Devoted(97)

His deal with Tio Barbizon required him to keep the attorney general informed about any developments in the case. But he had agreed to that condition and passed the Spader-Klineman murder investigation to Sacramento only because he thought that the killer was long gone from Pinehaven County, that there would be no further developments in Hayden’s jurisdiction.



Then chaos. Event by violent event, until the disaster at the hospital, the sheriff believed he could control the situation to his benefit. He intended to craft a brilliant statement to the press, taking sole credit for the capture of the crazed fugitive—who was not just a homicidal psychopath but also the former CEO of Refine, responsible for the catastrophe in Springville! At that public briefing, Hayden planned to turn the fiend over to the attorney general, whom he would inform only moments before making his statement to the press, to ensure that Tio didn’t hog the credit.

But now. Oh, now. Now, two more were dead and Shacket was loose and the sheriff failed to keep the attorney general informed. The shit hadn’t hit the fan; it was far worse than that. A cannonade of shit was about to erupt, a long barrage of it, and Hayden Eckman would be the sole target.

He had come home ostensibly to write a statement for the press. He couldn’t do it because it would be tantamount to a suicide note.

In truth, he had come home because, with Lee Shacket loose, he didn’t feel safe anywhere else in Pinehaven. He had a first-class security system. He had a handgun secreted in every room, and he was still in uniform with a pistol on his hip. He closed all the blinds and draperies.

As an attorney representing charlatans who were willing to fake their injuries or fantastically exaggerate the effects of genuine injuries, the most dangerous clients he had faced were those quick to seek redress in court or through arbitration when they discovered he had in one way or another skimmed more from their settlements than the terms of his basic agreement allowed. As if everyone didn’t do it. None of them had ever tried to kill him.



Having made such a show of overseeing Shacket’s arrival at the hospital and the man’s commitment to the psychiatric ward, with Rita Carrickton using their smartphones to film key moments, the sheriff now felt that perhaps he had unwittingly made himself the focus of the madman’s rage. He had only been an officer of the law, doing his job. But who knew what irrational resentment might have formed in the mind of a homicidal maniac like Shacket?

Thad Fenton’s brain had been missing.

Eric Norseman’s head had been taken away. Shacket’s lunch pail.

Restlessly, the sheriff prowled his house, upstairs and down, again and again, half-convinced that he was not alone. With all the window coverings drawn shut, he needed to turn on lamps everywhere, and yet the rooms were infested with shadows that sometimes appeared to move in his peripheral vision, so that he pivoted with a start, hand on the grip of his pistol.

Every sound the wind wrenched from the house, every creak and pop and rattle, seemed not to be the structure protesting the storm, but instead suggested to Hayden that a stealthy stalker was but a room or two away.

He was terrified of turning a corner and encountering Shacket with a grin full of bloody teeth. He told himself that this was not a realistic fear, that he needed to calm himself. But was it really unrealistic to expect this particular fugitive to accomplish what was thought impossible? If Shacket had been able to escape from inescapable psych-ward restraints and exit by a third-floor window as if capable of flight, who was to say he couldn’t get into a locked, alarmed, fully secured house as easily as an ant entering through a keyhole?



Although the sheriff wasn’t much of a drinker, his anxiety grew until he began to treat it with Macallan Scotch, first on the rocks but then neat because he didn’t like the way he couldn’t stop the ice from rattling in the glass. He might have been concerned about insobriety compromising his senses and making him more vulnerable to attack, but fear accelerated his metabolism to such an extent that whisky seemed to have no effect on him.

Slotted on his utility belt along with his department-issued phone, his personal smartphone rang as he was circling the kitchen island to no purpose. His five closest deputies had personal phones of their own, provided by the sheriff, and had been instructed to call him on his private line in some circumstances, to ensure that certain sensitive subjects did not become part of the official—public—record. The screen said No Caller Id, which meant this wasn’t one of those deputies.

He was tempted not to answer it, but he intuited who must be trying to reach him. He knew that to dodge this caller would only increase the amount of shit he had to endure when the crap cannon began to fire.

He put down his drink and backed up against the refrigerator and slid down to sit on the floor. He didn’t think he could handle this on his feet.



Intuition proved reliable: The caller was Tio Barbizon, though he didn’t identify himself. He knew that Shacket had been captured and had escaped. He knew about the two additional murders. He was not the same Tio as he had been before. He no longer treated the sheriff as an equal, but as an inferior, and he was furious.

“You understand how totally you screwed yourself?” Tio asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think you have a way out?”

“No.”

“Because right now there is no way out for you.”

“I understand.”