The Killing Season (13 page)

“Did you bring Wardell’s father in?”

Banner put her hand on the
APB
in front of her. It displayed a two-year-old color photograph of Wardell’s father. Inside the investigation, they’d been referring to him as Wardell Senior, but that wasn’t really his name. Wardell was the mother’s name; this guy answered to Edward Allen Nolan, Eddie to anyone acquainted with him. It was the most recent image they could get ahold of—the man didn’t appear to have any family or close friends—and was culled from one of the last interviews he had given before the residual interest in the Chicago Sniper case dropped to a background hum.

The photograph showed a man who looked almost nothing like his son. He was overweight, unshaven, and unkempt. But the scruffy hair was the same dirty blond, the eyes the same cruel shade of blue. The picture showed a porch in the sun, a neglected front yard in the background. Nolan was sitting in a lawn chair on the porch, a hunting rifle across his lap. Banner wondered briefly if that had been the photo­grapher’s idea or Nolan’s. Either way, it showed some nerve.

“We can’t find him,” Banner said in answer to Blake’s question. “Nobody can. Lincoln PD visited his apartment last night, no answer. Two of our guys went out there today; the super let them in. The place is cleared out—his rent is up to date, but it looks like he hasn’t been there in at least two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Blake repeated. “Before any of this happened.”

“Do you think . . . ?”

“That there’s a connection?” Blake finished. “No. I doubt it. But we need to find him.”

“We’re working on it,” Banner said.

“I’m going to head out there now.”

“What about the red van?” Banner asked, feeling like she was saying it only to play devil’s advocate.

“He’s going after Eddie Nolan,” Blake said. “Either I’ll find him, or Wardell will. I’ll call you when I get there.”

Banner replaced the handset on the cradle and looked at the Nolan
APB
again. She drummed her fingertips on the sheet of paper, then slammed her hand down as she made her mind up. She got up from her desk, exited her open office door, and walked the twelve paces across the open plan to Castle’s office. It was a glass-walled cubicle, like Banner’s office but a little bigger.

The blinds were shut tight. She knocked on the door sharply and entered, not waiting to be asked. Castle was on the phone, his chair facing away from his desk at the window. His head jerked around as he heard Banner’s ­entrance. Banner found that a literal open-door policy worked well for her: It relaxed people and encouraged a free flow of information. Castle, by contrast, was the kind of guy who expected you to knock and wait; so Banner was mildly surprised that he didn’t look irritated when she walked in. Instead, he looked preoccupied. He swiveled back to face the desk, nodded at Banner, and held up a finger:
Just a minute
.

“Yes, sir,” Castle said once, then again after a pause. His mouth stayed half open each time, as though he was trying to get a word in edgeways.
Donaldson
, Banner surmised. It had to be, because Banner couldn’t think of anyone else in the world Castle wouldn’t talk over to get his point across.

“Sir, with respect—” he began, and was cut off. His mouth closed as he realized he wasn’t going to get to say his piece. “Understood.” Castle hung up and raised his eyebrows at Banner. “The
SAC
,” he said unnecessarily.

“He’s pissed?” she asked, equally unnecessarily.

From Castle’s answering expression, she knew that was an understatement.

“He wants the red van, and Wardell, half an hour ago. Do you realize how many red Ford E-Series vans there are registered in Iowa?”

“Actually yes, there are eight hundred and sixty-seven. We’re working through the list as we speak, and we’ve got every cop in the state running stop-and-searches on them.” She paused. “Are we going to give this to the media? About the van?”

Castle put his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands in front of his mouth. “I think so. Donaldson thinks they’re going to skin us alive for this priest shooting. He keeps bitching about resources, manpower, like that’s my fault.”

Banner knew that this was the real issue for Donaldson: his own personal public standing. Better that someone like Wardell killed ten victims in secret than one victim that everyone knew about. That had been the real reason for the news blackout: not to free up the investigation, but to cover Donaldson’s ass, along with that of the director. Nobody would blame the
FBI
for the initial escape, of course, but they’d certainly blame them for not catching him quickly enough. And they couldn’t assign blame on an operation they were unaware of.

“You think they will?” Banner asked.

“Skin us alive? I don’t know. We’ve been keeping them in the loop since the story leaked. They knew we were focusing here in Chicago, but nobody had any reason to think he’d show up in Fort Dodge.”

“Blake did.”

Castle’s complexion darkened a shade. “Thanks for reminding me. Just make sure that never gets out. We don’t need a lucky guess making us look even worse.”

“Come on, Castle. You know that’s bullshit. Blake called it exactly right. The only reason we don’t have Wardell accounted for right now is because we didn’t back him up.”

Castle kicked his chair back and hauled himself up to his full six feet two inches. “You’re out of line, Agent Banner.” His voice was just a notch below shouting. “We’re chasing a military-trained killer who thinks the entire Midwest is his playground. I don’t have the manpower to waste chasing up every goddamn hunch brought to me by every asshole that walks in off the street.”

“Off the street? This is what we brought him in for. This is what he does.”

“
I didn’t bring him in!
”

There was a moment’s silence, during which both of them became very aware that the main office chatter outside had dropped away. Only the periodic ringing of phones pierced the quiet.

Castle sat back in his chair and lowered his voice again. “We don’t need another Ashley Greenwood on our hands just because you think you know best.”

The words hit Banner like a slap in the face, but she didn’t show it. She moved in closer, leaned on his desk with both hands. “I’m going to Lincoln.”

Castle shook his head, his voice calmer after the outburst. “We coordinate from this office until we get a lead on—”

“He’s headed for Lincoln,” she said. “I don’t care which direction the red van was or wasn’t going; the target is the father. Fort Dodge is practically on a straight line to him.”

Castle held her gaze, waited for her to finish. “The father is a possibility,” he admitted. “But we have agents in the field looking for Edward Nolan. We need to be here, because nobody really
knows
where this son of a bitch is going to strike next. Not you, not me, and not Blake.” He spoke the other man’s name with mild contempt. “And somebody needs to be manning the helm.”

“Not much good manning the helm when the ship’s sinking.”

Castle just looked back at her. Didn’t reply.

After twenty seconds of silence, Banner said it again. Quietly but firmly. “I’m going to Lincoln.”

Castle’s phone rang. He ignored it for the first three rings, holding the stare, then picked it up and turned back to the window. Banner strode back to her own office, picked up the phone, and dialed her sister’s number, steeling herself.

Helen’s voice betrayed an undercurrent of disappointment when Banner asked the favor, even though she said it would be fine. Banner had known she’d say that, but she hated to take advantage of her yet again.

“It’s just for a day or two,” she said, hoping she wasn’t promising something she couldn’t deliver.

“It’s fine, I guess,” Helen said. “And compared to the rest of the brood, Annie is no trouble.”

Banner believed that. Helen already had four boys and a girl, with another on the way, and as a group they seemed to get more boisterous with each new addition. Annie could be as much of a handful as any seven-year-old, but she usually behaved herself impeccably at her aunt’s.

“You’re sure? I really hate to ask again.”

Banner heard Helen sigh and then a pause a little too long for comfort. When she spoke again, she’d lowered her voice. “It’s not me, Elaine. Annie’s growing up. She’s big enough to understand that she’s being off-loaded.”

“Helen, I promise—”

“Stop promising. That’s part of the problem. I know about the job. I get that what you do is important. But Annie was really looking forward to going home tonight. I mean, between you and Mr. Big-Shot Ex . . .” She paused, and there was another sigh. “I’m sorry, Elaine.”

Banner swallowed. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say in this conversation.

“Can I talk to her?”

“Sure. Hang on.”

Helen put the handset down. In the background, Banner could hear her yelling at one of the boys to put that down
immediately
, and a moment later another voice appeared.

“Mom?” As usual, Annie’s voice was level, serious for her age. Banner felt a pang in her stomach as she realized she couldn’t remember when Annie had started calling her that instead of “Mommy.”

“Hi, angel. Did Aunt Helen tell you?”

“Yes. You can’t come and get me tonight.” Annie’s voice was matter-of-fact. Did she just expect this now?

“I’ll try to be back as soon as I can. How about we go for ice cream when I’m back?”

“Daddy says you give me too much ice cream.”

Banner bit her tongue. She was surprised Mark had time to monitor his daughter’s junk-food consumption, given how rigidly he resisted seeing her outside of his regular time, every other weekend.

“He’s probably right,” she said. “Movie instead?”

Annie considered this carefully. “That would be nice,” she agreed finally. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Are you coming to see my play on Tuesday?”

Banner closed her eyes and fought the easy urge to say yes and hope it would be true. “I don’t know, Annie. But I’d really like to go if I can make it.”

There was a pause while Annie absorbed this. “Will you come if you catch the bad man?”

“I’ll do my best, sweetheart,” Banner said, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve got to go now.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Be good for your aunt Helen.”

“I will be.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

25

4:57 p.m.

There were two signs. The first one was the approved size and shape and shade of green mandated by federal regulations, and it advised drivers that the town of Stainton was a half mile off the highway at the next exit. That wasn’t the sign that caught Wardell’s attention, though. The second sign was big and colorful and unconstrained by any style guidelines, and it advertised:

juba’s x-press stop

main street, stainton

gas station
*
coffee shop
*
convenience store

Wardell blinked and had time to read the name of the place again before the sign flew by.
Juba
. He glanced at the fuel gauge and saw that the tank was half full. Then again, that also meant it was half empty. No harm in a small detour to top up.

He slowed for the turn and signaled. He had the driver’s side window rolled all the way down, enjoying the sting of the cold, fresh air on his face. As a man who’d spent the best part of the previous five years confined to a tiny, airless cell for twenty-three hours of every day, this felt like the lap of luxury.

This was more like it, traveling under his own steam. It was more than worth the risk of stealing the vehicle. The three separate bus journeys it had required to get to Fort Dodge had been uneventful, but there was always the constant nagging pressure that one of the other passengers might recognize him, even with his new look, and make a phone call once they disembarked. Then the game would be over before it had properly begun. Besides, there was something institutional about bus travel that was a little too close to the way he’d been living the past few years. You had to be at a specific place at a specific time to be taken by someone else to a specific destination. There was no room for deviation from the schedule, for detours.

Wardell had a destination, of course. He’d thought about it almost as soon as he’d been freed and had confirmed and finalized those arrangements in the course of the five-minute phone call he’d made the previous morning. But he wasn’t on a bus anymore, and he had more than enough time so that he could afford to take a detour.

As promised, Juba’s X-press Stop was perched on the main street of Stainton. As far as Wardell could see, it was the only business in what was a minuscule town. He pulled in and parked beside a self-service pump. Before he turned off the engine, he surveyed the area. There was a kid in a red hooded puffer jacket with his—or her, Wardell couldn’t tell—back to him, standing over by the
ATM
that was built into the wall of the store. The only other human in sight was the clerk inside, an overweight man with a thick beard. The man was reading a magazine and hadn’t looked up when Wardell pulled in.

There were security cameras, of course, but that was fine. Wardell didn’t think his pursuers would have any way of knowing what kind of vehicle he was traveling in. Their attempts to keep up with him had been almost depressingly ineffective so far. He hadn’t expected them to fall so completely for the green shirt ruse.

Wardell opened the door, got out, and unlocked the fuel cap. The guy with the beard authorized the pump without looking up. It started with a thump, and the nozzle thrummed in his hand.

Wardell glanced up at the clerk a couple of times as he waited for the tank to fill, but the only sign that he was even conscious was the occasional flick of a magazine page.

“Mister?”

Wardell’s head snapped down and he saw the kid in the red jacket staring up at him proprietorially. It was a boy, nine or ten years old maybe. Wardell glanced around again, but there was no one else in sight.