Part 33 (2/2)
More than one private investigator?
Cops?
Nah, he mentally smacked himself on the forehead.
FBI.
That would explain all those Virginia ”Friends of the Chesapeake” license plates he'd seen when he'd driven past the house earlier.
Sure. Annie. FBI Annie, he used to call her. She'd have brought in the troops for this, wouldn't she?
And wasn't that just dandy, he thought sourly. Just what the Right Reverend Prescott was going to want to hear.
He watched the man on the porch finish smoking his cigarette, then toss it onto the gra.s.s. He stepped on it and the small dot of red disappeared.
Next door, the kitchen lights were turned out. The first floor of the house lay in darkness now. If he was going to make his move, he couldn't wait much longer. The sooner he got in and out of there and away, the better off he'd be. He started to sweat just thinking about how Prescott was going to react to hearing that the FBI had been behind Julianne's disappearance from the compound.
He'd worry about what to say to Prescott later.
Right now he had two FBI agents to deal with-at least two.
He paused. Could there be more? Inside, maybe, might be another. Three cars with Virginia plates, three agents?
He watched for another half hour but saw no one, other than the two agents he'd previously spotted. The one on the porch never ventured farther than the end of the house, while the agent closest to Mara's house wandered toward the front every fifteen minutes or so, blending into the shadows.
Jules patted his leg for the knife he had strapped there. He could take out the agent on the porch silently the next time the agent closest to the house made his round out front. Then, when the second agent returned to that spot near the garage he seemed to like so much, Jules would be waiting for him. He could get into the house through the window in the den. He could cut out the gla.s.s, slice through the screen. . . .
Yeah. That would have to be the plan. He was way too close to being out of time . . . this would be his best chance. His last chance.
Then the agent on Mrs. West's porch went inside the house. Jules froze. Should he wait for the man to return, or should he go in after him?
Several minutes pa.s.sed before he realized he would have to make a move. He'd have to go inside, hope that with the element of surprise on his side, he would be able to overtake his quarry. He was trying to recall the layout of Mrs. West's house-was there a laundry room off the back hall, or a door to the bas.e.m.e.nt?-when he heard a distinct rustle from the open end of the arbor. Flattening himself to the wall, he watched as a tall figure eased backward into the cover of the thicket. Silently Jules drew his gun and extended his arm so that the newcomer backed into the muzzle.
”Not a sound,” Jules whispered over the taller man's shoulder. ”Don't say a word.”
The man froze.
”Now, how many?” Jules demanded.
”Wh-what?” the man stuttered.
”How many more of you are there?” Jules whispered.
”It's just me.”
”Liar. I know you've got one man in the house here, and one man outside next door. How many more?”
”I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know who is inside that house or who is outside over there. I swear. . . .”
”Shhhh. Keep it down. Turn around and face the garage and put your hands on your head.” Jules continued to hold the gun to the middle of the stranger's back. ”Hands on your head. Come on, you've arrested how many people, you don't know where to put your hands when you're going to be frisked?”
”Arrested . . . ? Hey, I ain't no cop-”
”No. You're no cop. You're FBI.”
”FBI?” Burt Connolly was incredulous. ”Buddy, I don't know what the f.u.c.k is going on here, or why you think I'm FBI-”
”Shut up.”
”Listen, you've got me confused with someone else. I swear. . . .”
”Oh, right, you were just pa.s.sing through the neighborhood and decided to take a shortcut through the grape arbor.” Jules sneered softly and jabbed the gun into the middle of the man's back. ”And keep your voice down. Don't make me tell you again.”
”Listen, I can explain-”
”Where's your ID?” Jules demanded.
”Only ID I got is my driver's license.”
”That in your wallet?” Jules asked after he'd finished patting down his captive and finding only one weapon, which he confiscated and stuck down his belt.
”Yeah. Left back pocket.”
Jules retrieved it, but he couldn't see the name on the license. It was too dark. There was nothing there that even vaguely resembled an FBI identification, though. He'd seen a few of those over the years, when they first started looking at Prescott for tax evasion. He knew that no agent would go on a job without his ID.
”If you're not FBI, and you're not a cop, you must be private security or private investigation. Which is it?”
”Neither.”
”Who do you work for?”
”I don't work for anyone.” The man started to turn and Jules jammed the b.u.t.t of the gun into his back again.
”Then what are you doing here? The truth.”
”I'm watching the house next door.”
”Why?”
”Because I think there's someone in there I want to see.”
”Who?”
”Woman named Miranda Cahill.”
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