Redemption Road(115)

Inside or out, she was just as trapped.

*

Elizabeth made sure Channing’s name and photograph went out to every officer in the county. The FBI stepped up, and so did the state police. That was politics, Francis Dyer holding up his end of the bargain. When it was done, she returned to the conference room. The stares still lingered, but not all of them were distrustful. Maybe, it was the badge. Maybe, the novelty was wearing thin. Whatever the case, she put her back to the glass wall and focused on what she had. There was the message, the blood on the stoop, the broken glass, and the abandoned phone.

Could Channing’s disappearance have something to do with the church?

Elizabeth came back to that repeatedly. Too much coincidence, she thought. Too many moving parts. Other women had disappeared; others were dying.

Was there a connection?

Elizabeth combed through the files, the evidence. She worked it all, then ran it again going all the way back to Adrian’s conviction, looking first at Julia Strange, Ramona Morgan, and Lauren Lester. They were found in the church, on the altar. What did they have in common? Why were they chosen? They were different ages and backgrounds, different heights and weights and builds. What about the ones found beneath the church? What about Allison Wilson and Catherine Wall?

Photographs of all five women hung from the murder board, and Elizabeth walked the line, studying their faces. Adrian was convicted of killing Julia Strange. Did the others die because the wrong man went to prison?

She walked the line again. Some of the victims were buried, and others posed as if meant to be found. Was that about Adrian?

The questions piled up, yet Elizabeth found herself staring most often at the photograph of Allison Wilson. Something bothered her, and it wasn’t a small thing.

“They look like you.”

Elizabeth turned to see James Randolph. “What did you say?”

“I said they look like you.” He crossed the room and stood beside her at the whiteboard. “Julia Strange. All of them.” He touched one photo, then another. “Something about the eyes.”

*

Sixty miles away, armed men gathered in an empty lot two miles from a decrepit motel that rented rooms by the hour. Stanford Olivet was among them, though he did not wish to be.

“The room is in the back. You know the target.” That was Jacks. He checked the loads in a Sig Sauer .45, then holstered it. “He’s fast and strong, and liable to freak when he sees us. That means we get him down fast and we get him in the van.”

“I don’t like this,” Olivet said.

“When do you ever?”

Olivet looked from Jacks to Woods. They didn’t care for him. They never had. “The cops have the same address. You know that, right? They could be here any second.”

“Fuck the cops.”

“You’re joking.”

“Just get in the van.”

Jacks shoved Olivet through the rear door and rolled it shut. When everyone was in the van, it lurched from the lot and rolled fast until the motel appeared around a bend in the scrub. The building was old, the earth around it sandy and baked. For an instant, Olivet peered into the haze behind them. The warden was out there somewhere. Ten miles away, or twenty. Somewhere safe, Olivet thought. He wouldn’t take a chance like this, not with cops coming, too.

“Here we go.” Woods twisted in the seat. “Slick and fast and get the hell out.”

The van rocked into the parking lot and turned for the back. Olivet rolled a ski mask over his face, said, “Come on guys, masks.”

But Jacks wouldn’t have it. “Uh-uh. You saw what he did to Preston. I want that son of a bitch to see our faces when we come through the door. I want him afraid and aware. I want to see it register.”

Olivet wanted to argue, but they were already past the office and nearing the side of the motel. The parking lot was empty, the pool full of green slime. They rounded into the rear lot, backed up to the door, and spilled from the van, Woods with a sledge, Jacks with the .45 out of the holster and low against his leg. Nobody said a word. They squared up on the door and, when the lock burst, took the room in a silent rush.

It was empty, the bed rumpled.

“Shower.”

Jacks pointed, and they fanned out around the bathroom door, everybody’s gun up now, Jacks counting down to three as water stopped running and he eased the door open. Steam rolled out. They saw gray tile, a shower curtain, and clothing on the floor. For that instant, the tableau held, then plastic rings scraped, and the curtain slid back. Behind it was a man in his thirties, and a girl ten years younger. She screamed when she saw them. The man screamed, too. He was skinny, with eyes too large for his face. The girl covered herself with the shower curtain.

Woods said, “Ah, hell.”

“You.” Jacks centered the .45 on the man’s face. “How long have you been here?”

“Please, don’t hurt us. There’s money—”

“How long have you been in this room?”

“Two days. Jesus, don’t shoot me. We’ve been here since the day before yesterday. Two days. Two days.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course, yes. God. Please—”

Olivet saw it coming a second before it actually did. He opened his mouth, but there was no stopping it. The .45 spoke twice: sprays of blood on tile, bits of brain and bone.