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Authors: Owen Laukkanen

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The Watcher in the Wall (36 page)

BOOK: The Watcher in the Wall
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Stevens sat down at his desk. Mathers hung around in the doorway, leaning against the wall. Watching her. She ignored both of them until she couldn’t anymore.

“What?” she said. “What are you staring at?”

Mathers cleared his throat. “We’re just worried, Carla,” he said. “We want to know you’re okay.”

Like a goddamn intervention
. Windermere gathered a stack of paper from her desktop and swiveled in her chair to file it away, her arm aching through the bandages where Gruber had slashed her. “I’m fine, Derek,” she said. “Fine as I’m going to be, I guess.”

“You know Harris was right,” Stevens said. “There’s no need to feel ashamed of what you did back there, Carla. That bastard had it coming a hundred times over.”

“Yeah, but what if he didn’t?” Windermere said. “What happens the next time, when it’s not so cut-and-dried? What if I lose it on a guy who’s just
probably
guilty?” She shook her head. “Heck, in the eyes of the law, Gruber wasn’t even a criminal before we came along.”

“He killed four people with his own two hands,” Stevens replied. “He was a criminal, all right.”

Windermere kept her head in her filing cabinet. Avoided his eyes, Mathers’s, too. “Anyway, it’s not about him,” she said. “It’s about me. I’m an FBI agent. I’m not supposed to be losing my cool like that. I’m sure not supposed to be emptying my clip into defenseless people, even if they are criminals.”

Stevens didn’t say anything. Neither did Mathers. They waited until she’d shuffled around enough paper to fill a Russian novel, waited until she’d run out of things to do and had to look up again.

“So, okay,” Mathers said. “What are you going to do?”

Windermere exhaled. Tried to set her jaw, fake being hard, determined, confident. Knew she couldn’t do it, knew she shouldn’t even
try. Knew she should talk about her situation, about Wanda and Rene, about the way she heard their voices and hated herself every time she looked in the mirror.

She felt tired. She felt really damn tired.

“I just need to be alone,” she said.

<
141
>

They left her alone.

Took some convincing, some raised voices, some threats. Took Windermere getting angry, pushing both men away. Finally, they left her. Mathers retreated to his cubicle, tossed a meaningful look and a raised eyebrow over his shoulder at Stevens as he left. Stevens backed away, too, to his desk on the other side of the room. Spent his time staring at his computer screen, clicking buttons, though she could feel his eyes on her whenever she looked away.

Just leave me alone,
she thought.
Just let me handle this myself; is that really so hard?

She knew this was wrong. She knew she was crazy for pushing them away, knew she’d never climb out of this funk on her own.

But she didn’t know how to talk to them. Couldn’t find the words without sounding like a victim, so she bolted. Shut down her computer and locked up her files, grabbed her coat and walked out of the office without a word to Stevens, cut behind Mathers’s desk so he wouldn’t
see her. Hit the stairs and took them fast, figuring Stevens and Mathers would probably chase her, hurried through the security checkpoints in the lobby and out to her daddy’s Chevelle.

She climbed inside. Turned the key in the ignition and fired up the big 396 and listened to the engine rumble and considered the possibilities.
Take a couple of days,
Harris had said. Well, she could do that. She could drive off somewhere, some small town with a motel and a bar and a liquor store, disappear and be self-destructive by herself for a while.

She put the car in gear. Backed out of her stall and revved and roared out of the lot. Caught Stevens and Mathers coming out through the front doors, scratching their heads, watching her go. Felt a perverse sense of satisfaction at how helpless they looked, how lost.

So long, boys. Supercop’s gotta go.

•   •   •

She drove. Aimless, at first. Took the interstate southbound, I-94 down through Minneapolis, then I-35, a straight shot, until the city faded away to flat fields and farmland, the occasional lake. She’d lived here nearly four years, a transplant from Miami, still hadn’t spent much time outside the Twin Cities. She was doing it now, though, driving, her foot heavy on the gas pedal, the sun arcing down toward the western horizon.

Her phone wouldn’t stop blowing up, the first hour or so. Stevens and Mathers both, then Drew Harris, too. Voicemails and texts, everybody concerned. Windermere ignored them. Relished the silence every time the phone stopped buzzing. Figured, sooner or later, it would stop buzzing for good.

She was thinking she could make Memphis by morning. Eight hundred miles, give or take, down through Cedar Rapids, Iowa City,
Missouri. She’d reach St. Louis in the middle of the night, find a truck stop for gas and coffee, keep driving. Hit Memphis by breakfast, Southaven soon after.

She could find Wanda Rose, she knew that. The girl had married a dentist, probably stuck pretty close to home. She could dig up Wanda’s address, pay her a visit. Catch up on old times, reminisce. They could talk about Rene, about how shitty Wanda’d been, back in the day. Windermere was pretty sure she could think up a couple ways to get Wanda to finally apologize, wipe the slate clean. Figured she could convince Wanda to regret what she’d done.

She hit the state line after about a hundred miles, figured she would drive until the sun had fully set before she grabbed a little dinner. Hell, another couple hours and she’d hit Des Moines. Find a cigarette machine, something cold to drink, something strong, something to keep her warm on the long drive ahead.

I’m a decorated FBI hero,
she thought.
They want to arrest me for having a couple beers with my meal, they can damn well try.

She was a half hour from Des Moines when the plan started to go stale. It wasn’t the finding Wanda that bothered Windermere, it was the issue of why the hell bother? Even if Wanda broke down in her driveway, copped to a lifetime of guilt over what happened to Rene, it still wasn’t going to bring the girl back. Wouldn’t ease Windermere’s conscience, either, for that matter. Wouldn’t wipe the memory of Rene’s hurt from her own mind.

Wanda was the ringleader
.
She deserves to be punished. You’d never have turned on Rene if it wasn’t for her.

But that was pretty well bullshit. There was no justice waiting in Memphis, not for Rene Duclair. Not for Carla Windermere.

You can still go there. Visit Rene’s grave. Find a motel and a six-pack and vanish for a while. Take some vacation time; get stinking drunk. Figure your shit out and come home.

Windermere knew she could run. Knew it would be easy. She could turn off her phone and keep driving, to Memphis, Miami, hell, all the way to Mexico. She had money saved up; she could disappear if she wanted. Try and forget Rene Duclair, try and forget Randall Gruber.

Try and forget Carla Windermere.

The highway was full dark, a steady stream of headlights in the oncoming lanes, red taillights up ahead. Windermere drummed on the steering wheel, stared straight ahead through the windshield. Tried to ignore the holes in her strategy, keep going. Keep running. Go the hell away.

But she would never be free of herself, she knew, no matter how far she ran. The scenery might change, but she would always wake up to the same face in the mirror, the same relentless voices spewing hate in her brain.

You’re worthless.

Not good enough.

They’ll never forgive you, once they know who you really are.

The answer wasn’t in Memphis, no matter how tempted Windermere felt to run. It wasn’t in Miami or Mexico, either.

She passed a road sign for Des Moines, fifteen miles distant. Felt something inside her break down, a dam burst, felt suddenly lost and adrift, a compass with no needle. She knew she wouldn’t keep driving; knew she had to go home. Knew the only way she’d ever clear her head was by turning around.

She slowed the Chevelle, pulled off at the next off-ramp, pulled over.
Picked up her phone and dialed Stevens’s number. Canceled out before the call went through, called Mathers instead. He answered on the first ring. “Carla,” he said. “Holy crap, where are you? We’re all worried sick.”

“I’m in Iowa,” she told him. “Just outside Des Moines.”

He made to say something. Windermere cut him off.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” she told him. “I’m coming home.” She ended the call and turned the car around. Wondered if Mathers would be up when she got back to town, knew he would be. Knew she had some explaining to do.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Watcher in the Wall
is inspired very loosely by real-life incidents, but it’s also a fairly personal book for me. I’ve dealt with depression and suicidal thoughts since I was a teenager, and it’s only now, two decades later, that I’ve started taking real steps to deal with it. In some ways, this book is a response to the dark stuff.

I hope you’ll forgive me, then, if these acknowledgments go beyond the scope of this book. I might be breaking the rules here, but I couldn’t have written
The Watcher in the Wall
without the people I’m about to thank.

Thanks to my family, first and foremost: my parents, Ethan Laukkanen and Ruth Sellers, and my two brothers, Andrew and Terry, and their partners, Phil Connell and Laura Mustard. You guys are my bedrock.

Thanks to my own partner, Shannon Kyla O’Brien, who supports me even when I don’t deserve it, and who inspires me to be better.

I’m grateful to Raymond McConville for his empathy, and his humor.

Thanks to my friends, near and far, who celebrate my books more than if they’d written them themselves, and whose enduring generosity and kindness carries me through the worst of times, and sweetens the very best.

My agent, Stacia Decker, is more than a business partner, at this point; she’s a good friend, and I thank my lucky stars that I have her on my side.

As my career has progressed, I’ve only become more grateful to have found a home with my wonderful editor, Neil Nyren, and the fantastic team at Putnam. Ivan Held, Katie Grinch, Alexis Welby-Cassidy, Alexis Sattler, Sara Minnich, and Ashley Hewlett are all publishing rock stars, and the very best in the business.

I’d also like to give a shout-out to my copy editors, especially the very talented Rob Sternitzky, for their wit, wisdom, and above all, their patience. The copyediting department is truly the home of publishing’s unsung heroes. Thanks to you all.

Finally, to the Madison Mackenzies, Dylan Prices, and Adrian Millers out there: Please, don’t suffer in silence. This stuff gets easier when you talk about it, whether to a friend, a family member, a counselor, or someone on the other end of a hotline. There’s no shame in speaking up, and I promise, you’re not alone.

Heck, talk to
me
if you want. My contact info’s on the back cover flap. I usually stay up late.

Just, you know, talk to somebody. We’re in this
together.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Owen Laukkanen
is the author of
The Professionals
,
Criminal Enterprise
,
Kill Fee
, and
The Stolen Ones
.
The Professionals
was nominated for the Anthony and Barry awards,
Spinetingler Magazine
’s Best Novel: New Voice Award, and the International Thriller Writers’ Thriller Award for best first novel.
Criminal Enterprise
was nominated for the ITW Thriller Award for best novel. A resident of Vancouver, British Columbia, Laukkanen is working on a sixth book featuring Stevens and Windermere.

 

owenlaukkanen.com

facebook.com/TheOwenLaukkanen

twitter.com/OwenLaukkanen

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BOOK: The Watcher in the Wall
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