Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(15)

“Okay, sweetie.”

“Here’s my turnoff,” Joe said. “I’ll call you on my way back.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”



* * *



—

An hour later, Marybeth had lugged the album to her van in a Twelve Sleep County Library tote. It was heavy and the tote handles dug into her fingers. She placed the album on the floor of her back seat along with another tote filled with romance novels. As usual, their neighbor Lola Lowry had asked Marybeth to deliver her weekly assortment of titles. Because she had asked so nicely months before and she was their only close neighbor, Marybeth had agreed to drop off the books on the way home.

She tried to shake off the pall that had enveloped her from when she’d first opened the binder. It was almost as if the album itself radiated a kind of dark, almost seductive power over her psyche—that she’d made some kind of personal connection with the evil mind of a man she’d never heard of, but who had invited her in. She hoped the spell would break.

And she questioned why she had felt the need to keep it with her instead of leaving it at the library. Why had she decided to take it home, where her returning daughters would soon gather?





CHAPTER SIX


    László and Viktór


The scene in the library parking lot was viewed with interest by two brothers parked half a block away in a rented SUV. The vehicle was splashed with mud. Two pairs of industrial blood-spattered and sooty Tyvek coveralls were wadded up and stuffed into a trash bag in the back seat of the vehicle. Their plan was to dispose of the soiled clothing in an incinerator—if they could find one in this sleepy place.

László Kovács, the driver, was tall and thick and still as physically imposing as he’d been when he was an Olympic wrestler. He had a shaved head, a square face that looked like a balled-up fist, heavy brows, and a deep voice. His big ears stuck straight out from his head. He moved with purpose and grace and was surprisingly quick.

Viktór was dark and lean and wore black plastic glasses with thick lenses that were crooked on his V-shaped face. His features were much softer than his brother’s. He was older than László by a few years, but neither of them had any questions about who was in charge. Unlike László, Viktór had only been to America twice in his life: once to New York City and once to Disney World.

“See that?” László asked in Hungarian.

“She’s got it,” Viktór responded. “What else would she have in that bag?”

“Who is she?”

László lifted a pair of binoculars from his lap and focused them on the license plate of the van, then read out the numbers. His brother scrawled them on the back of the rental car receipt envelope.

“Are we going to follow her?” Viktór asked.

“Oh, hold it,” László said, this time in barely accented English. “When she pulled out, I can see that the space is reserved for the director of the library. So she’s the boss of that place.”

The van exited the parking lot and turned onto the street toward the men in the SUV.

“Get down,” László ordered.

As both men rolled to their sides on the seat, they bumped heads while doing so. They didn’t sit back up until they clearly heard the van pass by.

“You have a hard head,” Viktór said with a grimace. He took off his baseball cap and rubbed his scalp through his hair.

“Get your phone out,” László said. “Find out the name of the library director. Then look up her address.”

“Now? I’m hungry and tired and I want to eat.”

“We eat when we’re done.”

“I want to eat now. This jet lag has thrown off my internal clock.”

László stared straight ahead with his jaw clamped. He was angry with his brother.

“We discussed this,” he said. “We want to get in and get out of this place. People will notice us the longer we are here. You can get plenty of sleep on the plane home.”

Victór moaned.

“We have to believe in why we’re here,” László said. “Never forget that.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


    Nate Romanowski


Nate drove south on I-25 toward Denver in silence, except for the sizzling of his tires on the highway wet from snow. His five-shot .454 Casull revolver sat in a coil of its shoulder holster within easy reach on the passenger seat. He had revenge on his mind and violence in his heart.

In falconry terms, he was entering the mental state of yarak, where his complete focus was on the hunt. Despite his hours on the road, everything was coming together. His eyesight seemed sharper, his hearing had improved, his instincts were on high alert, and his jaw was clamped tight.

Physically, he didn’t feel like he was there yet. Since marrying Liv and having a daughter, he hadn’t regained the lethal edge he’d once had. He hadn’t quite gone soft, but his life and outlook had been redirected. His new life as an on-the-grid husband, father, and small-business owner was much more fulfilling and rewarding than he’d ever imagined. But he knew he needed to temporarily step aside from all of that and invite his old self back in.