Part 23 (1/2)
She waved it off. ”Can you think of anyone Channing might have had a problem with back then? Anyone he might have wanted to hurt. Someone who'd gotten in his way outside of work, maybe.”
”He never talked about himself. Now that I think about it, he didn't talk much at all. He'd just come in, do his job, leave. Next day, same thing.”
”How about the women on the job? How did he act toward them, do you remember?” Will asked.
”Respectful. Pleasant. Never even cursed when one of the waitresses was in the kitchen.” Johnson shook his head. ”No complaints about him. Some of the other guys, yeah. But never Curt. It just doesn't make sense, you know?”
Miranda handed him a card. ”Will you call me if you remember anything else about Channing? Or if you think of someone who might have been on his s.h.i.+t list?”
”Sure thing,” he said as he stood up, ”but I gotta tell you, as far as I knew, Curt Channing didn't have a s.h.i.+t list. He was just a real nice, quiet guy. Never bothered anyone. That's why when all this stuff came out, man, I just couldn't believe it, you know? Like, I even said to my wife, they must be talking about some other Curtis Channing, because the one I knew, he just couldn't have been what they said-a serial killer. I just can't see him killing all those women.” He looked down at Miranda. ”You're sure it was him? Him that killed all those women?”
”We are sure. Absolutely, positively sure.”
He shook his head again. ”Boy, you just never really know about people, do you?”
Archer sat on the edge of the bed and chewed his last fingernail down as far as he could go and not have a mouthful of skin, and he tried not to blubber like the baby he knew he was.
He'd spent all day out at the edge of Landry's woods, watching the man go about his business and writing down what he did and when, just like Burt insisted. He hadn't done it right on Monday, and Burt's eyes had gone all thin and dark. It scared Archer when he squinted like that.
”You need to write the times down.” Burt had smacked Archer on top of the head with his open hand. ”You're looking for a pattern pattern here, a.s.shole. How you gonna figure out a pattern if you don't write down the times?” here, a.s.shole. How you gonna figure out a pattern if you don't write down the times?”
So on Tuesday, then yesterday, and again today, Archer had dutifully written down times. The time Landry came outside, the time he went into the barn, the time he came out. When he walked out to the pond, when he came back. When the other man came out to the field to call him back, when they both went inside. Archer thought it was all a waste of time, but he wasn't about to tell Burt that.
Today on the way home, Burt had made Archer read his notes aloud.
”Hmmm,” he had said. ”So the old man goes out in the morning, strolls around, then someone else comes out and makes him come back in. Wonder who that is?”
”Don't know.” Archer had shrugged. ”And then both days, a police car came up the drive around eleven, and again around one, and then around three.”
”Wonder what that's all about.” Burt had gone quiet for a long time. ”Cops coming by every couple a hours.”
”They don't stay long or nothing. They just turn around in the drive. This morning, one of them got out and went up to the door and knocked on it. When they came by later, Mr. Landry was already outside, and they stopped and talked for a while with him and the other man. Then when the police left, Mr. Landry went into the barn and came back out with something in his hand, I couldn't see what.”
”Time them again tomorrow,” Burt said, ”then maybe we can probably nail it.”
”Huh?”
”If the pattern holds, then the day after tomorrow will be the day for you to do Landry.” Burt never turned his head; he just kept looking straight ahead, and talked as if they were planning a trip to the beach. ”Once you have the pattern down, that's all you need to know. You hit between visits from the police. All you need to know now is how and when to hit. I have an idea about that. . . .”
Archer's palms sweated just remembering the conversation. He didn't want to kill Mr. Landry. He didn't want to kill anyone. He wanted to go home. That's all. He just wanted to go home.
He searched the pockets of his jeans for his wallet. In one of the small compartments was the card Miranda Cahill had given him. He'd folded it up so that Burt couldn't find it, if he decided to look through Archer's wallet, and who's to say he wouldn't do just that one of these days? Archer unfolded the card and studied the phone number, trying to memorize it. In his jacket pocket was the cell phone Burt had given him. Archer thought about getting the phone and calling the pretty FBI agent and just telling her everything. Everything about Curtis and Vince and him and the game. About getting out of High Meadow and planning on forgetting he'd ever met them, ever talked to them, ever played that stupid f.u.c.king game. Then Burt came along. Burt had made him kill Unger, was making him kill Landry. And if Archer didn't figure out a way out of it, that was exactly what he was going to have to do. The thought of taking another life sickened him.
The thought of defying Burt sickened him even more.
He got up and went into the bathroom and turned on the light, then stared at his reflection for a long time. He wasn't a killer. He'd never wanted to be a killer.
When he'd started this whole thing, he had no idea what it would be like. He wished he'd never had to go into that room with Curtis and Vince that day. Wished he'd never met either one of them. Wished he'd kept his d.a.m.n big mouth shut.
It had sounded so tough, so cool. Yeah, let's talk about who we'd do when we get out. Yeah, let's talk about who we'd do when we get out.
G.o.d, he didn't know it would be like this.
Tears rolled down his face, and he didn't even bother to wipe them away. One way or another, no matter what he did now, he was f.u.c.ked.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
Archer made his way through the early-morning mist and listened to the engine of Burt's truck fade into the distance. Today was the day, Burt had declared when he woke him up at four that morning.
”Today's the day,” he'd growled as he shook Archer awake. ”Get up and get moving. You have a job to do.”
Archer had all but frozen to the bed. I don't want to get up. I don't want to do this job, I don't want to get up. I don't want to do this job, he'd longed to protest. But the words stuck in his mouth, as words in defiance of Burt's orders always did. As terrified as Archer was of killing another man, the thought of what Burt would do to him if he refused terrified him even more. he'd longed to protest. But the words stuck in his mouth, as words in defiance of Burt's orders always did. As terrified as Archer was of killing another man, the thought of what Burt would do to him if he refused terrified him even more.
So he had gotten up and gotten dressed and gotten into the pickup while it was still dark, and he rode with Burt in the silent truck through the dawn. When they came to the place where Burt always stopped to let Archer out, Burt asked, ”You know what you're going to do, right?”
”Right.” Archer's head nodded jerkily. ”Sure. Right. I know what I'm going to do.”
”You're going to hide in the barn. . . .”
”I said I know.” Archer jumped out of the truck and slammed the door before Burt could reach across the seat and slam it in his face. He set off down the dark road in the direction of the woods he'd come to know well over the past week.
In his pocket was the cell phone and the tiny folded-up card with Miranda Cahill's phone number on it. All the way through the quiet woods he debated. What would happen to him if he called and told her everything? Would she send someone to get him, someone who could protect him from Burt? Maybe even arrest Burt?
”What could they arrest him for?” Archer mumbled aloud as he picked his way through the dark. Burt hadn't shot anyone. Was it a crime to make someone else do something like that? Archer wasn't sure, but he thought it might be. Then again, he had no proof. It would be his word against Burt's. Who would the law believe?
Probably not me, Archer lamented as he reached the edge of the field. No one ever had . . .
He leaned back against a tree and sighed deeply. He'd flip a coin. Heads, he'd call the FBI; tails, he wouldn't. He took a quarter from his pocket and flipped it into the air, but he couldn't see where it landed. He got down on his hands and knees and searched the ground, but the coin was nowhere to be found.
”It figures,” he muttered as he walked the tree line down to the fallen log he'd used as a perch the previous days.
He took the cell phone from his pocket and turned it on but did not dial. Instead he sat for a long while, staring at the farmhouse just a few hundred feet away, and thinking. The man who slept in there had only a few more hours to live, and it would be he, Archer Lowell, who would be pulling the trigger. Not Burt. Not Vince Giordano. Archer Lowell. He'd killed one man so far, and he'd hated it. He hated the thought of doing it again.
He took the card from his pocket and unfolded it slowly. He studied the number, then started to dial, and stopped. Started, then stopped. Finally, he made up his mind, and dialed.
If she answers, it means I have to tell her. If she doesn't . . .
The phone rang six times. Finally, on the sixth ring, he heard a click, then, ”Hi, you've reached Miranda Cahill. I can't take your call right now, but if you'll-”
He turned off the phone and sat shaking, looking over his shoulder, expecting Burt to jump out at him, take the gun from Archer's own pocket, and shoot him with it.
Maybe the other number on the card . . .
He dialed the second number.