The Lonely Mile(58)
Wind roared through the trees, and the loud crash of a significant-sized branch falling somewhere in the forest behind him testified to the legitimacy of his concern about getting conked on the head. It occurred to Bill that he might not be a whole lot safer here than he would be crossing the yard, and he sprinted toward the garage.
Fifteen seconds later, he eased up to the siding, pressing his body between the two windows and exhaling, only now realizing he had been holding his breath. He picked a window at random and peered into the dark interior of the garage. It appeared as empty as the house. The lights were off, and no movement disturbed the stillness.
Directly across the inside of the garage was a door to the main house, probably into the kitchen, or maybe a laundry room or mud room. Gardening tools stood against the walls, along with an assorted detritus of rural American life littering the garage, but Bill gave none of it more than a preoccupied, passing glance.
Of much more interest to him was the vehicle parked in the middle of the bay. It was Martin Krall’s truck.
CHAPTER 50
May 28, 4:02 p.m.
SPECIAL AGENT ANGELA CANFIELD cursed the remoteness of the road leading to Martin Krall’s home. Her Bureau Caprice leapt over a ridge, airborne for a moment before bottoming out as it landed, the car’s frame screeching and scraping over the cracked pavement of the narrow road. Angela didn’t know much about what sort of equipment was under a car but she doubted it would all survive the trip. She sped grimly on, hoping none of what broke off would be necessary for the continued operation of the vehicle.
There were no speed limit signs posted along this God-forsaken cow path, probably because they were laughably unnecessary. Any rate of speed above twenty miles an hour was nearly impossible to maintain, and right now, Canfield was somehow keeping it up near forty-five.
Things were going downhill fast—”becoming a goat-rope,” is how her partner Mike Miller would have described it, and while Angela wasn’t sure what a goat-rope was, or how a goat-rope was any worse than any other kind of animal rope, she couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. It really was a goat-rope.
She risked a glance at her watch. It was stupid to take her eyes off the narrow road at these speeds in these weather conditions, suicidal even, but she just couldn’t help herself. It was 4:02. Three minutes after she had last looked. Angela wondered how far behind Bill Ferguson she was. It mostly depended upon if Ferguson had jumped into his car and headed here immediately upon leaving Ray Blanchard’s office. If he had done that, she would likely be too late.
But what were the odds he would have come here immediately? Chances were he would go home and prepare. He would retrieve his gun, assuming he didn’t already have it with him, of course, and then probably toss some supplies into a bag. It was what she would do under the circumstances. If he had done that bit of prep work, then she figured she might have time to get there just before everything went sideways, not that it wasn’t already.
The right, front tire of the big Bureau-issued Caprice sank into the sandy shoulder, slewing the vehicle to the right, toward the massive trees of the thick, primeval forest. Instinctively, without even realizing she was doing it, Canfield babied the wheel to the left and eased off the gas, waiting until all four wheels had returned to solid ground—relatively speaking—before once again stomping on the accelerator and regaining much-needed speed.
A few drops of water struck the windshield, fat and loud, advance scouts for the army of rain that was undoubtedly about to follow. Great. Angela Canfield cursed again, hoping she would not be forced to run through the rain but accepting that she probably would. It was just her luck.
She rounded a corner going much too fast and nearly plowed into the back of Bill Ferguson’s van. She stood on the brakes, watching as the other vehicle loomed in the windshield, becoming cartoonishly large, certain she would not be able to stop in time. She envisioned herself stuck inside the wreckage of the car as the drama played out a couple of hundred feet away inside Martin Krall’s home, and she cursed again. Then her Caprice bounced to a stop, the front bumper just kissing the rear of the van, both vehicles lurching once before settling.
Special Agent Canfield leapt out of her car almost before it had stopped rocking, drawing her weapon and cutting across the deserted road at an angle, moving toward the dilapidated house ahead in an all-out sprint.
CHAPTER 51
May 28, 4:05 p.m.
A QUICK INSPECTION OF the window frame through the dirty glass showed thumb locks securely fastened on both windows, but Bill could find no contacts or any signs of wiring that would indicate the presence of an alarm system. He set his backpack down on the ground and knelt next to it, unzipping the canvas bag and rummaging through the items he had taken from his store less than an hour ago. The moist wind whipped his hair, and his sleeves flapped uncontrollably.
He found his glass cutter and lifted it out of the bag, then stood and faced the window to his left. He pressed a small suction cup to the pane of glass directly above the lock’s thumb latch, adjusted a small screw setting, then quickly ran the razor-sharp diamond-tipped blade of the glass cutter in as wide a circle as possible.
He dropped the glass cutter into the backpack and took out a small hand towel. He wrapped the towel around the knuckles of his right hand and tapped sharply on the window pane in the center of the circle he had just scored. A small piece of glass roughly the size of an Olympic medal popped out of the window and dropped to the cement floor on the inside of the garage. Bill cringed, waiting for the glass to shatter and for Martin Krall to come running into the garage to investigate, undoubtedly carrying the Glock he had brandished last week at the rest stop.