovan was on the come-up with Rico Jordan’s old crew, currently operated by someone named Victor Rodney. I don’t know who either of those guys are, but the Cleveland detective thought you would.”
“I know Rico,” Windermere said. “He and Gruber weren’t friends. Guess they tracked him down after all.”
“Guess so,” Mathers said. “Cleveland thought this crew might have sent Donovan up to Buffalo to settle some debts. But it sounds like Gruber got the drop on him.”
“Sounds like,” Windermere said. “So, okay, there’s the backstory. You know anything that can help me catch our bad guy?”
“Couple things,” Mathers said. “First of all, Curtis Donovan drove a white ’84 Lincoln Continental. So if you didn’t find one back in Buffalo, you should maybe keep an eye out down wherever you are.”
“A white ’84 Continental,” Windermere said. “Roger.”
“That’s not all you need to know, Carla,” Mathers said. “Curtis Donovan wasn’t much of a gangster, not according to what I found out. I guess he ransacked his uncle’s gun cabinet before he left town, took every weapon and all the ammunition he could find.” He paused just long enough to let the drama build. “And his uncle was loaded for bear. Like, literally. We’re talking serious firepower.”
Windermere felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Great,” she said, looking at the night speeding by outside her window. “So now this fucker has an arsenal, too.”
< 122 >
Gruber followed the Scenic Byway back into New Albany. Ducked under the Sherman Minton Bridge and pulled the Lincoln up outside Earl’s apartment building. Opened his door and reached down to pop the trunk, figuring to pull the shotgun out again, prepare his assault. The pain stopped him.
It felt like all of a sudden, but it had been there all along. Burning hot and angry, the blood from the bullet wounds saturating his clothes. The pain was overwhelming, pounding, relentless. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, five minutes had passed on the little clock on the dash, vanished like nothing, a time warp. He breathed in and out, ragged, wondered if he was dying, if this was where his life would end.
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Gruber urged himself out of the driver’s seat, his vision spotty, his legs like limp spaghetti. Circled to the back of the Lincoln, found the shotgun where he’d left it after he’d dealt with the men from Ohio, the boxes of ammunition. Took two trips to get it all to the front seat, two long, painful trips, but he made it. Dumped the ammunition beside the shotgun, wriggled into his jacket, collapsed back into the driver’s seat.
Minutes passed. Gruber caught his breath, summoned his strength. Heard a siren over the rush of traffic on the bridge, knew it wasn’t a coincidence. They were coming for him. That was fine. So long as Earl suffered first.
He forced himself out of the car again. Grit his teeth and reached in for the shotgun, ignored the throbbing pain in his shoulder, his side, the way the blood blackened his clothes.
There was nothing after Earl. There was only tonight. Gruber would ensure he made the most of it.
< 123 >
Windermere and Wheeler worked the radios as Stevens sped them toward New Albany. They had the local PD en route to Sanderson’s apartment, FBI backup coming out from Louisville. Took time to get these things sorted, however, and Gruber had a head start. Windermere figured she’d feel a hell of a lot better once she and Stevens were on scene.
Maybe Gruber’s not even looking for his stepfather, she thought. Maybe he’s just trying to disappear.
She knew this was wishful thinking. Knew the way this case had played out, they were heading for some new kind of violence before Gruber went away.
Any old time, she’d have relished the idea. The prospect of taking out a scumbag like Gruber, putting him down, letting him in on her own personal interpretation of justice. But this time was different.
This time, she was seeing Adrian Miller, R. J. Ramirez, Shelley Clark, and the rest of Gruber’s victims. She was seeing Rene Duclair walking the hallways, hurt deep and betrayed. She was seeing Wanda Rose laughing, not giving a shit.
She was playing back all of Ashley Frey’s chat logs, all the ways Gruber had preyed on his victims. All the insidious ways he’d turned them to his cause. The sick pleasure he’d derived from his watching.
Give me one more shot, she thought as the Charger devoured road. Give me just one more shot at this scumbag. I’ll make sure he pays for what he did to those kids.
< 124 >
Earl’s building wasn’t much better-looking at night.
It was late, after midnight. Most of the windows were dark. There was a lighted doorway at street level, the other end of the building from the bar. A glass door scrawled over with graffiti, a broken buzzer.
Gruber’s jacket had plenty of pockets to store ammunition. He emptied the boxes on the passenger seat, loaded up on .44 Magnum cartridges and Black Magic slugs, made sure to bring as many of each as he could carry.
He took the shotgun from the case and loaded it, slung it over his shoulder. Checked the revolver, stuffed it back in his waistband, prayed his wounded arm would hold out long enough that he could steady the bigger gun.
Gruber stepped back from the Lincoln and took off his glasses, cleaned the smudged glass with his grimy T-shirt. Replaced the glasses, shouldered the shotgun again. Slammed the Lincoln’s door closed and limped across to the apartment.
The door was locked. The buzzer was broken. No matter. The Magnum rounds would shatter the glass. Gruber leveled the revolver, took aim, was about to fire when a figure appeared on the other side of the door. A man.
He was about Gruber’s age, a Cardinals basketball hoodie and a brown, curly mullet. He was halfway out the door before he saw Gruber. Saw the revolver, the shotgun.
He blinked. Stared for a moment. The siren grew louder and the man glanced down the block and then back at Gruber, his thoughts coalescing.
“Oh, shit,” he said, his hands up. “I didn’t see nothing, man, don’t worry. I won’t tell them shit.”
He looked back in through the doorway. Gruber shot him. The revolver kicked, hard, the gunshot echoing around the empty street, bouncing off walls as the man crumpled to the ground. Gruber skirted past him, ducked into the building.
So much for the element of surprise.
< 125 >
It took ten minutes on the deserted highway to get back to the lights of New Albany. Stevens piloted the Charger into the little town, Wheeler leaning forward between the two seats, passing directions.
“We’re five minutes out,” he told Stevens and Windermere as the Charger screamed toward the base of the bridge. “I snagged some Kevlar from my truck if you want to strap in.”
Kevlar. Windermere wondered how much good body armor would do against ordnance designed to kill a black bear. Figured she might as well do the trial run. She let Wheeler pass her a couple of vests, set one aside for Stevens and slipped off her jacket, slid the other vest on herself. Felt her blood pumping, adrenaline and fear, as the Charger sped into the heart of New Albany, the Ohio River to their right, the whole town oblivious to what was about to transpire.
Stevens kept them rolling. Windermere checked her vest. Checked the action on her Glock, checked it again.
Five minutes. Nothing to do but wait.
< 126 >
Earl lived on the third floor. Gruber cursed the bastard for it.
He made the second floor with difficulty, his legs aching, his side burning, his clothing damp with sweat. Paused to catch his breath on the landing, then resumed the climb. Reached the third floor, the top of the building. Opened the fire door and peered down the hallway, listened for movement. Heard nothing, no sirens even. Just the low, maddening throb of the music from the bar, the whole building a subwoofer.
He drew the revolver again. Moved down the hall as quiet as he could, as quick as he dared. It wasn’t easy. The shotgun jostled his shoulder. His side howled with every impact. He was out of breath, panting, dizzy from the pain and the exertion. He pressed on, knowing the cops were right outside. Hoped Earl would be somewhere ahead.
A door opened. A woman peered out. Saw Gruber and froze, her eyes wide, her skin gone bleach white. Gruber raised the revolver, fired a shot at her. Relished the way she cried out as the doorframe exploded above her.
She slammed the door closed. Locked it. He walked past, reaching into his pocket for more ammunition. Heard her crying through the door, knew he’d scared her straight. Knew she wouldn’t poke her head out again.
The police would be here soon. He had moments to spare. The numbers on the doors counted down, 307, 306. Five units to go. Four. Then Earl. Then the end.
< 127 >
The radio crackled in the Charger. Stevens reached over to the dashboard, turned it up, caught the end of it.
“. . . just pulled up to the building and there’s a body out front, adult male, probable gunshot wound. The Lincoln’s here, too.”
“That’ll be Gruber,” Windermere said. She handed Wheeler the handset. “Make sure those investigating officers have backup. And plenty of firepower.”
Wheeler relayed her instructions as Stevens stood on the gas pedal and wheeled the Charger out from behind a slow-moving Honda, steered into the oncoming lane, lights flashing and horn blaring, a blinding wall of headlights ahead.
Windermere braced herself for impact. It didn’t come. The Charger swerved back out of danger, raced forward, the Honda wallowing behind.
Stevens let out a kind of laugh, a long ragged breath. Any other time, Windermere would have been impressed by his driving—hell, turned on, even. Right now, she was just wishing he could get them there even faster.
“End of the next block,” Wheeler called from the backseat. “Lock and load.”
