Before She Knew Him(30)
The green sign indicating that his exit was two miles away flickered in his headlights. He rolled down his window and breathed the salt-tinged air into his lungs. He’d memorized the directions to the Rusty Scupper, having left his phone back in the room.
He passed through two traffic lights, crossed a short bridge over the inlet, then turned right onto Seagrass Lane, the road that led to the bar. With the window rolled down, he could hear the distant thump of a bass line as he passed the Rusty Scupper’s parking lot. The air now smelled like low tide, marshy and dank, plus Matthew caught the distinctive tang of marijuana drifting in from a group of four figures huddled around a pickup truck.
He drove another two hundred yards and parked in the back lot of a small insurance agency. He’d studied Google Maps and knew that there was a footpath that ran along New Essex River toward the back of the bar. It was easy to find—a small sign marked it as the New Essex River Walk—and Matthew casually walked down the wooden pathway toward the bar. As he walked, a fish broke the surface of the river, and something scuttled through the stunted brushes. Once he was near the bar, all he could hear was the familiar sound of the C-Beams doing their cover of “Positively 4th Street.” If the previous show was any indication, they were near the end of their set. Matthew looked at his watch. It was nearly twelve.
He walked into the parking lot, quickly scanning vehicles, looking for Scott’s Dodge Dart. He spotted it parked toward the rear of the two-story brick bar, just underneath the back patio where patrons smoked. It was next to a van that Matthew recognized as belonging to the drummer of the band. His own car was in such a perfect location, parked in the dark shadows, that Matthew couldn’t suppress the buzz that was telling him that tonight was actually going to work. Things were falling into place.
Glancing around to make sure that no one was within sight, Matthew flicked open his jackknife and punched a hole in the rear left tire of Scott’s car. The knife stuck briefly, stale air already escaping in a ragged hiss. Matthew yanked it free, then walked back to the river walk. There was a bench that faced the river, but if he twisted his body he could see back toward the bar, with a view of the Dodge Dart. He waited. Only one person passed him, a middle-aged man smoking a filthy-smelling cigar. Matthew put his chin on his chest and pretended to be asleep, hoping that the cigar smoker wasn’t a do-gooder who might check and see if he was okay. He didn’t.
The live music from the Rusty Scupper had ceased, and Matthew watched as patrons spilled outside and weaved their way back to their cars. Everyone was talking loudly, snatches of inane conversation reaching Matthew on his bench. In between keeping an eye on the bar’s exit, Matthew looked at the river, black under the starless sky. But despite the darkness, he could feel its swiftly moving current, the water pulled by the ebbing tide back toward the ocean. Lights went on in the second-floor windows of the Rusty Scupper, the few remaining customers being shamed into leaving. The parking lot was nearly empty now. A middle-aged couple stood by a truck arguing about who was going to drive home. A set of double doors at the back of the building swung open with a metallic clang, and Matthew recognized the two other members of the C-Beams trucking out their equipment, the drummer beginning to load the same van that Matthew had seen that night at the Owl’s Head. The bass player was helping the drummer with his kit. Where was Scott? Probably surveying the remaining groupies in the bar for his next victim. It was actually good that he wasn’t there. Matthew was hoping that his bandmates would leave first and that he would have to change his tire alone. He knew it was still a long shot that Scott would be by himself in the dark parking lot, but if he was, then Matthew was ready.
Another twenty minutes passed and the drummer and the bass player both left. Shortly afterward, Scott emerged from the rear entrance of the building, but he wasn’t alone. There was a girl with him, and although she was dressed differently—a tight dress that could have been a T-shirt—it was clear that she was the waitress from the Owl’s Head. Matthew wasn’t surprised she was there, but he was disappointed. Scott slung his guitar case into the backseat of his car, then they both got in. The engine started, and the Dart reversed swiftly along the tarmac, then stopped just as swiftly. Scott jumped out of the car, examined his back tire. Matthew heard an audible “fuuuck” float his way, then the sound of another door slamming shut. The waitress was out of the car as well, now crouched beside Scott. He could hear their voices—his exasperated, hers querulous—but not the words. Scott opened his trunk and pulled out a spare, plus what was probably the jack. He crouched by the car again while the waitress stood two feet away, her arms across her middle. Even from a distance, Matthew could tell she was shivering. Scott, wearing a fleece-lined jean jacket, had begun to jack up the car.
The waitress said something—the words were still unclear—and Scott, still focused on his task, responded without turning his head. The waitress went back to the heavy double doors and banged on them. Five seconds passed, and the doors opened, the waitress sliding inside.
Matthew felt a surge of adrenaline. He realized that, until this moment, he hadn’t really believed he’d get his chance. But here it was.
He stood, pulled his cap farther down his forehead and around his ears, and surveyed the parking lot. There were still a few cars, but no one was visible. He whipped the telescoping baton so that it snapped to its full length, twenty-one inches of solid steel. With the baton down by his leg and the stun gun, just a precaution, in his other hand, Matthew walked purposefully, but not too rapidly, toward the Dart, then came around it to stand behind Scott. The car was jacked up, and Scott was trying to twist the lug nut wrench. He hadn’t noticed or heard Matthew, who was right behind him. For five seconds, Matthew just stood there, the steel in his hand, savoring the immense power he had over the insect crouched in front of him. Then he reared back and swung, bringing the baton down with as much force as possible across the top of Scott’s head. Scott made a guttural sound in his throat, then dropped onto his side, unconscious.