Part 10 (2/2)
As soon as Unger turned his back, Archer forced himself to his feet. Still crouching, as if he'd be struck dead if he stood up, Archer rounded the corner and approached Unger from behind. He took the small handgun from his pocket and, with it in his right hand, walked up behind Unger. Raising the gun and aiming straight at the back of the man's head, Archer fired one bullet.
The vacuum handle fell from Unger's hand and hit the ground. Slowly, the body crumpled, falling where it had stood. Archer opened his eyes and saw Al Unger's head hit the floor, facedown. Backing away, Archer stuck the gun back into his jacket pocket. Refusing to think about what he had just done, he walked halfway up the side aisle and through the closest exit into the deserted parking lot.
His breathing coming harder, faster, he went around the building and, pausing to get his bearings, leaned flat against the hard brick wall. Tears streamed down his face.
”I'm sorry,” he whispered to the night. ”I'm sorry . . .”
A rustle from the dark, a soft scurry among the discarded chip bags and candy wrappers had Archer scurrying off as well. He wiped his face on his sleeve, swatted the popcorn off his pant legs, then walked to the end of the alley and crossed the street to the bus stop. Grabbing onto the sign, he held on for dear life and prayed his legs would not give out on him.
He'd just killed a man. G.o.d, he'd really done it.
He stood at the corner-staring straight ahead and trying to keep from crying-until the next bus arrived. He hopped aboard, took a seat near the back, and shook like a man who'd just come in from the cold. Once the bus reached the terminal in Cincinnati, he sat quietly while he waited for morning and the bus that would take him on to his designated stop, the refrain running over and over through his brain: I killed a man. I put a bullet in the back of his head, and he fell down and died. I didn't even know him, and I killed him.
He'd boarded the bus he'd been told to take, once again huddled in the back, his head in his hands, the sound of his heart pounding loud in his ears. Crying silent tears, he begged forgiveness from a G.o.d he'd never really believed in, and from the old man whose life he'd taken that night.
And he knew that if he didn't come up with something fast, he'd be forced to do it again. And again . . .
CHAPTER EIGHT.
Will Fletcher tossed the newspaper onto the recycling pile in the corner of his kitchen, noting that the pile had grown considerably over the past few days. He made a mental note to bundle up the papers and get them outside in time for the next scheduled end-of-the-week pickup. He'd missed the past few weeks, once because he'd gone into the office early to check up on something regarding a case, and once because he'd simply forgotten until it was too late. This week he'd make the pickup. He found a ball of string to wrap the papers in and set it on the counter. The doorbell rang before he could begin his hunt for the scissors.
Miranda stood on his front porch, her color pale and her eyes vague and distant.
”Hey, Cahill. This is a pleasant-”
”We f.u.c.ked up.”
”What are you talking about?”
”He did it. The son of a b.i.t.c.h did it.”
”Who . . . ? You don't mean Lowell . . . ?”
”Yes. I do mean Lowell. Unger is dead. So much for the combined smarts of that all-star FBI panel that convened last week.”
”What happened?”
”I got a call this morning from the Telford police.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and recited the facts. ”A pa.s.sing patrol car noticed the lights in the theater were still on at two-thirty this morning, so they stopped in. They found Al facedown on the floor, a bullet through the back of his head.”
”d.a.m.n,” Will muttered. ”d.a.m.n it. I thought they were going to keep an eye on him.” it. I thought they were going to keep an eye on him.”
”Apparently their idea of surveillance is limited to twice-nightly drive-bys.” Her shoulders dropped. ”May I come in?”
”Of course. Sorry.” Will stepped back to allow her to enter, then closed the door.
”I feel like an idiot. We were all so sure Lowell was such a p.u.s.s.y he'd never do something bold like kill a man. G.o.d, we are so stupid.”
”Whoa, take it easy, Miranda. Even Annie, who is usually right on the money when it comes to figuring people out, thought Archer would be a no-show when it came to finis.h.i.+ng up the game.”
”Well, it just goes to show you, like Annie always says, profiling is not an exact science.”
”Do we know for a fact that it was Lowell? Or are we a.s.suming?”
”Well, wouldn't it just be the biggest coincidence in the world if someone other than Lowell pulled the trigger?”
”Good point.” Will took her arm and led her through the house to the kitchen. ”Come on. You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
”b.a.s.t.a.r.d had us all fooled,” Miranda said. ”No one figured him for a cold-blooded killer.”
”Here, sit down.” He pulled a chair out from the table, and offered it to her. ”What exactly did the police say when they called?”
She sat, turning the chair slightly to the left when he sat down next to her.
”A cruiser pa.s.sing by the theater early this morning noticed the lobby lights were still on, which is not normal for that hour. So the cops stopped to investigate, found the door unlocked, went into the lobby, heard the vacuum cleaner running. They entered the theater, saw the vacuum but not Al. When they walked down to the front, they found the body. There was no one else around, and a canva.s.s of the neighborhood has turned up nothing. No one saw anything; no one heard anything.” She blew out a long, exasperated breath. ”And the Telford police are telling me they have no suspects.”
”What do you mean, they have no suspects?” Will frowned. ”We told them who to watch for, even gave them a picture of Lowell.”
”Yeah, well, they're saying there's no evidence to tie Lowell to the murder. We can't even prove Lowell was in Telford last night.”
”They think this whole thing is one big coincidence? Who else could it have been?”
”Do you think there's a chance there could have been a fourth person in on this game?” Miranda asked.
”I don't see how. The only time we can place Lowell, Giordano, and Channing together was in the police van one morning back in February, and even then, according to the guards and the driver, they did not speak to one another. There was one other inmate in the van that morning, but he's spending the rest of his life behind bars.” Will paused, then added, ”As a matter of fact, on the morning in question, this other prisoner had escaped into the courthouse and held up things for hours. Put the entire courthouse on lockdown for a good part of the day until they found him.”
”I don't recall hearing about that.” Miranda frowned.
”It was in an amended report that Evan Crosby filed. It's in the packet of material Jared put together for us.”
”What were the other three doing while the courthouse was on lockdown?”
”I don't know. Good question, though. Maybe we should give Evan a call and see if he knows.”
”If he doesn't, I'll bet he can find out.”
”I have his card in my desk. I'll be right back. In the meantime, think you could throw together a pot of coffee? The coffee maker is there on the counter. Coffee and filters are the same place they were the last time you were here.”
By the time Will returned to the kitchen, the coffee was just beginning to drip and Miranda was leaning into the open refrigerator, searching for a carton of milk.
”I had to leave a voice mail for Crosby.”
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