Exit Strategy (25 page)

“Damned near impossible,” Quinn said, nodding. “Feds are bound to figure that out soon.”

“So the hair was a plant,” Felix said. “Quite clever. Exceedingly clever, in fact, requiring only a hospital visit, and a plucked arm hair, strategically placed as trace evidence. I’ll have to remember that one. So, I suppose this puts us back to the proverbial square one. Shall we compare leads and set out again, then?”

“Not yet,” Jack said. “Wait for the fallout. See which way it blows. Shouldn’t take long.”

To Jack, “waiting for fallout” did not mean waiting as a group. He wanted to separate, then discuss leads by phone after Quinn found out what the Feds were doing about Moreland. Felix seemed inclined to agree, but Quinn argued that it made little sense when morning—and news—would be here soon enough. We should separate for the night, but reunite at breakfast so we could discuss our next steps together.

I understood Jack’s concern. Spending as little time together as possible made sense. But after mulling it over for a few minutes, he agreed that breakfast—in our hotel room—should be safe enough. He’d contact them later with the address.

HSK

He stood in the stand of trees, binoculars trained on the front entrance to the psychiatric hospital. The agents had gone in that way, so he presumed they’d exit there, too, but every few seconds, he’d scan over to the other doors as well, just to be sure.

He’d taken the hair from Moreland months ago and stored it. Then he’d planted it on a scene, to support his later claim to be the son of Charles Manson. Whether it went further than that was supposed to depend on whether he’d need Moreland as a scapegoat. If he did, Moreland would die, in an apparent suicide, but not before confessing to the crimes. As for how a psychiatric patient had managed to commit them, that would be up to the Feds to puzzle out, formulating a theory to fit the evidence.

But now he’d had to use Moreland in a very different way, and couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He’d liked the Manson angle. It had served him well.

Back in 1969, when the Manson murders hit the news, he’d been just starting as a hitman, making the transition from stealing goods to stealing lives. Like most people, he’d followed the case with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Yet in his case, it was revulsion at the killer’s mistakes, and fascination at the uproar he’d caused.

The murders were a work of genius carried out by an idiot. How many times had he worked through Manson’s crimes himself, imagining how much more panic they could have caused if they’d been done right…if the killer had left so little evidence that it looked as if he’d never be caught.

When he’d come up with this plan, he’d thought of the Manson killings. He’d considered reenacting them, but he didn’t have the stomach for that kind of bloodbath. At his age, too, such theatrics seemed a tawdry way to get attention. So he’d done the murders his way, and added the Manson link to set people’s minds and fears buzzing. It’d worked beautifully. But now the time for that game was past.

He’d tossed Moreland to the Feds early, so they’d know the whole Manson angle was a crock. Then they’d concentrate on their theory that the killer was a hitman. He wasn’t worried about that—his cover was secure—but the increased pressure on the profession should make his colleagues think twice about coming after him. They’d turn their attention to protecting themselves, which was what they did best anyway.

Yet after he’d made his decision, he’d realized the tip-off could prove even more useful. It was all a matter of how the Feds played the hand he’d dealt them.

As he was considering this, the agents left the hospital. Disappointment thudded into the pit of his stomach. They were alone. He’d hoped they might have Benjamin Moreland with them. Not that he’d expected them to arrest Moreland, but he’d thought they might remove him for questioning, perhaps even take him into protective custody. That would have made things easier.

He shook off the disappointment. No matter. He could still use this. The Feds had been here, and staff could confirm that. Good enough.

In his letter, he’d promised a demand, but hadn’t planned to make one. Just part of the game. Game…A week ago it had been a mere plan. A simple plan for a simple, practical purpose. Now it had become so much more. A huge, intricate game, the patterns, possibilities and plays becoming evident only as it unfolded before him.

What if he made that demand? He wouldn’t ask for much. Just a small token from the people of America. One that could never be paid, no matter how insignificant it might seem. But payment wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the game, and this would take it to a whole new level.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Very nice,” I said, looking around our hotel room.

The living room of the suite was bigger than my bedroom back at the lodge. Better furnished, too. It even came with flowers—the kind that need water. The last time I had a hotel room with live flowers was…well, never. I was impressed all to hell.

“And a kitchen. Wow. Fridge, stove, microwave. Is this a hint about dinner? I should warn you right now, the only thing I cook is microwave popcorn. And I usually burn that.”

I crossed the room and opened the door. Inside was a bed. One bed.

“For you,” Jack said. “Couch folds out in here.”

I opened the other door. “A Jacuzzi tub? Hot damn.”

I walked to the counter, took the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion and mouthwash from the basket they’d haphazardly been tossed into, and arranged them on the counter as Jack laid my bag on the bed for me to unpack.

“You like those?” he said, motioning at the tub. “You should get one. Use some of the money.”

I laughed. “How big of a paycheck am I counting on?”

He shrugged. “Big enough.”

I started refolding the towels, which had been put on the rack crooked and seam-side out. “I’ve considered a hot tub for the guests. Nothing fancy, but it would add to the ‘romantic getaway’ allure. The only drawback is hygiene. They don’t strike me as the most sanitary things.”

“Use chemicals, don’t they? Keep ’em stocked. Change the water. Should be fine.”

“We have plenty of fresh water, so that’d be easy enough.”

“Then get one. For your room, too. A tub. Not the guest rooms. Yours.”

I grinned. “I must be looking at a real windfall here.”

“Just a job.” He turned to leave. “Pizza okay?”

I said that it was, and he went to order while I washed up.

We spent a couple of hours discussing the case over the pizza, laying out scenarios and theories. There was lots of fodder for theorizing now, as if there hadn’t been enough before. Why create a fake Manson connection? Had someone tipped off the Feds? Or had they figured it out, too? How was the killer going to react?

We debated the possibilities into the wee hours, and I loved every minute of it, like those nights with my dad. Not that Jack reminded me of my father—far from it. But it was nice to go back to that memory place again, and to have someone to go there with.

The next morning, I walked to my bedroom door and listened for Jack. Was he still asleep? I hoped so. I wasn’t ready to face him yet.

I’d awoken in the aftermath of a dream. I’d been back in that closet in the hospital. Someone had been coming down the hall, and Jack had been whispering for me to stay still and quiet, and I’d been straining to hear footsteps, heart thumping, adrenaline racing. His hands had slid down my hips and under my skirt, lifting it and—

The dream hadn’t ended there, but that was as far as I planned to remember it.

I knew where the dream came from—being stuffed into that closet with Jack, in the midst of what had been a rather long dry spell. Still, knowing where it sprang from wasn’t going to make facing him this morning any easier.

So I’d dressed as quietly as I could, and now I was hoping to sneak past him and head out for coffee before he awoke. Yet when I cracked open the door, Jack was gone.

There was a note on the table. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, then squinted down at the precise, black strokes. “Getting coffee. Back soon. Wait.”

I
could
wait. Or I could take a cold shower. But there was something else I could do, too, something my body was screaming for almost as much as it’d been screaming for that dream. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my jogging pants and T-shirt.

By “wait,” I assumed Jack meant “Don’t go home” or “Don’t have breakfast without me.” Sure, it could mean “Don’t leave the hotel room,” but that’s the problem with one-word sentences—they’re so open to interpretation.

I donned the wig, contacts, mascara and lipstick. Any more makeup than that and I’d be wearing it on my shirt-front by the end of the run. Then I amended his note, crossing off “Getting coffee” and replacing it with “Gone jogging.”

Five minutes later, I was running along a downtown street, weaving past baby strollers and business suits. I doubted I’d make the full 10K. My legs might, but my lungs wouldn’t. Ten kilometers of breathing in exhaust fumes and I’d be ready for the oxygen mask.

I liked to run every morning, but that hadn’t been possible since this started. I didn’t want to be seen jogging around Evelyn’s neighborhood—not when no one else seemed to. That first morning at a motel I hadn’t wanted to slow down the investigation by asking Jack if he minded me taking off for a while. So now I welcomed the excuse.

After a few blocks, I found myself stuck on a street corner, running on the spot, waiting for a very long light to change. A diesel delivery truck cut the corner too sharp and belched blue smoke into my face. I closed my eyes, and pictured falling golden leaves and an endless empty dirt road.

“You look happy,” said a voice at my shoulder.

I tensed as I recognized Quinn’s voice. He’d followed me?

I forced a smile. “Hey, there. Small world.”

The light changed. I started to walk across, but he waved me forward.

“Go ahead. Run. I can keep up.” We broke into a jog. “When I got to your room, Jack said you were out jogging, so I thought I’d join you. Hope that’s okay.”

I slanted him a look. “What did Jack say?”

“I snuck out while he was in the bathroom.”

“Smart man.”

I navigated through the commuter crowd and crossed the road, Quinn at my heels. Once across, the bulk of the crowd turned left. I continued straight. Quinn jogged up alongside me.

“I thought this might be a good time to redo my introduction,” he said. “I came off like a jerk yesterday and I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t like the idea of Jack bringing a stranger on board. I don’t blame you. I think that’s why he didn’t want us to meet. Protecting your privacy—yours and the others.”

We turned a corner.

“So you must be Evelyn’s new protégée,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, because you’re a—” He colored slightly. “Because I can be a sexist moron. Sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. You’re not Evelyn’s, then?”

“No, I’m Jack’s.”

When he looked my way, brows raised, I sputtered a laugh. “I mean his protégée. Strictly business. Even ‘protégée’ is probably pushing it.”

Another light. We waited in silence, then crossed.

“How far do you go normally?” he asked.

“Te—” I stopped myself before saying kilometers. “Five miles. Give or take.”

“Every day, I’m guessing.”

He flashed an appreciative glance down my figure. A nice glance—not a leer or an ogle. The appreciative part was good, too. After that dream, I was certainly in the mood for it. I even returned it, though more discreetly. He was wearing jogging pants and an old T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing his muscles. Good-looking in a wholesome, athletic way, nothing to stop traffic, but enough to invite the gaze to linger…and enjoy.

He plucked at the sweat-sodden front of his T-shirt and pulled a face. “I definitely need to start doing more cardio myself. Soon, or I’ll be skipping ski season this year.”

“Cross-country or—” I stopped. “Sorry. I guess that’d be prying.”