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Pause as Cindy said okay.
“I don’t care how late it gets, I’m going to wake you when I come in.”
He laughed at something she said.
“You too.”
He closed the phone. Put it in his pocket.
“She’s okay?” I asked. “She’s writing. Don’t bother her when she’s writing. Look,” he said.
I looked past the sofa that had been put out at the curb for garbage pickup, and saw a man, probably Randall, moving around on the main floor of the house.
Then the lights went out.
I had been hoping that Randall would leave his house, fire up his SUV, and take off so that Conklin and I could follow him and find out where a cop-and drug-dealer-shooting executioner went at night.
But that didn’t happen.
Soon the inside of the house was dark except for the attic rooms. I saw a TV jump to life in one of those rooms, and a few minutes later, I saw Randall walk between the lamp and the window shades in the second room. Then that light went out too.
“He’s packing it in for the night,” I said.
“Lucky guy,” said Conklin.
We had three more hours before the next team took over.
Chapter 85
WILL RANDALL HAD been watching the two-year-old blue Ford sedan from his rear window, had seen it pull into the empty space on Elm with its headlights off.
And the car was still there.
Will had expected to be tailed and surveilled, but his brothers in blue hadn’t seen him do anything and had nothing on him; if they had, they wouldn’t have been sitting outside in their car.
Will went down the hallway, stopped in each of the bedrooms, and checked on the younger kids, all of whom were sleeping. He filled the hamster’s water bottle in the boys’ room, then went to the den, where his father-in-law, Charlie, was sitting in an easy chair, asleep in front of the television.
The TV was on really loud, so Will lowered the sound and then the thermostat, opened the sofa bed, and helped Charlie get under the covers. From there, Will went into the hall bathroom and jiggled the handle on the toilet until the water stopped running; after that, he turned off the overhead lights on the second floor.
Then he went upstairs.
His oldest son’s room was right off the staircase and next door to the room Will shared with Becky. He pulled a chair up to the hospital-type bed where his son was lying and said, “You want to watch a little TV, Link?”
“Dah,” Link said.
“David Letterman it is.”
Will pointed the clicker, turned on the TV, raised the angle of the bed with the other clicker, and when Link was sitting up, he put a straw into a water bottle and held it to his son’s lips.
Father and son watched Letterman for a few minutes, Will’s mind drifting to the unmarked car downstairs, to what would happen to his family if he was caught. He’d had these thoughts before, and now he ran through the same questions and came up with the same answers.
He was in free fall, but he wasn’t done yet.
He brought his attention back to Letterman, who had finished his monologue and gone to a break. Will put the clickers down and said, “I’ll be back in a little while, okay, son?”
Will went next door to his bedroom and saw Becky sacked out, completely zonked from a day of running this asylum.
He loved her, worried for her health, admired her selflessness, couldn’t imagine life without her.
