The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(32)

“What’s being done to find him?”

“Don’t worry about that. We’re working on it. Actually, a whole task force is working on it. Law enforcement is deployed all across the state.” She glanced in her mirror.

No headlights. No one’s following me. Jesus, Karen. Why would anyone be following you? This whole business with Marcks and the task force and Jasmine’s paranoia—although well deserved—had spooked her. Not an easy thing to do.

“Let’s meet tomorrow. I need to go through some things with you about your dad, things that may help us find him. And I’ll go by your place on the way. Okay? A quick breakfast. My treat.”

“Only if you make sure you’re not followed. Can you do that?”

“I’ve got some experience with that, yeah. Text me the time and location and I’ll be there.”





14


The Virginia winter was proving more brutal than Roscoe Lee Marcks had remembered. The sweaters and knit shirts that he had pilfered from a house owned by the Jensen family somewhere along the way between Strasburg and Cub Run had reached the limits of their insulating capacity.

The bottle of foundation he found in the wife’s bathroom drawer helped cover some of the bruising on his face, while the car he had taken from the Jensens’ garage—though nothing special—was proving useful. He had parked it a mile down the road in an area not visible from the street to prevent the cops from finding it and proceeded on foot in search of shelter. He had to stay hydrated and fed, and avoid the extreme overnight cold.

The flashlight he borrowed from the Jensens’ kitchen, however, was not as serviceable. It was the type that used an old incandescent bulb, which produced a pathetically dim beam that had diminished significantly in the past fifteen minutes. Its yellow hue covered only a few feet in front of him.

However, at some point this afternoon, he lost the cell phone Sue Olifante had bought him. He had made the calls he needed to, so it was not a tragedy, but having it would have made life easier. Where it was, he had no idea—it could be somewhere along the side of a rural road or buried in a snowdrift where he had stopped to take a piss. He knew that in the hands of law enforcement—if they figured out it was his—it would provide them with some insight as to who he had contacted … and how to apprehend him. He hoped it would remain where he had left it, untouched.

But of course he could not take a chance. He had to alter his approach.

It was merely another obstacle he would have to overcome. Hell, he had escaped a maximum-security facility. Whatever lay ahead might be considered infinitely easier.

He now trudged along in a rustic, forested area that was dotted with occasional homes. Some two dozen yards in the distance, illuminated slightly by the faint moonlight that made its way through the barren tree branches, was a clapboard house and, more importantly, what looked like a large detached shed. A bedroom with a mattress, running water, and toilet was unquestionably better—and he had no compunction about doing what was necessary to the home’s inhabitants—but the fewer breadcrumbs he left in his wake, the better. He could hide in the shed, get some sleep, and map out a plan of action in the morning.

The problem he had now—how to find Jasmine—was at the crux of all he had to solve. Everything else was a matter of survival … though he had to stop and take a deep breath of chilled air from time to time, smell the flowers, enjoy his freedom for as long as it lasted.

If he was careful, and a little bit lucky, he would have the luxury of taking his time working his way to Canada. Or Mexico. He would have to think on that. He had originally figured he would go south, to get out of the cold. But that was perhaps too obvious. He had to start thinking with a contrarian point of view … do the opposite of what he should, or would, do.

After what he had done—especially after what he had done—the authorities would be looking for him en masse. Like death and taxes, that much was a given.

As he approached the shed, he could see it was more like a small barn—and the main house was larger than he had thought. He broke the rusted lock and pulled open the wooden door only enough to slide his body inside.

He winced at the creak of the hinge as he drew it closed behind him.

There was equipment of all kinds from what he could tell. Although there was a light switch on the wall where he had entered, he would not dare turn it on.

The homeowner was a handy guy, it seemed: he had an extensive assortment of tools mounted neatly on pegboards, with workbenches, drill presses, ladders … and a variety of power saws.

Marcks gathered up an old tarpaulin, scattered straw, and rags he had found in a lawn bag by the door. As he assembled his bed, the cold now penetrating down to the bone, he tried to think of a way to get close to Jasmine.

First he had to find her. He was sure she would not go back to her house. He knew she had left her old job. But where did she work now? He had no idea.

That presented a problem. Just as he began to feel like he was looking for a needle in a haystack—appropriate given where he was—he hit on an idea.

Yes, he thought. That’ll definitely work …





15


Vail arrived home thirty minutes late. After hanging up with Jasmine she called Robby and apologized, then told him she was en route. He took it in stride and was not surprised.

She ran into the house, looking frazzled, as if she had just come from a crime scene—which was not far from the truth.