quarry, and she seriously doubted that she was, they would know that the classified ad and phone conversation were bogus and would take Brasco’s attempt to trap them as a challenge.
Putting Will in danger by pirating his voice without his knowing was as irresponsible as any police action she had ever encountered. After this night was over, providing Brasco survived, she was going to find a way to make him and their CO answer for what they had done, even if it meant going to her father.
At least Will was safe for the moment. Calling Micelli when she couldn’t get through to him had been inspired. It was clear he really cared for Will and would do whatever was needed to ensure that he was out of harm’s way until Brasco’s grandstanding stunt played itself out.
One very legitimate concern she had was that while Brasco was trying to lure the killer into the open at Camp Sunshine, the killer was poised somewhere within range of Will’s apartment, waiting. Now, at least, she could shove that worry to the back of her mind.
There were still unanswered questions about the serial killings of four managed-care executives, but one by one, pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Misdirection and mayhem. Smoke and mirrors. Boyd Halliday and his killers had been operating that way from the very beginning, and Patty was ready to bet her career that it was going to be that way tonight. Misdirection and mayhem.
It was quarter to nine when she skidded onto the narrow two-lane that the map on the passenger seat said would lead to the entrance of Camp Sunshine. Three to four miles to go. She had five or six minutes to cover that distance, but she knew it wasn’t going to happen even if she made it to the camp entrance on time. There was no way she would be allowed simply to drive right up to the rendezvous area and make an impassioned plea for Brasco and Court to forget about their grand scheme and pull everyone back to safety.
The streetlights became more widely spaced, then disappeared altogether. The trim little houses gave way to dense woods, making it even more difficult for the headlight beams of the Camaro to slice through the rain and heavy darkness. Patty switched on her brights, then just as quickly cut them off and actually slowed down. She wasn’t going to make it on time anyway, and the last thing she wanted was to be wrong about Brasco’s plan, then to compound her stupidity and arrogance by alerting the killer.
This was parkland, she remembered-maybe a state forest. Not too far ahead on the left would be a long, serpentine dirt drive ending at a narrow rectangular parking area demarcated by a ragged border of large, decaying logs. Camp Sunshine. Ten years ago, she and a bunch of classmates had celebrated their fifth high-school reunion at the place. Not that it mattered to their softball, swimming, drinking, flirting, and cookout, but even then, the camp was in a state of impressive disrepair. Of the former sleeping quarters-canvas tents set on wooden platforms-only rotting sheets of flooring remained. The outbuildings were in a similar state of decay and overgrowth.
In addition to the minuscule rent, which was by far the cheapest they could find, the features of Camp Sunshine that had led Patty’s reunion committee to choose the site were the natural beauty of the woods, the ball field, and the waterfront. In addition, there were acres of dense, hilly woodland, crisscrossed by narrow dirt trails. The ball field was as well-maintained as the rest of the camp was ignored-a vast, grassy space with a rusting wire backstop in one corner, and a barbecue pit. The waterfront, on a lake that was perhaps a mile long and half a mile or less across, featured a sandy beach and a two-story rec hall that, at least at the time of the reunion, was intact and used for outings when the weather made softball impractical.
As Patty turned onto the narrow, winding access road, she wondered about the person or people who owned the decaying camp, which, even nearly a decade ago, was simply begging to be turned into condominiums or some other kind of profitable development. Perhaps there were zoning constraints, perhaps a clause in a will, or perhaps the owners were sentimental eccentrics. No matter. Tonight, serial killers had selected their camp to humiliate the state police and Wayne Brasco. It was never about a vendetta against managed care. It was never about a mother tragically dead. It was never about principle. It was never about Will Grant. It was always about business.
A hundred yards or so down the road, two men stepped out of the forest, their powerful flashlights intersecting upon Patty’s face. Blinded, she skidded to a stop, grabbed her shield from the passenger seat, and held it up in front of the lights. At the same time, she smoothly opened her window, hoping that neither of the men thought she was reaching for a weapon. They split up and headed for her car from both sides, their lights still fixed on her face.
“Police,” the man to her left whispered harshly, holding a semiautomatic weapon, possible some sort of MP5, where she could see it. “Both hands, let me see ’em.”
Patty lifted her hands palms out, dangling the leather case with her shield and ID from between her thumb and index finger.
“Detective Patty Moriarity, State Police,” she said urgently. “I’ve got to get in there. I have reason to believe this is a trap, and the officer in charge is in danger. Maybe others, too.”
The policeman, dressed in black with a black watch cap and greasepainted face, told her to cut her headlights, then motioned her out of the car.
“Kara, you got her,” he said, stepping back and sliding a radio from his belt.
Patty actually managed a wry smile at herself for assuming the two cops were men. A slight woman, who looked absolutely gigantic with a semiautomatic at the ready, moved around the Camaro and kept her at bay from a respectful distance.
“Weapon?” she said stonily.
“On the floor, driver’s side. Listen, I’ve got to-”
“Quiet!”
The woman sidestepped around so she could shine her flash inside the car, then motioned Patty to get her gun and drop it on the ground. Patty could hear the man conversing in hushed tones with, she suspected, Lieutenant Court.
“We’re close to being out of time,” she whispered.
“Shut up!” Kara punctuated the order with a menacing flick of the muzzle of her MP5.
Patty sighed and did as she was commanded. No sense getting her head blown off by a cop. Finally, the other officer shoved his radio back into its holder and returned.
“Those people down there aren’t exactly your biggest fans,” he said.
“That’s because I don’t leave the toilet seat up in the precinct loo.”
Patty thought she saw Kara crack a smile beneath her blackface.
“Kara, take her down the road to the others. I’ll stay here with B Squad and take care of her car. Be careful.”
“Did they say if anything’s happened down there?” Patty asked.
“Nope.”
“I think that’s good.”
“Your car’ll be on a little road into the woods off this one, about ten yards down there on the right. There may be some camouflage netting on it.”
“Fine. My weapon?”
“Why not?”
Patty retrieved her shoulder holster from the trunk, slid in her Smith amp; Wesson.38 five-shot, and slipped it on.
“Nice piece,” Kara whispered as they made their way into the darkness.
Fifty feet from the parking lot, another SWAT team member materialized from the heavy underbrush, quickly got the skinny on Patty from her guide, then took charge, leading her across the narrow parking lot, over the rotting logs, and down a rocky, uneven trail toward the waterfront. Thirty yards from the lake, he motioned her off the path and into the woods, raised a finger to his lips, and pointed to a spot nearby, gesturing that she should stay there.
With the forest and dense cloud cover, the scene ahead was impressively dark, although Patty knew that
