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  43

  “Where are you going?” Comeau demanded.

  “Just want to check something,” Wheelock said.

  “Check what? They need us at the motel.”

  Wheelock curled his lip, glanced sideways at him.

  “Two guys down? It’s gotta be Kenny Langdon, Rich. You know it and I know it.”

  Lori’s call had saved them from a tedious vigil at the hospital’s Emergency Room. They’d been waiting to interview a teenage kid who’d managed to wrap his dad’s Cadillac SUV around a tree. He’d fractured his leg in the process, so he wasn’t going anywhere and they’d get a blood sample anyway. They couldn’t wait to get out of there, but the way Wheelock was driving Comeau figured they might be back in the ER sooner than they thought.

  “Take it easy–we don’t know anything yet. That’s why we’re supposed to go to the motel. To find out.”

  “Fuck that,” Wheelock said, “you heard the descriptions – the vics are the same guys who’ve been leaning on Saunders, trying to crowd Langdon out.”

  The vics, Comeau thought. too much tv.

  “And you know this how?”

  “You know Darryl? Big sloppy guy, hangs around with Langdon? He told me.”

  “Nothing like a reliable source.”

  “Hey,” Wheelock looked offended, “he’s the real thing. He keeps me in the loop, gets a get-out-of-jail free card.”

  “You don’t have the authority to offer that,” Comeau said sharply.

  “You know that,” Wheelock grinned, “but Darryl doesn’t.”

  Comeau looked out the windshield, couldn’t place where they were. It was a badly maintained secondary road, fir trees encroaching almost over the pavement. It was like driving down a dark, narrow tunnel. Wheelock had killed the siren and the light bar when he’d taken the turnoff but he was driving just as fast as before.

  “Slow the fuck down.”

  “Almost there,” Wheelock said, then hit the brakes hard enough that Comeau was thrown forward against his shoulder belt.

  “Shit, Gary!”

  Wheelock had missed what he’d been looking for, put the cruiser into reverse and backed up fast. Comeau saw a narrow break in the trees marking a dirt road. It looked like it led down toward the river. Wheelock kept going, finally stopped about fifty yards back from it.

  “Where the hell are we?” Comeau looked around.

  “Langdon’s place,” Wheelock jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the river.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Down there,” Wheelock said, “you didn’t think we were just gonna pull up in his driveway, did you?”

  Wheelock reached down under the dashboard and popped the trunk, then opened his door and got out. Comeau saw Wheelock’s door closing, reached across in time to stop it from slamming. Asshole, he thought, then got out himself, careful to close his own door softly. Langdon’s place was somewhere down below but he had no idea how far. By the time Comeau got to the back of the car Wheelock was reaching into the trunk. There were two long guns in there, a CAR-15 carbine and a 12 gauge Winchester pump.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Wheelock looked at him like he was an idiot, took out the carbine and left the shotgun for him. Comeau stood there for a moment, just watched as Wheelock was walked down the road.

  “Shit,” Comeau said.

  None of this felt right but he couldn’t let Wheelock go down there alone. He reached in and took the shotgun, eased the trunk lid back down until it latched. He followed Wheelock and caught up with him just as he turned down the gravel road leading to Langdon’s place. Comeau felt a chill breeze on his face and then they were at the bottom, the road curving sharply to the left and then running in a straight line parallel to the river. A handful of cottages were scattered on both sides of the road. They were shuttered and dark, still closed up for the season.

  Wheelock stopped walking, gestured up ahead. Comeau thought he could see a faint spill of light at the far end of the road.

  “It’s the last one on the left,” Wheelock said, keeping his voice low, “the old farmhouse.”

  He started walking again, more slowly this time. He motioned for Comeau to come up beside him. The whole thing felt ridiculous, like they were two gunslingers in an old duster.

  He thinks he’s in a friggin’ movie, Comeau thought.

  44

  Frank reminded himself to go carefully. He had no official standing, no right to do anything other than make a complaint to the police department just like any other citizen. His initial impulse was to tear a strip off the asshole who’d nearly run them off the road, but that went all to hell as soon as they came around a corner and saw the abandoned cruiser sitting there. There was rarely much traffic on that road but the car wasn’t showing any lights and it would be a miracle if some half-buzzed local didn’t come around the corner and plow into it.

  “Stop the truck, Billy! Right here.”

  Billy hesitated, then did what he was told. He shot Frank a hurt look. Frank lowered his voice.

  “This is as far as you go.”

  Billy started to say something but Frank held up a hand.

  “Thanks for the drive, Billy. Go home.”

  Frank made sure he closed the door quietly when he got out. Sounds carried a long way out here. He turned toward the break in the trees, started walking.

  Frank was unarmed, knew he had no business doing what he was doing, but the abandoned vehicle bothered him. Its proximity to Langdon’s house bothered him more. He checked the cruiser’s interior on the way by, tried its doors. At least they locked it up, he thought. He didn’t have much faith in Gary Wheelock’s judgement, but from what he’d heard there were others besides Frank who thought Langdon had something to do with Nesbitt’s death. Maybe Wheelock was one of them.

  That still didn’t explain Wheelock tearing out here and then leaving the car up on the road – unless Wheelock had gone totally off the reservation, had decided to do something stupid. Wheelock was young, impulsive, and ambitious. With Wheelock ‘stupid’ was well within the range of possibilities.

  It crossed Frank’s mind that what he was doing himself wasn’t very bright either.

  45

  Brent Williams didn’t like having an audience, didn’t like the look of all the civilian vehicles that had started to stack up by the roadside. He swore under his breath. Some of the onlookers were even taking pictures.

  Brent looked up at the road again, decided to let it go. Too many people to deal with and he didn’t have the manpower or the time to get rid of them. Brent just wished he didn’t feel so damned self-conscious.

  He’d really just started to settle in, get comfortable with the idea that Frank Stallings probably wasn’t coming back to claim the chief’s spot, at least unless or until Brent demonstrated he couldn’t handle it. Brent was fine with administration, with responsibility and routine, but he wasn’t in Stalling’s league where violent death was concerned. It was a glaring weak spot, albeit one he couldn’t really be faulted for. Homicides in Strothwood were rare, something a cop might encounter only a few times in an entire career. The Terry Wellner thing had been an anomaly, an embarrassment, but that daisy chain of horrors was something Brent felt no responsibility for. Even now no one knew how many victims there had been or how far back they went – and no one in Strothwood seemed that interested in finding out. If there were more – forget the ‘if’, he thought, there had to be more – so far there hadn’t been hard evidence of it. All indications were that Ed Cunningham wanted things kept that way, and Brent could understand why. Strothwood was on its way out to begin with, and a reputation as the former killing ground for an apex predator wouldn’t do much to bring it back.

  Now this. Brent knew that he could have gone the rest of his career without another homicide, let alone a double. This had come out of nowhere, something with the potential to expose his weaknesses. Brent was the acting chief at the pleasure of the mayor’
s office, and he knew that Ed Cunningham could change his mind on a dime. A police department that couldn’t cope with this type of thing, with the big stuff, would find itself led by somebody who could. Somebody like Frank Stallings.

  Only a few months ago Brent would have been fine with that, would even have agreed with it. He’d been perfectly comfortable as Frank’s number two, had learned a lot from Frank at a time in his career when he didn’t think there was a lot left to learn. Frank had treated him with respect, given him a lot of leeway. He’d even used him as a sounding board, brought him in on decisions.

  Which was exactly what Ed Cunningham had done with Brent when he decided Frank Stallings was a political liability. At the time Brent had made a half-hearted attempt to defend Frank, but he knew Ed Cunningham and he knew the signs. Brent could either get on board or Cunningham would find somebody who would.

  Brent had surprised even himself. He discovered he liked being The Man, even if so far Cunningham hadn’t formalized his acting appointment into something more permanent.

  He thought of all the looky-loos parked up on the side of the road, realized he’d been standing immobile and preoccupied in the middle of his own investigation. He resisted the urge to look up there again, instead went over to where Kelly Randall was talking to Jed Hopkins. She looked frustrated and impatient.

  “I told you,” Hopkins was saying, “I didn’t see anything. I was in the back, behind the office. I heard a car pull in and I figured it was just those guys coming back. Heard car doors slamming and a lot of yelling. Then I heard a gunshot.”

  Brent decided it was time to jump in.

  “That when you called 911?” he asked.

  Randall shot him a look, like she’d already been over that.

  “No,” Hopkins said, “maybe I should have, but I just – ”

  “He went out the back,” Randall said. She sounded disgusted.

  “Kelly, I’m talking to Mr. Hopkins,” Brent said mildly, looked back at Hopkins, “why didn’t you call right away?”

  “I was scared shitless, all right? I didn’t know what was going on. For all I knew somebody was going to come in after me.”

  46

  Elway had always felt a grudging admiration for Langdon’s ability to talk his way out of anything. From the smug look on Kenny’s face it was clear that he thought he’d done it again.

  Elway had been about to take things into his own hands, and he’d been about to make a move when Kenny had managed to coax Sherry away from her car and into the house. For the last few minutes Elway had been sitting on the living room couch like he was watching a stage play. He could tell Sherry wanted to believe Kenny, but the phone calls were too much to be a coincidence. Elway couldn’t fault Sherry because he hadn’t seen it coming either. He’d fallen for Kenny’s bullshit too. Kenny would never have confronted those guys if Elway hadn’t been there to back him up.

  Elway had made the whole clusterfuck possible. He’d been a good little soldier, done his best to clean up the mess. It had been rushed, a last ditch attempt to cover something that should never have happened in the first place. Elway had to save Langdon’s ass to save his own.

  There was an outside chance the coverup would work. Even if it did, Sherry could be a problem. He watched her as Kenny talked, tried to get a read on what she was thinking. He didn’t like what he saw.

  Elway got up from the couch, headed into the kitchen. It was hard to think with the soap opera playing out in the living room. There was a way out, he realized. He’d known Kenny a long time, and he’d considered him a friend. That had changed when Kenny screwed up at the motel. Kenny had lost respect with Elway, and with Elway respect was everything.

  Sherry worried him more. If the cops got around to Kenny sooner or later they’d get around to her. Kenny knew the drill, knew enough to keep his mouth shut. She didn’t. Even if she tried to cover for Kenny, Elway didn’t think she’d be able to stand up to any kind of serious questioning. The phone call would come out. Elway didn’t like where this was leading him, but if all the places he’d been had taught him anything it had been about survival.

  It had to be believable, and it had to be both of them. There wasn’t any guarantee that Kenny would see Sherry as the liability she’d become, and Elway couldn’t take the chance. That meant Kenny had to go first.

  Elway might have lost respect for him, but the incident at the motel had also reminded him how unpredictable and dangerous Kenny could be. Kenny had always had an uncanny knack for reading people, and Elway knew that the longer he let things go the more likely it was that Kenny would pick up on the vibe.

  Kenny was right handed, so the shot had to be in close, preferably his right temple. Elway would have to come in from behind and then get to Kenny’s right side, place the gun muzzle close enough for the blast to stipple the skin.

  Placement wasn’t as important with the girl. She wouldn’t react as fast, and seeing Kenny’s brains blow out the other side of his head would momentarily freeze her anyway.

  The ever-popular murder-suicide, played out time and again in happy households across America and almost invariably initiated by the male. The cops wouldn’t have any trouble believing it, especially with Langdon, and it was something they’d want to believe anyway. Elway had to hope the whole flimsy house of cards would hold up, that the cops wouldn’t be able to find a direct connection to him. Afterward all he could do was get himself away from the farmhouse. Better to run and go deep than take his chances where he was.

  47

  Wheelock wasn’t as sure of himself now that he and Comeau were so close to Langdon’s place. The problem was that he was committed now, couldn’t backtrack on a bad decision without looking like a complete fool. They couldn’t just turn around, trudge back up the road the way they came. All he could do now was try to ratchet things back down, try to defuse a situation he’d created.

  “Okay,” he said finally, trying to sound casual, like he did this all the time. It annoyed him that he was using Stallings’ mannerisms as a reference point, “two cars there. The Camaro is Langdon’s. Don’t recognize the other one, but there’s somebody in there. I’m gonna go up behind the house, see what’s going on.”

  “Then what?” Comeau asked.

  The truth was that Wheelock didn’t have any idea, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Comeau.

  “Depends,” he said, “on what I see.”

  He left Comeau down on the road, got out of there before he could ask any more questions. He glanced back once, saw Comeau start toward the steps at the front of the house. He tried to wave him away but Comeau either ignored him or didn’t notice. Wheelock thought of going back and telling Comeau to stay put but decided it might attract attention from inside. He turned away, kept moving toward the back.

  There wasn’t much to the farmhouse itself – two storeys, faded paint, a dilapidated porch that ran all the way across the front, four or five sagging wooden steps on the left hand side of the porch leading up to the front door. There was a big picture window overlooking the porch, a light showing in what must be the living room. Wheelock thought he could see movement inside, stopped suddenly and took a deep breath when he saw a small fire sputtering in the back yard. He couldn’t see anyone around it, no shadows, so he stayed low and used the cars for cover until he was sure the fire was unattended. He didn’t think it would stay that way for long.

  He kept his distance from the side door of the house and kept going into the back yard, careful to stay outside the twin spills of light from the fire and the big kitchen window. He could feel the ground rising slightly beneath him as he got closer to the dark line of trees that lined the back of the yard.

  When he turned around he was perfectly elevated to look through the kitchen window. The kitchen was partially open through to the front of the house and Wheelock could see movement back there, somebody getting up and walking toward the kitchen. He expected it to be Langdon but instead it was a big guy he didn’t recogniz
e. There was something ominous in the way he moved, as if he knew Wheelock was out there. He came closer to the window and it felt like he was staring straight at Wheelock. The man stayed like that for a long time, then reached into his waistband and took out a bulky automatic.

  Wheelock suddenly realized he was just standing there watching it all happen, that he was way behind the curve. He hurried to catch up, brought the carbine up to his shoulder, slipped his finger inside the trigger guard. Before he fully realized what was happening he heard the carbine stutter, felt the recoil against his shoulder. He froze, stupefied. By the time he released the trigger several rounds had torn through the walls of the farmhouse and the kitchen window disintegrated.

  Wheelock couldn’t process what had just happened. He lowered the rifle to his side, felt an overwhelming urge to just run away. Then he felt two sledgehammer blows and he was on his back, looking straight up into a glazed and dimming sky.

  48

  Frank had been looking up at the farmhouse when the front window blew out and a dark figure on the porch went down in a shower of glass. The gunfire sounded like it had come from behind the house, not inside, and Frank knew .223s when he heard them. He stayed low, squinted to see what the hell was going on. He heard two more shots, sounded like a handgun, so closely spaced they almost ran together. Whoever had fired them knew what he was doing. It occurred to Frank that he’d managed to come unarmed to a gunfight.

  He thought he could see movement low on the porch, realized that whoever was up there was trying to crawl down the stairs. Frank kept low, started to move along the side of the cars away from the house. He got to the front end of the old Toyota, cautiously raised his head.

  A man in a Strothwood PD uniform and jacket was trying to crawl headfirst down the porch stairs. His head and face were covered with blood and it was impossible to tell who it was. Frank glanced at the front door of the farmhouse, then broke for the porch. The cop heard him coming and panicked, raised a hand to fend him off. His face and head were covered in blood and Frank realized the man couldn’t see.