The Darkness of Evil (Karen Vail #7)(65)
Rooney rose from his crouch. “Soon as I get some more forensics back, you’ll be the first to know.”
31
The morning came with one redeeming characteristic: the temperature had risen to thirty-five degrees. Well, two: it was not snowing.
Marcks had a third reason to celebrate: he had spent the night in a secluded area in Greenbelt Park inside a very comfortable Mercedes Sseries sedan outfitted with plush napa leather seats and the heater running most of the evening. Before retiring, he had sought out the hot showers described in the brochure and map he had taken from the self-serve receptacle upon entering the grounds.
He spent only about ten minutes under the water but it was like being home, before his incarceration. He could close his eyes and not worry about being shanked in the side. Out in nature, no dim-witted idiots in his space … for the first time in years, he was at total peace.
Afterwards, he retired to the car and enjoyed the most restful sleep he had experienced for as long as he could remember. He awoke at first light feeling refreshed and ready to take on whatever obstacles he would face today.
And given what he had planned, there would certainly be some significant challenges.
However, he derided himself for not learning his lesson at the barn. He should not have slept so soundly—he should have been on alert for threats that approached the car—but the hot water, fatigue, and constant stress won out over self-preservation … at least for seven hours. He needed to regain his edge—or he was going to get caught.
Marcks checked around outside. Trees stretched in all directions, some fallen and others canted at forty-five–degree angles to their brethren. Snow blanketed the landscape as far as he could see. As he sat there, he ran his hands over the supple leather and thought he could get used to this. He could not recall a time when he felt so relaxed.
And it was going to end now. He had work to do. He leaned forward and craned his neck, looking left, right, ahead, and behind him.
No one was in sight. He took Nathan’s Dopp kit and used the reflection off the tinted exterior side windows of the sedan to trim up his new beard, which was still mostly black with a touch of gray around the chin. He combed his hair, snipped a few stray strands with the scissors and made it as presentable as he could. He had gone to sleep while it was still wet and that never turned out well. However, hidden beneath a wool knit hat, that would not matter.
He brushed the trimmings off his clothing and appraised the reflection.
Not bad for an escaped felon on the run. But was it good enough? While the sleep did him a world of good, did he look presentable or would he scare away an unsuspecting passerby? He could not be objective—and he did not know what picture the police were using in their Wanted notices on TV and online. Probably his booking photo, which was now several years old. Wait, no. They had shot another one when he was transferred to Potter.
Nothing he could do about it. Except … he popped the trunk release and rummaged through a road hazard toolkit, which contained nothing of use. But he found a Nationals hat in a backpack—a more disarming look and better coverage than the beanie—along with a sweater and a bottle of sunscreen. He searched inside the car and pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses from the glove box. Not a good look on him, but the idea was to hide his identity, not pose for GQ. With the hat, shades, and nascent facial growth, it was a decent start.
He parked the Mercedes up the road several spots from his discarded beard and hair clippings, then wiped down the interior and abandoned the vehicle.
Marcks made his way on foot toward Kenilworth Avenue and found a Chinese takeout restaurant. After crossing the street, ten feet from the door, he saw two police cars cruise by, the officers’ heads rubbernecking in both directions. Looking for him, no doubt.
He ducked into the storefront and quickly moved away from the windows. By the time his order of Chow Mein was ready, the cops were gone, off to another part of their patrol grid.
He asked to use the phone and called a cab. Twenty minutes later the taxi was dropping him half a mile from where he really wanted to go: a used car dealership that had been around since he was a teenager. He never bought a car there but his friend Booker had.
When he walked into the office, it was pretty much as he had remembered it: a shithole of a business. The elderly man lounging behind the counter was camped out in a lawn chair watching some insipid TV show on an old compact VCR/television propped in a corner on a pile of yellowed phone books.
“Help ya?”
“Looking for a car. Something old, real cheap. Got cash.”
“How much cash you got?”
“What’s the cheapest car you got?”
The man put a beat-up clamshell cell phone down on the counter, swung his feet off an orange overturned bucket and stood up—not quite erect but enough to shuffle his way out the door. Marcks realized the guy was older than he had initially thought.
“Name’s Oliver. You?”
“Bud. Friends call me Buddy.”
“Can see why.” He didn’t turn but kept walking another dozen or so yards.
“Anyone else work here with you, Oliver?”
“Nope. Juss me. Ain’t got no kids, neither. Don’t make enough to hire no employees. Why?”
Marcks took a look around, trying to appear nonchalant. “Oh, just lookin’ for a job.”
“Can’t help ya there, son.” Oliver stopped in front of a sedan to catch his breath and leaned his right hand on the hood. “But I can help ya with a car. Got something for a hundred twenty-five bucks.”