One False Move (23 page)

She saw the small TV he had been watching on the counter behind him. She glanced at the wall clock. Not quite ten. The news would be coming on soon, and she didn’t want to see any of it. Not now when she could blow it. She wondered how much he had already seen or heard. Was he supposed to be reporting in to the police if anyone suspicious showed up? And then she wondered what would make someone look suspicious.

“Smoking or non?”

His question interrupted her paranoia. “Non,” she said out of habit, suddenly regretting that she hadn’t taken that pack out of the farmer’s car. She could use a smoke right about now.

“If you could just fill out this information. How will you be paying this evening?” He handed the paperwork to her, placing a pen on top.

“Cash,” she said, filling in the blanks on the form, pretending that the process didn’t require as much thought as it did. Melanie knew that the best policy was to let others do the talking. KMS was what she lived by—Keep Mouth Shut. Too much information and people looked at you more closely. She didn’t need to be remembered. She knew how to blend in. That’s what she needed to do now. Just look the part of a weary traveler.

“That’s $74.90. Let me get your change. The coffee is complimentary, twenty-four hours a day. We have a free continental breakfast from six till nine-thirty available over in our breakfast area.” He pointed across the lobby, then counted out her change, took the form, looked it over and set it aside.

She almost sighed out loud. Why was this so much harder than blending in with shoppers at the mall, and slipping out of stores with merchandise she hadn’t paid for?

“Here are your key cards. Your room number is listed on the inside of this folder. And let me show you where it is.” He pulled out a paper and showed her on the diagram of the hotel. “We’re here. You just drive around back and the door is the fourth from the north. Any questions?”

“Can I come back for the coffee?”

“Oh, sure. Each room has a door to the hallway inside, too, so you don’t have to go outside. I’ll be here all night. I’ll make sure there’s plenty fresh for you.” He gave her a genuine smile.

“Okay.” She turned to leave. She stopped at the door and over her shoulder said, “Thanks.” It was the first time in a very long time that she truly felt thankful.

9:07 p.m.
South of Nebraska City

“Holy crap!” Pakula said, taking his first look as Sheriff Dawes held open the kitchen door to the farmhouse. The flood of white fluorescent lights inside seemed a harsh contrast to the darkness outside.

The mobile crime techs had beaten him to the scene. Darcy Kennedy and Wes Howard had secured the kitchen, yet Pakula couldn’t help wondering how many from the crowd in the front yard had already trampled through. The body was slumped in the hardback chair, the head rolled back, exposing the gaping wound in the neck, a violent slash of red against the blue-gray skin. It was probably exactly as it had been found. He wondered if the guy’s wife had walked in this very door.

“What about the car?” he asked the sheriff, who stayed in the doorway. When Dawes didn’t answer, Pakula glanced back at him and realized the sheriff hadn’t stayed back in order to give them room to do their work, but because he looked as if he might upchuck. The man stood well over six feet, tall and skinny, teetering back and forth on the heels of his pointed-toed cowboy boots. “Sheriff Dawes, where’s the Saab?”

“Oh, it’s still in the garage. Nobody’s touched it. Keys are in the ignition.” He seemed relieved to have something to concentrate on. “State Patrol told me they’d have roadblocks from here to Kansas City. There’s an APB out for the Chevy. We’ll get the bastards. Maybe before morning.”

Pakula hated to discourage the sheriff’s optimism. If that Chevy already had an entirely different set of license plates on it, they might slip through the roadblocks.

“You pulling a double shift, Wes?” Pakula walked a wide circle around the corpse, careful not to interrupt the techs’ grid.

“I could ask the same about you.” The kid smiled but didn’t take his eyes from the fingerprint he was making appear on the counter next to the bloody butcher knife that had been bagged.

“Why bother tying the guy up? And why do you suppose he used a knife?” Pakula started asking questions out loud as he sorted the pieces.

“He wasn’t out of bullets,” Sheriff Dawes said from his sanctuary. “He used one on the gas station clerk up the road.”

“And that’s where you might think he’d want to keep quiet instead of risking someone hearing the gunshot.” Pakula squatted in front of the corpse so he could be eye level with the wound. “Yet out here, where nobody can hear it, he uses a knife.”

“Is he making a statement of some kind?” Darcy asked.

“You tell me.” He stood up, rubbing his eyes and wishing this kitchen wasn’t so fucking bright.

Darcy pointed to the gash that started up under the left earlobe. “He did it from behind, left to right, so he’s right-handed. No big surprise there. There was a lot more force than needed, practically decapitated the guy. Definite overkill. The kind of stuff you’d find in a crime of passion. But I’m thinking he didn’t know this guy.”

“Maybe he reminded him of someone.” Pakula looked around the kitchen as if searching for answers. “Anything else taken?”

“Wife’s pretty upset,” Sheriff Dawes said. “I didn’t ask.”

“Looks like his wallet is still in his back pocket,” Wes pointed out.

From this angle Pakula decided it wasn’t possible that the cash and credit cards were removed and the wallet replaced. He had started a credit card check on all of Andrew’s cards. By morning he’d have the information. Sometimes they got lucky. Sometimes the kidnappers were stupid enough to charge hotel rooms. Pakula was still hoping these guys were stupid enough.

“When will we have fingerprint results from the Saturn and here?”

“There’s too many prints in the car to isolate,” Darcy explained. “I can’t tell which ones might be the robbers’ and which ones are probably the previous occupants’. We did find a thumb and forefinger inside the car’s back window. I’m guessing it’s got to be one of theirs. Because there’s vomit smudges. I’m running it for a match but haven’t come up with anything else. Might be someone who’s never been in the system.”

“How ’bout here? Anything?”

“We should have him right here,” Wes said, holding up the plastic bag with the butcher knife. “The son of a bitch didn’t bother even wiping it.”

9:56 p.m.
Comfort Inn—Hastings, Nebraska

Melanie finished the last of the convenience-store pizza. It was cold, the cheese hard, the pepperoni congealed in its own cold grease, and yet it tasted delicious. After her shower she had curled up in one of the double beds, the cool sheets tucked around her, her head and back propped against the pillows. She had a Snickers bar on the bedside table and control of the TV’s remote. For the moment, she needed nothing else.

Jared had disappeared out the door to the hotel’s hallways and lobby, saying he’d be back, not indicating when. He left the car keys and his precious gun with Charlie, so she
knew
he’d be back.

Leaving the gun seemed unnecessary. The writer, Andrew Kane, wasn’t going anywhere. As soon as they’d entered the room, Andrew dropped into the recliner in the corner and hadn’t moved except once to go to the bathroom. Now he simply stared at the TV screen.

Charlie stretched out on the other double bed, not bothering to pull back any of the covers or take off his high-tops, despite Melanie telling him twice. It was probably his way of getting back at her for hogging the remote. He had even pouted at first until he discovered a couple of comic books in the convenience-store stash.

Melanie considered telling him to put the gun someplace where she didn’t have to look at it. She hated being in the same car and now in the same room with it. However, tonight she could pretend that it didn’t exist. Tonight she needed to pretend none of it—the bank, the car chase, the cornfield, the forced road trip—none of it existed. At least for tonight.

She flipped the channels, trying to avoid the news, but finally gave up and left it on the CBS affiliate, waiting for Jay Leno. She snuggled down farther into the pillows and closed her eyes, remembering how much she had wanted to close them less than an hour ago. She tried to think of something, anything, that would take her mind off the gun and help relax her.

That’s what her walks were for, to relieve stress and tension. No wonder the knot in the middle of her shoulder blades only continued to tighten and grow. She tried to remember when her last walk had been. Three days ago? Two? It seemed like weeks. And now she remembered, that morning’s walk had been hurried, rushed so she could meet Jared at the Cracker Barrel for breakfast. The walk hadn’t relieved her tension at all, only adding to it. Then she remembered the poor storm-battered tree. The one with the strange quote attached to it. She had memorized it: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” She hadn’t been able to figure it out and it bugged her. Even now thinking about it brought back the tension, the unrest she had felt.

She opened her eyes and looked over at Andrew. He was still staring at the TV as if hypnotized.

“Hey,” she called out to him, but stopped. She wasn’t sure what to call him. He didn’t flinch. “Hey, Andrew Kane,” she tried again.

This time he glanced at her, shifted in the recliner then went back to the TV.

“You knew that other poem,” she said. “That one Jared asked you about. Do you know any of Emily Dickerson?”

“Dickinson,” he mumbled without looking at her.

“What?”

“Her name is Emily Dickinson.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure, whatever.”

He still didn’t look at her. Melanie propped herself up on one elbow and said, “Hope is the thing with feathers.”

This time he turned, interested or maybe just curious. Melanie didn’t care. She had his attention.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Hey, if you don’t know, just say so.”

“Hope is the little bird inside us that won’t be silenced,” he said, meeting her eyes before he continued. “It’s what sustains us. It’s the thing that keeps us from giving up, even when everything is looking pretty fucking hopeless. It takes something massive to stop that relentless song. Something like watching a plane fly into your tower or knowing an innocent woman was killed because of something stupid. Hope is the thing that sells lottery tickets and enters the Olympics and gets us through illnesses or deaths. That’s what it means.”

Then he looked back at the TV, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

She didn’t have time to think about what he had said because suddenly a news reporter was talking about them on TV.

“Randy Fulton’s body was found by his wife in the kitchen of their farmhouse just south of Nebraska City. Helen Trebak, a clerk at the Auburn Gas N’ Shop, was also found murdered this afternoon. Law enforcement officials are certain both murders are the work of the bank robbers who attempted to rob the Nebraska Bank of Commerce yesterday and are on the run. This brings the number of their victims to six. The names of the four victims of the bank robbery were released earlier today. They are—”

Melanie fumbled with the remote. She had heard enough. They were lying now. She knew Jared hadn’t killed that farmer. She was with him the whole time. It was impossible. She looked back at the TV and suddenly recognized the picture of one of the victims they were showing. She turned up the volume as she tried to place where she knew the woman from. Or did she simply look familiar because she reminded her of someone? Yes, that was probably it.

“Rita Williams, age thirty-nine, a waitress for seven years at the Cracker Barrel restaurant.”

Then she knew—that was where she remembered her from. A waitress.
Their
waitress, the one who Jared had harassed.

Melanie looked over at her son to see if he, too, recognized the woman. Charlie had appeared detached from this entire nightmare, but now he sat with his back up against the bed’s headboard, his knees pulled up tight against his chest. He was rocking back and forth as if he was going to be sick to his stomach. And before she could ask, he yelled, “Shut it off. Shut it the fuck off.”

10:15 p.m.

Max Kramer sat in his den, the only room in the fucking house that his wife had allowed him to decorate as he wished. He stared out at the night as he sipped the expensive wine from Lucille’s collection. She hated it when he dared to open a bottle from the reserve she kept for her stuffy, boring dinner parties. Tonight’s selection was an old-style Beaujolais imported by Alain Jugenet, one of a handful of small estates that supposedly still did it the old-style way and were said to even hold the wine for up to ten months before bottling it.

He knew little about wines—almost nothing compared to his wife—however, he remembered reading something about Beaujolais being called “the only white wine that happens to be red.” He liked that. It had something to do with the “vivid color and its expressive, thirst-quenching qualities” or some such crap that Max didn’t really care about. No, what he liked about it was that the wine was different from what it appeared to be, kind of like him. He held up the glass, swirling the wine around the edges, and he smiled, wondering how much this bottle would set his wife back.

His cell phone started ringing. He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was too late to be anyone he wanted to talk to. He didn’t recognize the caller ID number. He knew he should just shut off the phone and let the voice-messaging service pick it up. He took another sip before setting the glass down and deciding to answer the stupid phone.

“This is Max Kramer.”

“Are you alone?”

He recognized the voice but still insisted on making him tell him. “Who is this?”