Dead Even Part 25

"Figure of speech. Don't worry, Archer Lowell's picture will be every place you want it to be."

"Great. Things should start to heat up real soon." Miranda nodded. "Maybe, with luck, we'll be able to track him down and-"

"Not we." John shook his head.

"What do you mean, 'not we'?" She frowned.

"I'm taking you off the case," he told her.

"What?" she said, stricken.

"Too dangerous," John said.

"John, if you're thinking about what Josh Landry said, about me possibly being the third victim, I appreciate that you're concerned-"

"Don't even try to talk me out of it. I want you as far from the action here as I can get you. This guy has turned out to be so much smarter than anyone gave him credit for. He got to Unger; he got to Landry. I can't take the chance that he'll find a way to get to you, too." He set his jaw. "I'm sorry, Miranda. You're off the case."

She opened her mouth to protest, and he said, "Besides, I need you someplace else right now."

"Sure you do," she said dryly. "Counting incoming flights at Reagan International, no doubt."

Ignoring her sarcasm, he continued, "I just heard from Genna."

Her head shot up.

"Is she out of the compound?"

"Yes. She should be leaving Wyoming as we speak." He paused for a moment, then added, "With the Douglas girl. This is going to be really hard on everyone. Annie, her sister, and even harder on the child. For seven years, this girl has been told that her mother was dead. This isn't going to be a pretty reunion."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Jules Douglas has gone to great pains over the past seven years to hide that girl. He's not going to give her up now without a fight." John's voice was tight. "I want you and Will on Mara and her daughter like white on rice. Aidan's already on the scene. Douglas will be coming after her, and I want him taken down and brought in. Preferably alive. But if not, well, do what you have to do."

Will's phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket to check the caller ID.

"Excuse me," he said to John, "but I need to take this. . . ."

He held the phone to his ear, listening to the caller, then paced five or six steps off to the right, then back again. After he'd disconnected the call, he turned to Miranda and John.

"That was Evan Crosby," he told them.

"He's figured out where Channing, Giordano, and Lowell hatched their plan?" Miranda asked.

"He found the deputy who put them all in the same room while the courthouse was on lockdown. He told Evan that the men were in there for hours, alone. Plenty of time to work out a plan like theirs."

"Did he mention a fourth man?" Miranda looked hopeful.

"No. He was adamant there were just the three of them. Later that day, the charges against Channing were dismissed and he was released."

"He was brought in on a warrant that turned out to be a different Curtis Channing, if I recall correctly?" John asked.

"Right. But Evan had other news for us as well." Will paused. "The bullet used to kill Unger had a match in drugfire."

"To . . . ?" Miranda asked curiously.

"To the bullets that killed Vince Giordano's wife and sons." Will nodded slowly. "Think about that for a long minute."

"I am." Miranda crossed her arms over her chest. "How the h.e.l.l could that be . . . ?"

"I think we need to ask Vince Giordano that question." Will turned to John. "That is, if you think there's time before Genna arrives with Mara's daughter."

"There's time." John nodded. "I'm still not sure where the reunion is going to take place. I'm leaving that up to Annie. She may be the girl's aunt, but she also has a background in psychology. I'm sure she'll know what's best under the circ.u.mstances. You go ahead and talk to Giordano. And let me know what he has to say. I'm as curious as you are. . . ."

"So, Archie, you sure you don't want none of this?" Burt sat at the desk in the small motel room, the open pizza box in front of him.

"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, d.a.m.ned 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 f.u.c.k . . . ?

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 b.i.t.c.h had called her her. He had called the FBI, for chrissake. What the h.e.l.l kind of moron had he gotten mixed up with?

Archer had called the f.u.c.king 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sume 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-f.u.c.king-I, and you never knew what the feds could do.

So even if he a.s.sumed that while the FBI didn't know where he and Archer were now, now, it didn't mean that Cahill couldn't find them it didn't mean that Cahill couldn't find them soon. 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. L. The sooner Burt got rid of him, the better things would be. 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 s.h.i.t 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 f.u.c.k.

"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 s.h.i.t 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, a.s.shole. 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 . . ."

"Bulls.h.i.t." 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 pa.s.senger 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 s.p.a.ce 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.