Then they had come back inside and had gone straight through the kitchen
to the living room to gather up the Wildcard file. That done, they had
returned to the garage, gotten into the Mercedes, and driven down to the
gate. Neither time had they passed this side of the refrigerator. Had
the ax been here then?
The icy entity inside Ben’s spine had crept all the way up to the base
of his skull.
Ben saw two explanations for the axnly two. First, perhaps Eric had
been in the kitchen while they’d been in the adjacent garage planning
their next move. He could have been holding the weapon, waiting for
them to return to the house, intending to catch them by surprise. They
had been only feet away from Eric without realizing it, only moments
away from the quick, biting agony of the ax. Then, for some reason, as
Eric listened to them discuss strategy, he had decided against
attacking, opted for some other course of action, and had put down the
ax.
Or…
Or Eric had not been in the cabin then, had only entered later, after he
saw them drive away in the Mercedes. He had discarded the ax, thinking
they were gone for good, then had fled without it when he heard Benny
returning in the Ford.
One or the other.
Which? The need to answer that question seemed urgent and
all-important. Which?
If Eric had been here earlier, when Rachael and Ben were in the garage,
why hadn’t he attacked? What had changed his mind?
The cabin was almost as empty of sound as a vacuum.
Listening, Ben tried to determine if the silence was one of expectation,
shared by him and one other lurking presence, or a silence of solitude.
Solitude, he soon decided. The dead, hollow, empty stillness that you
experienced only when you were utterly and unquestionably alone. Eric
was not in the house.
Ben looked through the screen door at the woods that lay beyond the
brown lawn. The forest appeared still, as well, and he had the
unsettling feeling that Eric was not out there, either, that he would
have the woods to himself if he searched for his prey among the trees.
“Eric?” he said softly but aloud, expecting and receiving no answer.
“Where the hell have you gone, Eric?”
He lowered the shotgun, no longer bothering to hold it at the ready
because he knew in his bones that he would not encounter Eric on this
mountain.
More silence.
Heavy, oppressive, profound silence.
He sensed that he was teetering precariously on the edge of a horrible
revelation. He had made a mistake.
A deadly mistake. One that he could not correct. But what was it?
What mistake? Where had he gone wrong?
He looked hard at the discarded ax, desperately seeking understanding.
Then his breath caught in his throat.
“My God,” he whispered. “Rachael.”
LAKE ARROWHEAD-3 MILES.
Peake got behind a slow-moving camper in a nopassing zone, but Sharp did
not seem bothered by the delay because he was busy seeking Peake’s
agreement to the double murder of Shadway and Mrs. Leben.
“Of course, Jerry, if you have the slightest qualms at all about
participating, then you leave it to me. Naturally, I expect you to back
me up in a pinch-that’s part of your job, after all-but if we can disarm
Shadway and the woman without trouble, then I’ll handle the terminations
myself.”
I’ll still be an accessory to murder, Peake thought.
But he said, “Well, sir, I don’t want to let you down.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Jerry. I would be disappointed if you
didn’t have the right stuff. I mean, I was so sure of your commitment
and courage when I decided to bring you along on this assignment.
And I can’t stress strongly enough how grateful your country and the
agency will be for your wholehearted cooperation.”
You psycho creep, you lying sack of shit, Peake thought.
But he said, “Sir, I don’t want to do anything that would be opposed to
the best interests of my country with a big red-and-white iron rooster
on top of it.”
As Peake drove, he saw Sharp lift a black attache’ case onto his lap and