Part 23 (2/2)
”This is Miranda Cahill. Please leave a message . . .”
Archer sighed heavily, wondering what message he could leave. By the time she got it, Burt would probably be back, looking for him. If he hadn't killed Mr. Landry by then, well, it wasn't much worth thinking about, was it?
There was no way out, Archer knew that now. Turning off the phone, he stuck it back in his pocket and started off across the field in the direction of the barn. Sick to his stomach, he stopped partway and lost the little bit of breakfast he'd had that morning.
At the back door of the barn, he paused and took the screwdriver and flashlight from his pocket. Holding the small light in his teeth, he carefully removed the screws that held the lock and bolt on the door. He slipped the three screws into his s.h.i.+rt pocket and opened the door slowly, quietly, though he knew no one was in there. No animals lived there, either. It was like the barn was just for show. Well, for show and for storing Mr. Landry's gardening tools. If today was to be like every other day this week, in a few hours from now, Mr. Landry would come out of the house and walk to the pond, where he'd watch the ducks for a while. Then he'd go into the barn and get a rake or some other garden thing. He'd rake leaves or something around the flower beds for about twenty minutes, then he'd put the rake or whatever away. At some point-usually while Mr. Landry was working in the garden-the other man would come out and talk to Mr. Landry, and pretty soon they'd go back into the house.
Archer climbed the ladder to the loft and settled himself down in a spot where he had a clear view of the door. If Mr. Landry was alone, he was supposed to shoot him then. If the other man was there, he'd have to wait until later in the day and hope that Mr. Landry came back out without the other man following right away.
He hunkered down on the hard wooden floor, the gun in his hand, and waited for the door to open. He would not permit himself to think any more about what he was going to do when Joshua Landry stepped through it.
Archer had all but fallen asleep waiting. His one arm had gone numb, and he'd just sat up and leaned back against the wall, shaking the arm to get the blood flowing again, when he heard the latch lift on the wide door below him. He rested his head on the wall behind him, shaking his head slowly and fighting back the tears. Then, knowing there was no use, there was no way out now, he stretched his neck to look down into the barn.
Now or never . . .
Josh Landry pushed the door open just enough to walk through it. He stood with his back to Archer and sorted through some garden implements as if searching for just the right one. He'd just reached out for one when the first bullet whizzed past him on the left. Landry jumped back, ducked, and looked around the barn.
”What the-”
The second bullet pa.s.sed him on the right.
”Son of a b.i.t.c.h,” Landry yelled.
The third bullet struck him in the chest, and he fell back, a surprised look on his face. The fourth and fifth bullets missed the mark, but the sixth hit near the third, taking him all the way down to the ground. As if in a daze, Archer came down the ladder holding on with one hand, the gun still in the other.
Just as he got to the bottom, the door was flung open, and the other man stood there, a gun held in front of him as he scanned the interior. Before he turned in Archer's direction, Archer fired twice. The man fell, his gun useless now.
A loud discordant hum in his brain, Archer Lowell ran out the back door and fled for the shelter of the woods.
”This is getting old,” Miranda grumbled as she climbed into the pa.s.senger seat of Will's car the next morning. ”Old, old, old . . .”
”Hey, you were the one who wanted to work on Sat.u.r.day, remember? I was just as happy to work from home.”
”Well, after losing half a day, yesterday, chasing our tails in Ohio . . .” She snapped her seat belt closed. ”All that way just to find out that Curtis Channing had been a model employee. Who'd have thought that?”
”Yeah, the least he could have done was show a little hostility toward the waitresses. Give us something to work with.”
”Shut up and drive.” She sank into her seat.
”I see we're just a little ray of suns.h.i.+ne this morning.”
She glared at him.
”No coffee this morning, Cahill?”
”I was out.”
”Uh-oh. We all know what that means.”
”I said shut up, Fletcher.”
He chuckled, further incurring her wrath, but he redeemed himself when he pulled into the first convenience store they came to.
”No, no, you stay right there,” he told her as he got out of the car. ”I'll get your coffee.”
”I'll come in.” She opened the pa.s.senger door. ”You don't have to go in for me.”
”I do if I ever want to shop here again. G.o.d only knows what kind of damage you could do to my reputation, the mood you're in. . . .”
She slammed the door closed again and sat back in the seat.
Will was back in under five minutes, a cardboard carrier holding three cups of coffee in one hand, a bag in the other.
”I got you an extra cup. And look, Cahill. Doughnuts.” He got into the car slowly, trying not to tip the cups. He tossed the bag in her general direction, then looked over at her when the bag hit the floor. ”Hey, you were supposed to catch-”
Miranda sat stock-still, her phone up to her ear, her face white. ”f.u.c.k,” she yelled. ”f.u.c.k!”
”What . . . ?”
She got out of the car and paced the parking lot wildly. She looked stricken, furious.
Will followed her, pinned her up against the car, and took the phone from her hand.
”What happened? What?”
”Landry is dead.” She spat the words at him. ”The Plainsville police found his body about forty minutes ago.”
”Jesus.” He appeared momentarily stunned. ”What about Phillips?”
”He's in the emergency room at Princeton Hospital. He took one shot, but he'll survive.” She pushed Will away with a two-handed shove to the chest. ”Son of a b.i.t.c.h! How the h.e.l.l is this little wienie getting away with this s.h.i.+t?”
Before he could answer, she'd taken off around the car and was getting back in.
”Drive,” she pleaded. ”Get back in and drive.”
All the way to Plainsville, she muttered curses under her breath, stopping only long enough to make those phone calls she knew she needed to make. The first was to John Mancini. The second was to the Plainsville police for an update.
”You were supposed to be watching this guy,” she'd said in her most controlled voice. ”Why weren't you watching him?”
”Hey, we don't have enough officers to have one stationed twenty-four hours a day watching any one individual, okay?” the chief of police had spat back. ”And besides, since the FBI had a man there, we figured Mr. Landry was in good hands. So why don't you ask your own man what happened, Agent Cahill? Ask him what he was doing while Josh Landry was being shot and killed on his his watch.” watch.”
”I just can't believe this.” She shook her head after she'd hung up the phone. ”I can't believe that Archer Lowell has pulled this off. Where the h.e.l.l was Art Phillips?”
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