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When she’d talked to Remmi the other day, Settler had gotten the impression she hadn’t seen him since leaving Las Vegas. She made a note to check that out, if the officer interviewing her hadn’t already gotten a satisfactory answer.
In the other car, Noah Scott was still being interviewed. That was going to take a while. There was a lot more to question him about—if not this case, then the other one, when he’d walked away from the hospital in Las Vegas as a kid. For the first time, the police could question him about what had happened in the desert that night, see if he could ID the would-be assassin who had shot him in the neck and left him for dead. Or possibly the man who’d died in the Mustang, even whether he’d seen a baby exchange or whatever the hell it had been.
Las Vegas PD had been notified. They’d want to talk to Scott as well as Ms. Storm about each of their parts in that very old, very cold case.
So far, the two seemed to be cooperating, and Settler’s first instinct was to think neither of them was the murderer. But you never knew. She’d learned that sometimes the least likely suspect was a stone-cold killer—the most boring guy who was forever mowing his lawn or walking his dog or helping a neighbor fix his fence. Once in a while, behind an everyday mask was the face of a monster. How many times had she heard shocked statements from those who had known a killer—a man who lived in the neighborhood. The remarks had varied from “Helluva nice guy” to “He kept to himself most of the time, but he was friendly enough” or “I can’t believe it; he seemed so normal.” There were the crazies who went on killing sprees, of course, the killer everyone knew was “a little off ” or “odd” or “a loner,” the one about whom someone always said, “I always wondered about him.” But, often as not, a killer turned out to be the guy in the neighborhood who was least expected to be so violent.
Settler eyed the crime scene once more. Blood still everywhere on the grass, the house itself spotless—or it had been before they’d arrived and started dusting for fingerprints and searching for evidence. Then there was the stable, with its three horses, and the barn where twenty or so head of cattle came and went. The animal control people would see that the animals were cared for through a neighbor they’d interviewed; Joe Pastiche had come to the scene out of curiosity and, realizing what had happened, had been shocked and distraught and then offered to see to the stock and the dog. Animal control was considering letting Pastiche take the job once he was checked out and it was determined he was in the clear, hadn’t been a part of the attack.
Good.
She watched as the techs went over the ground, taking pictures, covering the area in the grid, looking for the tiniest bit of trace evidence. The blood, though, if any of it was from the killer rather than the victims, that would be the best. If the killer was in the system. If not . . . well, first things first, and what she wanted to do was interview Ned Crenshaw if he ever regained consciousness. She was heading to the hospital as soon as she was done here. Already, she’d ordered a comparison between the bullets from the body of Mrs. Crenshaw and those extracted from Noah Scott twenty years earlier, as well as the one found in the dead John Doe who had been burned beyond recognition in the rented Mustang in the desert.
Maybe, just maybe, the two cases could be linked, and she would find some clue to what happened and the reason Karen Upgarde had jumped and Didi Storm had disap
peared.
* * *
He was fucked.
Big-time.
The Marksman had left the Crenshaw place in a hurry, nearly peeling out. He’d been parked on the access road facing out, for a quick exit, but that’s about the only part of his plan that had worked as it was supposed to. He’d been bleeding like a stuck pig from the wound in his leg and knew he’d left a trail of blood. That wasn’t supposed to have happened.
He’d gotten too close, wanted to taunt the cocksucker.
He checked his face in the rearview mirror once he’d put Sacramento behind him and didn’t like what he saw. His visage spoke of violence. It looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a damned grizzly bear and lost. How the hell was he supposed to hide that? Wear a mask? That fuckin’ son of a bitch, Ned Crenshaw!
Driving, mindful of keeping his speedometer right at the speed limit, he rethought the plan and decided he’d underestimated Crenshaw. The killer should have expected that the cowboy wouldn’t die like a normal human being. The Marksman had been a fool to let himself get so close, to taunt the man. He knew better, damn it. Shoot from a distance. Hit in the heart or the head and get the hell out. That was his forte. He was good at long distance—the best, he’d told himself; it was the very reason he’d been hired in the first place, back when this all started so long ago. And tonight he’d fucked up. He had the pistol, here in the Explorer, locked in its case, and he hadn’t even taken it with him to the killing site to finish the job. All in all, the job had been a major cluster-fuck, and ultimately, he could blame no one but himself.
He pounded the steering wheel. Why the hell had he gotten so sloppy? Why the hell had he let his emotions get the better of him? Why the hell had he let Ned Crenshaw take a damned pitchfork to his face and a pair of wire clippers to his thigh?
Because you’d wanted to gloat. Don’t you know that pride goeth before a fall? He heard the words as if Granny were speaking directly to him, as if her damned ghost were seated in the passenger seat, lighting a Pall Mall cigarette, the black kind that she’d smoked on the sly. Pride is a sin, you know. One of the seven. And so is murder, but there’s no talkin’ you outta that. I know. I saw how you were, even at ten, maybe eight, how you loved to hunt. To kill. Why do you think I tried so hard for you to find the Lord? Do you remember your Latin? Do you? Do you remember how to atone? God will catch up with you, boy. You know he will.
Not tonight, not tonight. He’d make damned sure of it.
He let out his breath, tried to calm himself as he bled all over the interior of his vehicle. The lights of Oakland appeared, shining upward, obliterating the stars, and he reminded himself that he was a survivor. He’d get through this and finish the job. He just had to center himself.
Despite the late hour, more cars were on the road, taillights glowing red. He kept his speed steady, couldn’t risk being pulled over by a cop, not now. He had an emergency first-aid kit with him, and he’d use it as best he could in the dingy little motel. He could feel the blood flow slowing, and that was good. Damned good. No artery nicked by those needle-nosed cutters. Good thing. Otherwise, he’d be in far worse trouble than he already was; he’d be forced to go to an ER, and then he’d be exposed.
He took the exit for his motel, and when he finally turned into the bumpy, worn asphalt lot of the Baysider, the reception area was still lit brightly, and the kid behind the counter was alone, playing on his cell phone, not paying the least bit of attention to who was coming or going. Good.
After parking in his usual spot, he grabbed the soft-sided pack that held all the essentials for treating wounds, burns, bug bites, and the like. He found his room key, hurried inside, and tried his best not to track in any blood. Once in the doorway, he hit the lock button on his key fob. Yeah, there were some red spots on the dusty cement, but he’d be gone before daylight and would disappear into the city.
Inside the bathroom of the locked room, he stripped off his pants and saw the ugly gash in his leg. It was deep, still bleeding slightly, and would probably need stitches. Several. But not tonight.
That ass-wipe Crenshaw!
It’s your own stupid fault. Why did you have to get close and taunt the bastard? He was down. You were lucky to have run out of the stable and set up quickly behind the tree, so you were able to nail the wife. Crenshaw would have bled out, or you could have taken another shot from behind the eucalyptus. But you had to get cocky, try to rub it in.
He’d hoped to catch them in the stable, but somehow he’d given himself away.
That damned dog.
Barking his fool head off.
You should have shot the yapping mutt up. That was your first mistake. One of many. You had to get close, didn’t you, like before, with the kid in the desert. Couldn’t be satisfied to shoot from a distance. What’s wrong with you?
