Part 19 (1/2)
”Jack Marlow? Mad Marlow, the legendary English rocker and guitar G.o.d, is your father father?”
”I understand these days he's not quite as mad as he used to be, and perhaps somewhat less of a G.o.d, but yes,” she said with strained patience. ”He's my father.”
Will looked incredulous. ”How could I have not known that?”
”It isn't something I generally discuss. Are we going to have dinner now or not?”
Will dropped the photo back on the pile.
”Learn something new every day,” he muttered, and preceded her through the front door. ”And set the alarm, d.a.m.n it.”
”Maybe we should get takeout instead.” She activated the system. ”Then we can come back and start going through those computer files, at least identify the cases we're going to pull tomorrow morning.”
”I already did that.”
”Well, then, we can make a list of all the reports we want to review from each of the files.”
”Did that, too.” He grinned. ”And before you ask, yes, I printed out copies of all the case logs, all the reports, and all the police records from each. I thought we'd divvy them up between us and see if any one person stands out.”
”You did all that this afternoon?”
He nodded.
”d.a.m.n, you really are good.” She started down the sidewalk and pa.s.sed him, shaking her head. ”Annoying, but good.”
”So,” he said as he caught up with her, ”want to tell me how Jack Marlow, the guitar-smas.h.i.+ng, drum-bas.h.i.+ng rock idol, happens to be your father?”
”He slept with my mother.”
She fished her car keys out of the bag that hung from her shoulder. Putting a lock on the subject once and for all, she asked, ”Italian or Chinese?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
Burt pulled the pickup off the road and onto the wide shoulder and put the engine in neutral.
”Tell me again what you are going to do.”
”I'm going to walk down the side of the road here,” Lowell pointed behind them, ”until I get to the woods. I'm going to walk straight into the woods, and when I get to the fields on the other side of the trees, I'm going to walk that way,” he pointed to his right, ”until I see the house. The big yellow farmhouse.”
”And then?” Burt said, with the same tone of voice he'd use for conversing with a five-year-old.
”Then I'm going to find a tree that would give me a good view of the farmhouse, and I'm going to climb it and sit and just watch.”
”What are you watching for?” He handed Lowell a pair of binoculars, and Lowell slipped the strap over his head.
”I need to know who is up there. How many people are at the house. And see if I can figure out what he-Mr. Landry-does all day. If he comes out at any special time each day.”
”And you think you're going to remember this because . . . ?”
”I can remember. Sure.” Lowell's head bobbed up and down. ”No problem.”
Burt handed him a small notebook and a blue pen.
”Excuse me for seeing a problem, but I don't want you getting things mixed up. You're going to be watching this guy for the next couple of days. I don't think there's a chance in h.e.l.l you're going to remember what time the mailman comes, what time Landry takes a walk if if he takes a walk. Write it all down, then you won't have to worry about remembering anything. You're looking for patterns here.” he takes a walk. Write it all down, then you won't have to worry about remembering anything. You're looking for patterns here.”
Lowell scowled but tucked the notebook and pen in his jacket pocket.
”Now get out,” Burt directed, and Lowell opened the pa.s.senger-side door.
”But you promise you're coming back for me, right?” Lowell whined.
Burt reached over and slammed the door.
”Walk,” he commanded.
Lowell sighed heavily and walked past the back of the truck toward the woods. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and wished he was wearing that nice down jacket his mother had bought him. It was so much warmer than this wool thing he was wearing. Buffalo checks, his mother had called the red-and-black plaid, though Archer couldn't figure out why. He'd been meaning to ask. Now he wondered if he'd ever get the chance. If he'd ever see his mother again . . .
s.h.i.+t. Don't go thinking like that, he berated himself. he berated himself. Just gonna get upset. Just gonna get upset.
Like he wasn't already upset. Here he was, going to spy on some man so he'd know when would be the best time of day to go back and kill him. He'd already killed one man, and every night since he'd had nightmares of that old body facedown on the floor of the movie theater, shaking and jerking around, the blood pooling on the floor beside that gray head like syrup from a bottle. It had been just awful.
And now he was going to have to do it again.
He hunched inside his jacket and kept walking straight ahead on the shoulder of the two-lane country road. The woods were nearer now, and in minutes he'd be walking right through them. He wondered how long it would take him to get through them and out the other side to the fields. Of course, he wouldn't walk in the fields. Especially in this red jacket. Someone might see him and call the police.
And would that be the worst thing that could happen to him, he wondered.
What would be the worst that could happen to him?
He didn't even want to think about that. Burt scared the s.h.i.+t out of him. He still didn't know what the man's full name was, though he had tried to get a peek at the registration for the truck when they stopped for gas, thinking that Burt would get out and pump. But the attendant had pumped the gas-not like back in Pennsylvania, where you could pump your own-and he'd lost the opportunity to take a quick look through the glove box.
He stopped at the edge of the woods and looked past the trees. It was dark in there, spooky, even.
It's almost Halloween, he reminded himself, and hoped there were no unfriendly spirits about in the woods. he reminded himself, and hoped there were no unfriendly spirits about in the woods.
Shut up. Would ya just listen to yourself?
He shook his head in disgust and walked a little slower as a car pa.s.sed. When the car was out of sight over a rise in the road, he slipped into the woods. Off to his right something crunched softly, and he stopped in his tracks, then slid behind the trunk of a maple tree, his heart pounding. After a few minutes, he peered out from behind the tree. Seeing nothing, he resumed his walk.
A sign they'd pa.s.sed down the road claimed that the woods and fields surrounding the town had seen bloodshed during the Revolutionary War, when a lost platoon of redcoats had been ambushed by a handful of farmers. Archer looked over his shoulder from time to time as he walked along, half expecting to see the ghosts of British soldiers creeping up on him. Just the thought of it sent a chill up his spine. Before he could panic, he came to the end of the woods, where he gratefully stepped out into the sunlight and looked around.
The yellow farmhouse was off to his right. Archer slunk back into the shelter of the woods and, staying behind the trees, walked until he was directly behind the house, which was about three hundred feet beyond the woods. Archer stood and watched the house for a few minutes, but saw no one. He began to look for a tree to climb. There were lots of trees, but none were good for climbing, so he sat down on the stump of a tree and took the lens caps off the binoculars Burt had given him.
Holding the lenses up to his eyes, he adjusted the focus and scanned the property belonging to Joshua Landry.