Redemption Road(121)

She disconnected before he could argue, then made the last turn before her neighborhood. Parking a block away from her house, she worked through a line of trees, approached from the rear, and slipped inside. She knew at once the house was empty, but checked it anyway. Every room. Every door. A dozen messages clogged her machine, but none were from Channing.

What to do?

The cops could be a mile away, engines wide open. If they found her, she’d face jail and trial and prison. That meant she had to move, and do it now. So, she collected cash and clothing and spare weapons. She stuffed it all into a bag, working faster because speed kept her safe from the truth: that she had nowhere to go, and no way to find the only thing that really mattered.

Channing …

That was the arrow that brought her down, and she felt it as if it were real, a sudden pain that made her sit on a kitchen chair, hands open and upturned, eyes wide but not really seeing. Channing was gone, and Elizabeth had no way to find her.

Two minutes later a car rolled into the drive.

It wasn’t Channing.

*

Beckett’s illusions fell apart when the warrant hit the wires. Until then he’d believed the world might still correct. They’d catch the killer, and Liz would come home. The warden would somehow disappear. Never mind the dead couple in the motel, or that he’d gotten them killed. That was too big, and he had nowhere to put the guilt.

How could he know Liz would lie?

He couldn’t.

But, the couple was still dead. That was still on him.

“Where’s Dyer?” He grabbed the first cop he saw, a uniformed officer plying the crowded halls same as him. State cops. SBI. It was as if someone had kicked apart a nest of ants. Everyone was angry and full of grim intent. Serial killer. Guard killer. People felt it same as Beckett, long falls and acceleration.

“Dyer’s gone,” the uniform said. “Thirty minutes, maybe.”

“Where?”

“No idea.”

Beckett let him go and checked Dyer’s office for the third time. He wanted the warrant quashed before Liz got hurt. But the office was empty. No answer on the cell. He tried Liz, but she wasn’t answering, either. She was angry; didn’t trust him.

Shit, he couldn’t blame her.

“I’m on my cell.” He flung the words at one of the switchboard operators. “Tell Dyer to call me if he shows up.”

Beckett pulled the coat off his chair and shrugged it on as he stepped outside, taking in the news crews and cops and all the bright, moving colors. Forces were gathering against him. Old pressures. Old sins. He needed something, and it had nothing to do with the job.

Taking the steps down, he ate up the sidewalk in long strides, took the car across town, and stepped out at the hair salon two blocks from the mall. Inside, it smelled of chemicals and lotions and blown hair. Beckett nodded at the receptionist, then walked past mirrored stations and long looks and found his wife wrist deep in hair the size of a basketball. “Can I talk to you?”

“Hey, baby. Everything okay?”

“I just need a moment.”

She patted the woman in the chair. “Give me a sec, sugar.” Beckett led his wife to a quiet space beside the rear wall. “What’s up?”

“I was thinking of you and the girls, that’s all. I wanted to hear your voice.”

She studied his eyes, sensing something. “Are you okay?”

“Things are coming together. The case. Some other things. I wasn’t sure when we’d talk.”

“You could have called, silly man.”

“Maybe. But I couldn’t do this over the phone.”

He kissed her, and she leaned back, embarrassed but not unhappy. “Goodness.” She looked at the crowded room and smoothed herself. “You should come here more often.”

He ran a hand across her cheek and left his deepest thought unshared, that the kiss was in case he never returned at all. He gave a smile that said he’d loved her as long as he’d known her, that he accepted her and all her faults, and that he, too, was imperfect. He said all those things with a single smile, then tilted her back and kissed her again. Was it a forever good-bye? He didn’t know, but wanted her to feel it just in case. So he kissed her as he hadn’t done in a dozen years. He made sure the touch lingered, and by the time he left her breathless and flushed, half the ladies in the place were whistling.

*

The vehicle was a black Expedition with state plates. For a second it sat, silent; then doors opened and four men stepped out. Elizabeth knew two of them, so checked the weapon at her back before stepping onto the porch. “That’s close enough.”

The warden stopped fifteen feet from the bottom step. The man to his right had a battered face, and a limp. Stanford Olivet. She recognized him. The other men were in plainclothes, but probably guards. Jacks and Woods, she guessed, both of them armed.

“Detective Black.” The warden spread his hands. “I’m sorry to be here under such trying circumstances.”

“What circumstances would those be?”

“I know you’re friends with the lawyer, and with Adrian Wall.” He turned his lips down and shrugged. “I know there is a warrant for your arrest, and one, of course, for Adrian.”

Elizabeth felt the rail against her hips and kept a hand near the concealed weapon. She knew the warden now, what he was.