The Old Man(41)

“Jesus,” said the gray-haired man. “What a load of crap. I can’t believe you even bothered to repeat it.”

Julian Carson decided to interpret that as a question. “He said he wouldn’t kill me if I passed it on. He didn’t kill me.”

The man stared into Carson’s eyes, but Carson stared back, unblinking.

“You got a pretty good deal.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did he do then?”

“He checked to be sure the woman was still strapped in the passenger seat with the seat belt. Then he let the dogs into the backseat and drove away.”

“That’s it?”

“He was in a hurry to be gone.”

“I’ll bet he was. Where do you think he was going?”

“Wherever he thinks we won’t be likely to look for him.”

“What do you know about the woman?”

“Her name is Zoe McDonald. Forty-five, divorced, pretty. The apartment was rented in her name only. She was living there for three months before the shooting in Norwich, Vermont, so she couldn’t have been renting it with him in mind. She advertised online for two roommates, and then she took the ad down about a week after he left Vermont, so that’s probably when he arrived.”

“Do you think he’s killed her by now?”

“No,” said Carson. “I think he carried her out that way—”

“Kidnapped her.”

“Kidnapped her that way because he didn’t think he should leave her there with the two bodies. He knew somebody would be along to clean up, and they wouldn’t leave a witness alive. I think he’ll free her in the middle of nowhere so she’ll have to walk a few hours to get to a town while he gets away. He might even have done it already and told her if she called the authorities he’d come back and kill her.”

“Why do you think that?” the man asked. “If he took her to a remote area, why not kill her? It’s much safer for him.”

“Killing her on the spot would have been even safer. He had two weapons with silencers he took from the Libyans. He hasn’t killed anybody who wasn’t trying to kill him.”

“You’re starting to sound like you believe his story.”

“I don’t know. But I think he believes his story.”

“Why is that?”

Carson said, “Partly just an impression he made on me. But it also occurred to me that if he took back the money, then he must have delivered it to the Libyan first.”

“What does that mean?”

“The money didn’t get to the insurgents because the Libyan kept it.”

Harper and Waters glanced at each other and Waters seemed to cringe for him, but neither spoke.

The older man said, “And you said he only kills people who are trying to kill him. Why are you alive?”

“He wanted me to deliver his message, but he could have left a note. He just didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Tell us. What do you think we should do now?”

“That’s a difficult question, sir.”

“Take a crack at it.”

“I would do two things at once. I’d go through whatever evidence still exists to find out whether he’s telling the truth. And I’d also test him.”

“How?”

“He says he’s willing to give the money back. Let him.”





15


Hank and Marcia Dixon appeared to be relaxed, almost leisurely travelers. The only days when they drove more than five hours were when there was some exceptional delay—roadwork, accidents, weather.

They stopped at resort hotels, or the sort of city hotel that was one or two hundred dollars more expensive than the others in the vicinity. Hank chose the ones where there were plenty of people who were middle-aged or older with money, and few people in their twenties who might get into the sort of trouble that stimulated calls to the police. The hotels had doormen and security people to keep the guests from being bothered.

The Dixons were not the sorts who sought out company or conversation. When they passed anyone in the hallways they smiled. When someone spoke they answered politely. If they liked a hotel and it passed Hank Dixon’s standard of safety and anonymity, they sometimes stayed an extra day or two. The first time they did it, he explained to Marcia: “Every day that we’re living like this, getting stronger and healthier and more rested, they’re out there somewhere standing in the rain or the cold watching for us. Anything that makes their effort a waste of time is good for us.”

Every evening, Dixon turned on the television set in their room and watched the news for any mention of the shooting at Dan Chase’s house in Vermont, the two men found dead in the parking lot near Buffalo, or the kidnapping of Zoe McDonald in Chicago. He bought a new laptop and looked for anything that might be related to the hunt for Dan Chase or Peter Caldwell.

He had been expecting that the intelligence people would get frustrated and begin to use state and local law enforcement to find him. He had waited to see what the pretext would be. They might say he was anything from a bank robber to a child molester, but they seemed to be putting out nothing. At each stop he looked, found nothing, and then repacked his laptop for the next day’s drive.

Hank was premeditated and careful about the way he treated Marcia. He had used romance to manipulate and control her for months, and he had gotten good at it. The deception was not a chore, and her affection for him made her pleasant and pliable. But since the attack in Chicago he had occasionally had an uneasy feeling about her.