The Watcher in the Wall (23 page)

“How are you going to pay me back if you never come back to Florida? I’d have to be pretty crazy to lend money to a girl just so she could skip town. And to be with her
boyfriend
, no less.”

“I’ll get a job as soon as we figure out where we’re going,” Madison told him. “I’ll wait tables or something. Work in a bookstore. I’ll send you the money back, I promise. I just need it now, Paul, and fast.”

She pulled out her phone, checked the time. Six-thirty in the evening. Forty-five minutes before the Greyhound left for Orlando. If she missed this bus, she’d be stuck until tomorrow. And what if Brandon showed up in Louisville and she wasn’t there? What if he did something crazy?

“
Please
, Paul,” she said. “I really need this. What do I need to do to convince you to help me?”

Paul looked across at her, a gleam in his eye, and she felt her stomach turn. Then he held up his hands.

“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll do it. Just, like, keep in touch or something, okay? Let me know you’re all right when you get where you’re going.”

Madison leaned across the table and hugged him hard, scattering his empty milkshake cup and his tray to the floor.

“Thank you,” she said, ignoring the stares from the tables around them.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Paul hugged her back. When she pulled away, he was smiling again.

“Come on,” he told her, gathering his trash. “We gotta hurry if we want to get that money before your bus leaves.”

<
88
>

Stevens and Windermere
caught a cab back to the airport. Walked inside the terminal and stopped.

“So, Tampa?” Windermere said, eyeing the long line of check-in kiosks and ticket counters. “Debrief DarlingMadison, see if she knows anything more about Gruber?”

Stevens followed her gaze. “Assuming she knows anything new at all,” he said. “Gruber was pretty careful with what he told Dylan Price, it sounds like.”

“Train yard on the East Coast,” Windermere said. “Yeah. And we can assume Gruber isn’t coming back online, not after he watched half the Baltimore police force bust down Dylan’s door. If he has any sense at all, he’s gone to ground.”

“In which case, we can put local agents on DarlingMadison, get back to the old-school,” Stevens said. “Spell Mathers on the paper trail, the payments Frank Abrams sent Gruber for the snuff films.”

Windermere thought about it. Figured they were on the right track, that DarlingMadison probably wouldn’t give them much more than Dylan Price had. Still, something niggled in the back of Windermere’s mind. According to Schwartz, Tampa PD was still trying to locate the girl.

“Girl went out for a walk, hasn’t come home yet,” he’d told Windermere on the phone. “Mom says it’s not unusual, she does this all the time.”

Would be nice to have this girl accounted for,
Windermere thought.
Get her location locked in and make sure she’s safe before we go chasing hunches again, what with all the crazy around.

“Let’s get our butts to Tampa anyway,” she told Stevens. “I just have a feeling. We can pick up the paper trail from there.”

She walked up to the Delta counter, was halfway through the purchase of two one-way tickets to Tampa International, departing immediately, when her cell phone started buzzing in her pocket again.

“One sec,” she told the ticket agent. Pulled out her phone. Mathers. “Derek,” she said. “What’s up? Me and Stevens were just talking about you. Thinking about taking over that Western Union lead, giving you a break.”

“Think again,” Mathers said, not even trying to hide the glee in his voice. “I just heard back from Western Union themselves not five minutes ago. They said our man ‘Earl Ashley’ always picked up his payments at a check-cashing joint in Buffalo, New York, a suburb called Cheektowaga.”

“Buffalo.” Windermere held up one finger to the Delta agent. “You’re sure about this?”

“Sounds like they had records of seven or eight payments going through that one location,” Mathers said. “It seems clean to me, Carla.”

The Delta agent was reaching for Windermere’s MasterCard. She snatched it back. “Mathers,” she said. “Your timing is impeccable. Remind me to do something nice for you when I get back to town.”

“You?” Mathers laughed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Windermere clicked off. “Change of plans,” she told the Delta agent. “When’s your next flight to Buffalo?”

<
89
>

Turned out
Paul Dayton’s savings account was a little short.

“One hundred and seventy-four dollars and eighty-nine cents,” he said, counting out a pile of bills and a jumble of loose change. “Literally every last penny I have.”

Madison took the money, counted it again, praying he’d skipped a couple twenties somewhere. Realized pretty quick that he hadn’t.

“Crap,” she said. “
Crap
. That bus ticket alone is two hundred bucks. Plus, I have to eat. What am I going to do?”

It was nearly seven o’clock, fifteen minutes before the Orlando bus pulled out. They were parked outside a Bank of America branch a couple blocks from the Greyhound station. Madison looked at the pile of money in her hands, and it might as well have been toilet paper. She needed another thirty bucks, minimum. Fifty would be better.

“I could, uh . . .” Paul said. He trailed off.

“Yeah?” Madison said. “What? Spit it out, dude.”

Paul went red. “I could drive you,” he said. “We could use that money for gas. You know, drive in shifts or whatever.” He dared to look at her. “It might be fun.”

“What,” Madison asked, “you’re just going to tag along while I go to meet my boyfriend? What are you going to do when you get there? How would you get home?”

“Your boyfriend could lend me the money to get back,” Paul said. “Or something. Or I could, like, sell the car. I could even come with
you guys. We could travel together. I wouldn’t get in the way, I promise. I—”

“Shush.” Madison held up one hand. She was thinking. “Start the car,” she said. “Take me to the bus station.”

Paul deflated. Stared at her a moment longer, like he’d been really pumped, like the whole road trip thing had sounded really good to him.

“Come on,” Madison said. “Time’s a-wasting. What are you waiting for?”

Paul just kind of sighed. Didn’t answer. Turned the key in the ignition and pulled out into traffic.

“So, what?” he said when they were parked in front of the bus station. “It’s five minutes past seven. What’s your big idea?”

Madison opened the door. “Inside,” she said. “Hurry.”

Paul made a noise like he was just about at the end of his patience, but he followed her inside the terminal anyway. The place was crowded, people lining up for buses in every direction, the Orlando bus already boarding.

“Look around,” Madison said.

“Okay,” Paul said. “Why?”

Madison pulled out her old cell phone, the iPhone she’d been using until she bought the burner. “Look for someone who would want to buy a cell phone,” she said. “Someone with cash.”

Paul frowned. “Don’t you need a cell phone?” he said. “How will you get ahold of your boyfriend?”

Madison flashed him her new phone. “Got a burner,” she said. “Untraceable. Brandon’s the only one with the number. So start looking.”

Paul made like he was going to argue. She cut him off with a glare, and he sighed and scanned the bus station.

“There.” He pointed to a man in a suit with a briefcase, a nice watch.

Madison shook her head. “Too legit,” she said. “He’ll want to know what the scam is. Plus, he might not have cash.”

She checked the digital clock on the wall. Ten after seven. Five minutes.

“Keep looking,” she said.

Paul kept looking. So did she. She didn’t see anyone. But Paul nudged her. “How about him?”

Madison followed his eyes and could have kissed him.
“Perfect.”

He was a young guy, early twenties, white, but dressed up like a gangsta rapper: the flat-brimmed baseball cap, saggy jeans, a lot of gold jewelry. He was the kind of guy who would jump at a deal like this. Madison hurried over.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m trying to get to Orlando and I’m, like, fifty bucks short.”

The guy eyed her up and down. Pursed his lips. “Aw, honey,” he said. “You need a loan?”

“Not on your life,” Madison said. “I’m just wondering if you want to help me out by buying my phone. iPhone, only a year old. Fifty bucks cash. You in?”

She was already scanning the bus station for other possibilities, just in case this guy didn’t want to play.

“Huh,” the guy answered. “Fifty bucks, you said? I could maybe do twenty-five, you know, seeing as how it’s the previous generation and all. The new one’s coming out in a minute, you heard? I—”

“Fifty bucks,” Madison said. “Yes or no. In or out. Right now. Go.”

The guy looked at her. Looked at the phone. Looked at Paul
watching in the background, fifteen feet away. He smiled a wide, toothy smile. Reached into his jeans for his wallet.

“Fifty bucks,” he said. “Deal.”

<
90
>

Gruber took back roads.
Drove Curtis Donovan’s shitbox white Lincoln down Route 5 until he hit the state line, followed the lakeshore into Erie, Pennsylvania, the night closing in around his windows, the lake an empty void to the north.

He gassed up in Erie, paid with some of the cash he’d taken from Donovan’s wallet. The news was playing on the TV above the clerk’s head; Gruber lingered in the candy bar aisle, eavesdropping on the anchor. Left ten minutes later with a Milky Way bar and an optimistic outlook. There’d been nothing on the news about any murdered men in Buffalo, no house fires, no pictures of his face.

He followed Lake Erie into Ohio, then ducked south in Conneaut and zigzagged toward Akron. Avoided the interstates, any major highways, kept his eyes peeled for patrol cars, kept the radio turned to any major news channels.

He drummed his hands on the steering wheel as he drove. Couldn’t help but feel excited, the way the game was playing out. Couldn’t help but see Donovan’s wide eyes, hear him sucking for air, feel the way the
knife cut him deep. Imagined knocking on Earl’s door holding that same knife, or maybe Donovan’s big revolver. Showing Earl what a man he’d gone and raised, and then finding Madison Mackenzie when he was finished.

Gruber had big plans for Madison. She was his déjà vu. They would have so much fun together, just like he and Sarah had.

•   •   •

He made Akron around midnight. Took the Lincoln through a McDonald’s drive-through, ate his dinner in the parking lot, and then drove around until he found a run-down warehouse on the east side of town, the parking lot dark and empty. Friday night, he figured he’d have the place to himself. He parked the Lincoln in the shadows and reclined Donovan’s seat. Killed the engine and figured he should try to sleep awhile.

He was too jacked-up to sleep, especially at first, the way Donovan’s death kept playing back through his memory, the way Earl’s face kept showing up, too. In Gruber’s mind, Earl hadn’t grown older. He was the same age as he’d been in the trailer, around forty, maybe, still strong enough to kick the shit out of a little runt like Gruber.

Gruber had been fifteen then. In no shape to fight back. He was older now. He was nearly the same age as Earl had been. And Earl had grown older, too. He wouldn’t put up much of a fight, Gruber figured. That was the part he was looking forward to best, the way he would show Earl how the situation had reversed, how Earl was the one who was powerless now. He would let Earl know how helplessness tasted, frustration. But he wouldn’t let him know the feeling for long.

Gruber opened the Lincoln’s door, blinked in the brightness as the
dome light flickered on. Eased himself out of the driver’s seat, stepped out onto the pavement. It was chilly out, cold, a raw wind blowing through the trees that ringed the lot. There was a moon somewhere up above, hiding in the clouds. It shone minimal light, no good for comfort, not that Gruber minded. He wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore.

He pissed against the side of the warehouse. Shook off and zipped up and turned back to the Lincoln. The car was long, low and battered. It glowed white. Gruber studied the car, and got to thinking. Got to wondering whether Donovan had come up from Cleveland with anything more than a handful of extra bullets for that big-ass revolver.

The backseat of the Lincoln was empty; he’d checked. Ditto the glove box, save the registration papers. Nothing on the dash except a few coins for tolls and an aftermarket CD player. No cash. No spare ammunition. No cigarettes, and no drugs. Nothing worth pawning, smoking, or shooting. Gruber popped the trunk.

He circled around the rear of the car. Looked out to the road, strained his eyes for headlights. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. The night was quiet. He lifted the trunk lid, blinked again in the sudden light. Rubbed his eyes and stared down at the cargo compartment.

“Holy,” he said, laughing a little bit, picturing Earl’s face when he showed him. “Boy, you’re in for a big surprise, shit stain.”

<
91
>

Stevens called
the Cheektowaga Police Department from the rental car lot at Buffalo Niagara International Airport.

“Honestly, I don’t even know what we’re looking for,” he told the desk sergeant after he’d explained the situation. “Mostly, we’re just fishing, hoping you guys might give us a shortcut before we start combing the neighborhood.”

The desk sergeant kind of chuckled. “Near the CSX yard, you say? Funny you should ask. Got the Pine Hill, U-Crest, and Forks fire departments over that way right now. House fire. Could be arson, they’re saying.”

“Arson, huh?” Stevens said. “You got any details?”

“Some guy, lived alone, according to the neighbors,” the sergeant replied. “Place is owned by some kind of slumlord, rented off the books, cash money. Flying under the radar, know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Stevens said. “Anyone catch the tenant’s name?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Sounds like the guy kept to himself, didn’t come out to the neighborhood potlucks or pass out candy on Halloween. Kind of a hermit.”