Part 9 (1/2)
”This . . . this revenge thing you're suggesting.” Mrs. Channing s.h.i.+vered. ”This is different. It's colder, somehow.”
”We're sorry to have upset you, Mrs. Channing, but we need to know if you can think of anyone from his past-from high school, even-whom Curtis would have wanted to . . . hurt.” Miranda spoke softly.
”You were going to say kill.”
”Yes.”
”I can't think of a soul.” The elderly woman shook her head slowly. ”I'm sorry. I can't think of anyone Curtis ever had problems with.”
Miranda handed her a business card.
”My phone numbers are on here, Mrs. Channing. If you think of someone . . . someone he didn't get along with, or someone who gave him a hard time . . .”
”I can't think of a one. He had a few friends in school, not many. He was a loner. But he got along with everyone. I never heard him say anything negative about anyone.”
”If you remember anything . . . any incident, however small or insignificant it may seem . . .”
”Of course, Agent Cahill. I will call you.”
”Thank you.” Miranda stood. ”I'm sorry we upset you.”
Claire Channing merely nodded her head.
”We'll see ourselves out,” Will told her. ”Thank you for your time, Mrs. Channing.”
Once outside, Miranda exhaled a long, slow breath.
”That was painful,” she said as they walked to the car. ”Poor, poor woman. After all she's gone through, all the pain of the past few months, she finally thinks it's all behind her, then we turn up, asking questions. Bringing it all back . . .”
”What's the likelihood she's forgotten?” Will asked as he unlocked the rental car.
”Oh, I'm sure it's on her mind at least once every day. She'll never get over it.”
She slid into the pa.s.senger seat and strapped herself in.
”How do you get over something like that?” Will started the car and checked the rearview mirror before pulling out onto the road. ”You think you're doing something wonderful, you take in this little boy who's had such a tragic life. You give him a loving home; you treat him as if he's your own flesh and blood, and in spite of it all, he grows up to be a serial killer.”
”She seems like such a sweet woman.”
”She is.”
They drove in silence for several miles.
”So what now?” Miranda asked.
”On to Albert Unger.”
”He should be easy enough to find. a.s.suming he's still working at the same place he was working when Aidan and Mara found him.”
”I hope so. He's the closest thing we have to a potential victim,” Miranda reminded him.
”So, what do we say when we find him?”
”I'm still working on that. I'm hoping that, by the time we reach Telford, I'll have that figured out. . . .”
There was silence for several miles, until Miranda broke it. ”I've been meaning to ask you,” she said, ”did you specifically ask for this car, or was this all they had left at the rental-car place today?”
”Few things happen by accident, Cahill.” He smiled. He was wondering when she'd say something about the truly ugly bottom-of-the-line sedan he'd leased.
”Really? You really called the rental agency and asked for the slowest, oldest, b.u.t.t-ugliest car they had?”
”You know that budgetary restrictions determine what car we can get,” he said loftily, his eyes straight ahead on the road before them.
”Most of us manage to do a little better than this. Think it will make it all the way to Telford?”
”Guess we'll find out, won't we?”
”Wake me up when we get there.” She closed her eyes.
”You're supposed to be thinking of an opening line for our approach to Unger.”
”I'm sleeping on it, Fletcher.” Her eyes still closed, she reached her hand down next to the seat, searching for the controls. Finding it, she slid the seat back as far as it would go and stretched out her long legs. ”I do some of my best work with my eyes closed.”
Amen, he silently agreed. he silently agreed. Amen . . . Amen . . .
Archer Lowell stumbled along the perimeter of the field, then headed for the woods well beyond the trailer camp.
”Don't like this,” he muttered to himself. ”Don't want to do this . . .”
The gun that he'd shoved into the waistband of his jeans was cold and heavy and foreign. Today would mark the third day in a row he'd spent at the shooting range, practicing putting a single hole in the middle of the bull's-eye. Just like the stranger-Burt, he'd said his name was-had told him to do. Practice, practice, practice.
”Yeah, well, I practiced,” he said aloud. ”Today's the last day I'm doing this. I know how to shoot the d.a.m.ned gun. Don't know what he thinks I am, that I have to keep going back. I told him I done good enough with it the first day. But nooooo.”
Archer kicked at a clump of dry earth in his path.
”Just all craziness, anyway,” he mumbled as he walked along. ”I hate him. Hate Hate him. I should use this f.u.c.king gun on him, that's what I should do.” him. I should use this f.u.c.king gun on him, that's what I should do.”
He kicked another clump.
”Making me do this thing I don't want to do. Kill some man I don't even know. s.h.i.+t.”
His hands started to shake just thinking about it. He was going to have to kill a man. Burt had given him until Friday to leave for Ohio, which was where this guy Unger lived. He already had his bus ticket. Burt had bought it for him and left it in his mailbox.
s.h.i.+t. He wiped at his nose with his sleeve as he walked along. At the very least, Burt coulda driven him. Who takes a Greyhound to make a hit? He wiped at his nose with his sleeve as he walked along. At the very least, Burt coulda driven him. Who takes a Greyhound to make a hit?