Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(106)

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THOUGH IT WAS DARK, he decided to have a look at the house and headed out again, across Tifton—a bigger town than he’d expected—past an ag college and around a couple of corners and then out Carpenter Road. The road was flat blacktop, with widely spaced houses set well back, usually in stands of pine trees. With a couple of turns off Carpenter, he was cruising past the Coil place, which was lit up like Christmas, with five cars in the circular driveway.

No signs of media, but two of the cars had a cop-like appearance—rode hard and put up wet, bland sedans, older.

There were woods across the road from the Coil house, and from two particular angles, a shooter could see down the opposite ends of the driveway right to the front door. The ends of the driveway were thirty-five or forty yards apart, the wooded shooting positions perhaps sixty to seventy yards apart. He drove on past for a half-mile or so, then turned around, waited a bit, and then drove past the house again. No change. Still a cop vibe from the sedans. Maybe there were cops inside the house, as bodyguards.

The woods across the road from the south end of the driveway seemed to have a piece of higher ground, a hump, that would make a better shooting platform than the lower ground on the north. Lucas made a mental note.



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WHEN HE GOT back to the Country Inn, he called Weather to tell her where he was; they talked for fifteen minutes and she said, “I still don’t understand why you’re there by yourself. What happened to Bob and Rae?”

“I sent them home—at the time, it didn’t seem like we’d need them,” Lucas said. “Now . . . well, this was a last-minute thing. I’m operating on a hunch.”

“You’re going to talk to the local police tomorrow, right?”

“Sure. If . . . I can. I need to look at the situation. I could be embarrassing myself.”

“Lucas . . .”

“I’ll talk to them,” he said. When they were off the phone, he added, “After I look at the situation.”



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HE HADN’T COMMITTED to calling the Tifton police to alert them of his presence, as Weather had demanded, because he didn’t want to lie directly to her. He would eventually call the police, he believed, but not until after he’d dealt with Dunn.

If he talked to the police, and told them what he believed about Dunn’s movements, they’d probably throw a cordon around the house, which Dunn would see. And the cops would probably call the feds, who’d send in even more troops. The same thing would be true if he talked to the Coils ahead of time. If all those officers and agents did everything right, and Lucas had guessed right about Dunn, they’d wind up surrounding him and maybe arresting him.

They’d make him a hero to a segment of the population.

Rae had guessed right about why Lucas had sent her, and Bob, back to Louisiana. He didn’t want witnesses.

Lucas hadn’t come to Tifton to arrest Dunn.

He’d come to kill him.



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HE WENT TO BED EARLY, after spending more time with the Google Earth satellite views of the Coil house; by the time he was finished with them, he felt he could find his way around the timberland across from the house. He also found a place where he could leave the car, before walking into that timber. The walk would cover the best part of a mile, on the margin between a long strip of timber and an agricultural field of some kind, so he’d have to be careful not to be seen with the rifle, which would attract the police.

Dunn had different problems. Unless he was on a straightforward suicide run, which seemed unlikely for a man of his qualities, he’d want his truck nearby. The most likely place for it, Lucas thought, was a farm road that ran parallel to the road where the Coil house was located, but on the other side of the woods and perhaps four hundred yards away from either shooting position.

From the woods, he could shoot Audrey as she came out of the house, then spray the place with the rest of a magazine, then run. A long run, probably a minute and a half, but it was doable.

Of course, Dunn might still be in Virginia, or at that property in West Virginia . . .



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EVEN WITH ALL THAT TO THINK ABOUT, Lucas got some sleep that night. His cell phone alarm kicked him out of bed at 4:30, and he showered, shaved, carried the rifle, his vest, and the camo down to the car at five o’clock, on a cool damp morning. He’d found a Walmart Supercenter in Tifton, checked the parking lot for Dunn’s truck—didn’t find it—went inside and bought some bakery and two Diet Cokes.

He was back on the road at 5:15, with more than an hour before first light, and two hours before sunrise. He found the turnoff to the place he’d leave the car, parked, got out into a heavy dew. Thought about snakes: he always thought about snakes when he was in unfamiliar territory. He’d planned to change his jeans for the camo pants, but the camo pants were commodious, so he pulled them on over his jeans. If a snake could bite through two layers, well . . . okay, he’d die. Probably of a heart attack.

When he was dressed, he took the rifle out of the case, slapped in a full mag, jacked a shell into the chamber, checked the safety, touched the butt of the Walther on his belt, and started off in the dark. There were clouds, and only occasionally a strip of moonlight, but the woods loomed to his left, dark, an impenetrable mass. To his right, he could see across an open field, with farmhouse lights a few hundred yards away. The difference in feel allowed him to keep moving, though he stumbled from time to time, catching himself, cursing under his breath. His shoes were soaked within a hundred yards.