Dead Even Part 8

"Who are you? Why are you calling me?"

"Your old buddy Vince asked me to."

"Vince who?"

"Don't even try to play me, Archie. It p.i.s.ses me off no end when people try to play me. And you do not want to p.i.s.s me off. Understand?"

"Yeah . . . yes." Archer wrapped the blanket around himself. All of a sudden, he felt very cold.

"Okay, then." A long drag off a cigarette, a long exhale. "I want to know what your plan is, Archie."

"My plan?"

"Your plan to carry out your part of the deal. The deal you made with Vince and that other friend of yours, the one who died. I want to know what you're going to do."

"I . . . ah . . ." Archer slammed down the receiver.

"Holy s.h.i.t," he whispered. "Holy s.h.i.t . . ."

He went into the tiny bathroom and relieved himself, then splashed cool water onto his face with hands shaking so badly they barely held water.

Calm down. You don't know who that was. Coulda been anyone.

Anyone who knew about the game . . .

Then it had to have been Vince. Yeah, that's it. It was Vince. Calling from High Meadow. Pretending to be someone else.

Why would Vince pretend to be someone else?

To scare me. Yeah, just to scare me into thinking it was someone on the outside.

Had the caller said he was on the outside? He couldn't remember.

But it had to be Vince. It had to be.

No one else knows, right?

Right?

Could even have been the FBI. Yeah, it coulda been them.

He tried to remember if he'd said anything that could incriminate him. He didn't think he had.

He pulled on the jeans he'd worn the day before and a flannel shirt from the pile of laundry in his room. Grabbing his jacket, he left the trailer, then paused out front. He avoided the road and walked along behind the other trailers until he reached the end of the mobile home village. He looked around and, seeing no cars, no strangers, he exhaled deeply.

Still, he felt jumpy. As if he were being watched.

He debated with himself, then set out across the field that lay between the trailers and the back of the Well. A short walk and he'd be at the bar, a cold beer in his hand. He'd taken that route on several occasions when he couldn't beg a ride home from anyone. It was dark and a little creepy late at night, but this was broad daylight.

It was with great relief that he rounded the corner of the building and pushed open the door. He went straight to the bar and ordered a shot and a beer, then another. His nerves mildly anesthetized, he finally relaxed, entered into some mindless chatter with the bartender, who was obviously bored. There was only one other person drinking at that hour of the morning, a regular from town who never spoke to anyone.

By noon, Archer was buzzed. By three in the afternoon, he was sleeping in a chair in the back room. Later that night, he was back at the bar with his friends. At midnight, the morning's fear forgotten, he left the bar by the back door, intending to return home the same way he'd arrived.

The door was barely closed before a large hand grabbed him by both lapels, dragged him around the corner, and shoved him back against the back wall of the bar.

"Who . . . ?"

"I hate it when someone hangs up on me before I've said what I had to say."

The figure was large, the face indistinct in the dark.

Archer cringed and tried to melt through the wall.

"Now, I'm going to ask you one more time. What are your plans for carrying out your end of the deal?"

"I hadn't really thought about it. I just got out. . . ." Archer tried to calm himself. Tried to sound as if he wasn't ready to pa.s.s out from fright.

"Well, then, let's think about it now. You and me." The man dragged Archer deeper into the shadows.

"Who are you?" Archer asked, hoping to buy himself time.

"You can call me Burt. And I'm the man who's going to make sure that you don't f.u.c.k up, little buddy." His breath was hot and sour in Archer's face. "I'm the man who is going to be watching every move you make until the job is done, understand?"

"No."

"Think of me sorta like your conscience." He chuckled, but to Archer it sounded more like a growl. "You know how your conscience tells you what to do? Keep your word, that sort of thing?"

Archer nodded slowly.

"Well, I'm gonna make sure you do what you said you'd do."

"I was gonna do it," Archer whispered. "Soon as I could, you know, get a plan together."

"This is your lucky day, Archer. Because I am here to help you with that plan." His grip on Archer never loosened. "Tell me the names. Convince me that you're still in the game, that you know what you have to do. . . ."

Archer whispered the names.

"Very good, Archie. Very good. At least you know that much."

"Hey, I know what I'm supposed to do, okay? Just haven't gotten around to doing it. First I need to get a job, I need some money to get around, you know what I mean?"

Archer felt himself lowered so that his feet once again touched the ground.

The stranger backed off slightly, then stuffed something into Archer's left jacket pocket.

"Now that's one excuse you don't have anymore. Tell me what your plan is, Archie. Walk me through it. . . ."

Jesus. Jesus.

Archer sat on the ground behind his mother's trailer and shook all over. He'd run all the way back from the bar in the dark, all the way across the field, stumbling, his neck craning this way and that. Terrified that the stranger was following him, that he'd let him get halfway across the field and then he'd pop up and just break his neck or slash him to ribbons. Like one of those bad scary movies. Jason. Michael. Freddie.

Burt was scarier.

Archer was crying softly by the time he arrived home. Not soft enough to risk going inside, though. He'd wake up his mom, sure enough, and there was no way he wanted her to see him like this. Geez, he was crying like a girl.

I can't help it. He was scary. Burt was the scariest person I've ever seen close-up.

Scarier still, knowing that he was going to be watching until this was over. Until he'd . . .

Archer started crying all over again.

I don't want to kill anyone. I never did; I never want to.

He thought of the photographs of Vince's victims, the ones the chief of police from Broeder had shown him while he was still in prison, when they wanted him to talk about Vince. A man with a single hole in the back of his head, a larger one in the front. A woman with her throat slashed, her chest a mess of stab wounds, blood everywhere. Her eyes had been open.

Jesus.

He stopped shaking for a minute. Miranda Cahill-he cringed at the irony-had been here just the day before yesterday. He could have told her. He could still tell her. He could get the FBI to help him. Protect him.

Yeah, Miz Cahill, you were right. It was just supposed to be a game, that's all. Something to pa.s.s the time while we were in the courthouse waiting. I swear to you, it wasn't supposed to happen. I never thought it was going to happen. But then, see, Channing got out, and he did Vince's. .h.i.ts. Then Vince, he gets out, and he's thinking, hey, Channing did it, I have to do it, too. That's what I think happened, anyway. I think Vince didn't want to feel like Channing was, you know, a tougher man than he was. So then, Vince is out, and he picks up the game, and he does . . . he does these people that I had said p.i.s.sed me off. I didn't really want them to die, you gotta understand that. I never thought anyone was really gonna die. . . .

He whimpered aloud.

And then I get out, and all I want to do is just live my life. Get a job. Find a girl. Live my life. I had no intention of playing out the game.

And then this guy came along and said I had to. . . .

And what was he going to say when they asked him who the stranger was?

"I don't know," he said aloud. "I don't know who he is. I never even seen his face. . . ."

Like anyone is going to believe that that.

Archer hugged himself in the dark, and tried to think of a way out of the mess he'd gotten himself into, preferably one that would not require him to kill or, in the alternative, to be killed.

Right at that moment, he wasn't sure which would be worse.

CHAPTER SIX.

Claire Channing was watching from the living room window of her well-kept white clapboard ranch house as the man and woman crossed her lawn, headed for her front door. Even if they hadn't given her the courtesy of a phone call, she'd have known just by looking at them that they were law. She'd seen more than enough law enforcement types over the past six months. After the investigation into the circ.u.mstances surrounding the death of her foster son, Curtis, had concluded, she'd thought she'd seen the last of them.

Apparently not. Her face was etched with sadness as the doorbell rang. Would there never be an end to the questions?

"I appreciate you being on time," she said wearily as she opened the door.

"Mrs. Channing, I'm Special Agent Miranda Cahill. We spoke earlier on the phone." In the agent's left hand were her credentials.

Claire Channing had seen her share of those over the past months, as well.

"I'm Agent Fletcher, ma'am." The second agent introduced himself.

"Do come in, Agent Cahill, Agent Fletcher." Mrs. Channing stepped back, offering a weak smile as the two agents eased past her. "I'm afraid things are a bit disheveled right now. . . ."

"You're moving?" Agent Cahill asked.

"Yes. With everything that's happened over the past several months, I just need . . ." Mrs. Channing shook her head.

"A change of scenery." Agent Cahill completed the sentence for her. "Of course you do. I'm sure this whole matter has been terribly stressful for you, Mrs. Channing. It's very nice of you to give Agent Fletcher and me a few minutes of your time. We won't keep you any longer than necessary, I promise."

"Thank you. It has been an ordeal." Mrs. Channing sat on the arm of a club chair; several boxes had been stacked on its seat. "After Curtis . . . well, there was so much . . . commotion. Reporters and police, it just got to be too much. I spent some time in Florida with my sister, and that time away made me realize that there really wasn't anything to hold me here anymore. My husband has been gone these years, and Curtis . . . Curtis won't be coming back. So I listed the house for sale, and the agent found a buyer. We settle in two weeks. It's taking me longer than I expected to pack, though. It's not easy to pack up fifty-two years of your life in a month's time, you know."

"I'm sure it's very difficult for you, Mrs. Channing. We'll make this as easy for you as we can," Will a.s.sured her.

"Well, then. What exactly do you need to know that no one else has asked me over the past six months?"

"Can you think of anyone Curtis might have had a grievance against? Someone he might have wanted to take revenge on?" Agent Cahill appeared to choose her words carefully.

"What kind of a question is that?" Claire Channing was taken aback. "Curtis is dead. What is this talk of revenge?"

"Mrs. Channing, we have reason to believe that before Curtis died, he and two other men made a pact . . . an agreement." More carefully chosen words from Miranda Cahill.

"A pact?" Mrs. Channing frowned. "What kind of a pact? What are you talking about?"

"They made an agreement to kill for one another, Mrs. Channing," Will Fletcher said. "The women whom Curtis killed earlier this year-all have ties to one of the other two men. Then, two months ago, two people having ties to another of the men was killed by the second. We believe a third man is about to kill three people having ties to Curtis."

"This is crazy. Just crazy." Mrs. Channing walked out of the room. The agents followed.

"Mrs. Channing-"

"This is crazy talk, Agent Cahill." Claire Channing sat at the table in the sun-filled kitchen, staring at her hands. "Curtis . . . killed those women. I know he did that. But it was because of what had happened to him so long ago, when he was just a little boy. It wasn't for revenge or for anything like what you're talking about."

She looked from one agent to the other, appealing for their understanding.

"Things happened to him. Things that made him . . . not right. Not that it's an excuse for what he did to all those women. I know nothing could excuse what he did. But if you understood what happened to him, you'd know that there was something inside him that just wasn't right. And G.o.d help him, it wasn't his fault. He didn't ask for those terrible things to be done to him."

"We know, Mrs. Channing. We've read the files," Will told her gently. "We know what happened to him . . . what his mother did to him."

"Then you know that he just . . . couldn't help but be what he was. How could any child be right when they've had to endure such abominations. And at the hands of their own mother." Tears started down her face, and she ignored them. "We tried, Marshall and I, to make it up to him. To give him a good home. Love. A family. Good times. Good memories. We tried to make up for all the bad. But it wasn't enough, you see. It could never be enough. . . ."

"You and your husband did your best, Mrs. Channing." Miranda knelt in front of the elderly woman and took her hands in her own. "If one thing was clear from reading the files, it's that you and Mr. Channing were the best thing that ever happened to Curtis. He cared a great deal for you. But there's no way that you could change what happened to him, and you weren't responsible for that."