Devoted(89)
Carson and Harry were friends not just because they relished bacon, but because they were in the same poker club and attended the same church and shared a love of nature and were widowers. Three years earlier, Harry lost his wife, Melissa, not to a senseless drive-by shooting, but to a senseless cancer, and Carson helped him make it through the worst of his grief.
Now, as he followed Harry to the barn at the back of the property, the low clouds churned, the pines thrashed, and all the creatures of the night cowered in their warrens and roosts as if the slowly approaching dawn would be the last day of Earth.
The previous owner had used the barn as a stable. Because Harry Borsello had a fear of horses, a love of horsepower, and an interest in comfortable camping, he had removed the stalls to make room for his collection: a 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1 Twister, a fastback coupe; a 1976 Corvette Stingray; a 1968 Pontiac GTO; a 1971 Dodge Charger Magnum V8; a new Ford F150 crew-cab pickup; a thirty-six-foot Fleetwood Southwind.
Together, they had twice taken off for a week in the motor home, once south to Yosemite, once north to Shasta Lake for some good fishing, and Carson had borrowed the vehicle for a solo run across Nevada and into Utah. He wanted to borrow it again.
When Harry switched on the barn lights and closed the man-size door behind them, he said, “Where are you lighting out for?”
“I haven’t finally decided,” Carson said, regretting the lie even though it was in Harry’s best interest not to know what use his vehicle would serve. “Just a few days, maybe over to Mendocino. I feel a need for the coast.”
“Should be a hell of a lot less wind there,” Harry said. “And if the rain comes, it’s moving south-southeast, so you’ll have clear weather.”
As Harry handed the key to Carson and used a remote to roll aside the big door, the massive rafters groaned. At the pinnacle of the roof, a large weather vane, in the image of a galloping steed, spun with a shriek and a rhythmic clatter, as if it were ridden by one of the fierce horsemen of the Apocalypse.
“I’ll pull your Explorer in here after you’re gone,” Harry said. “If you wrack up the Fleetwood, for God’s sake don’t kill yourself. I’ll need you alive to buy me a new one.”
“You’re a real pal, Harry.”
“Plus poker night won’t be fun anymore without you losing your shirt to me on a regular basis.”
“I’m well aware you don’t make any money from that pathetic greasy-spoon joint of yours,” Carson said. “That’s why I let you win at cards. It’s a charity thing.”
He drove directly home in the Fleetwood Southwind and parked it in the driveway. He made several trips between the house and the motor home, stocking the vehicle’s refrigerator with bottled water, Coca-Cola, and four pepperoni-and-cheese pizzas from his freezer.
From the mantel over the living room fireplace, he retrieved one of the smaller photographs of Lissa to take with him. He removed the picture from the frame and slipped it into a jacket pocket without folding it.
Although the coming showdown might be violent, Carson didn’t believe he would be killed before Thursday became Friday, eighteen hours hence. Nevertheless, he wanted Lissa’s picture with him, so he could look at it in the moment before his death, if it should come.
94
While Rose Leon settled down to sleep and while Carson Conroy was borrowing Harry Borsello’s motor home, Ben Hawkins moved his Range Rover and then Rosa Leon’s Lincoln MKX into the two empty stalls in the four-car garage attached to the Bookman house.
Perhaps Carson’s acidic assessment of Sheriff Hayden Eckman colored Ben’s reaction to the deputies, but something about their manner and deadpan expressions and ice-pick stares suggested they were here not just to guard against the return of Shacket, but also to maintain surveillance of the occupants of the house.
He removed a suitcase from his Rover. He carried it into the residence and upstairs to the second guest bedroom. In addition to clothes and toiletries, the bag contained his pistol, a Nighthawk Custom .45 ACP. The frame, slide, barrel, extended magazine well, magazine release, and slide stop were forged rather than cast. It looked like a solid artifact, like a machine produced by some 3-D printing process that would be perfected in another hundred years. It was the most accurate and reliable handgun he had ever used.
He sat on the bed to load the weapon and a spare magazine. He threaded a Kydex holster onto his belt and inserted the pistol in that scabbard. For the time being, he had no intention of wearing a jacket to conceal the gun. He was licensed to carry, and if any of the deputies assigned to the property or any who relieved them might have sinister motives, the prospect of resistance would discourage them from doing anything foolish.
He’d slept only one hour at the motel in Olympic Village before Kipp woke him. He would need more sleep soon if he were to be on his game when the Dark Web killers arrived. If the thugs behind Tragedy did not come to clean up their mess, someone else would. After all, if Dorian Purcell was capable of dealing with murder-for-hire types, he was capable of taking extreme action through other surrogates.
Before he slept, Ben wanted to tour the house to familiarize himself with its rooms, check the doors and windows for adequate locks, and scope out the most likely approach that an enemy would take if they intended to make a surprise entrance.