Tiger… Lair…
Sanderson stood with his mind whirling. The hunter analogy had scared the hell out of him. This was terrible. Stopp had been intended as an insurance policy, a patsy held in reserve, a prime suspect with a motive to kill Tanya Moody, and no alibi. Between that and the Skinner’s ball-game ticket stub printed with the time and date of Tanya’s murder, the Skinner would have had a tight alibi. But instead of alibi insurance, what Stopp had provided was a heart attack.
That Sanderson could be blamed for not knowing about it ahead of time was vastly unfair. How could anyone have predicted a coronary event? Or was he supposed to have had a backup plan? Some way to maintain control of the situation?
Well, maybe…
Was the Skinner right? Did Sanderson have any control at all?
Of anything?
Sanderson couldn’t stop looking around, searching with worried eyes. It had been a long time since he’d been so unnerved. He almost dropped his cell phone trying to slide it back in his pocket. It took a few minutes before his hands stopped trembling.
The Skinner walked away from the lobby pay phone in the Clarington Hotel. Across the street and down two blocks, he entered another hotel and went to the bar, where he ordered a Dewar’s on the rocks with a splash of water and sat by himself three stools away from two men and a woman. They were watching an old black-and- white Honeymooners rerun on the TV over the bar. Jackie Gleason was bouncing around in his bus driver’s uniform. Art Carney, as Norton the sewer worker, was patiently trying to calm him, but Gleason was fuming and out of control.
The Skinner smiled grimly. Control.
He reviewed in his mind his phone call to Sanderson. Sanderson had been right in that he, Sanderson, couldn’t control something as unpredictable as a heart attack. That was the problem. It wasn’t so much that the Skinner couldn’t trust Sanderson; for now, he could be depended upon. But eventually, if Sanderson lost his fear, he might attempt blackmail even though he, himself, would be an accomplice to murder.
But all that was in a possible future. The problem with Sanderson now was that he’d become a complication as well as a coconspirator. He was something else that could go wrong.
The Skinner needed-no, demanded -perfection in planning and execution. Complete control. Imponderables made him uneasy. Sanderson was a parasite the Skinner hadn’t so much minded, because he was useful. Not as useful as he thought, but useful. But Sanderson, by his own admission, couldn’t control matters. Which meant that the Skinner couldn’t control Sanderson.
On the other hand, if the Skinner eliminated Sanderson, it would open an entire new avenue of investigation, create a new vulnerability. And for now, Sanderson and his ticket stubs were useful. And who knew what kind of precautions Sanderson had taken? Were there Pandora’s boxes that would automatically open if he were killed? There might be a sealed, incriminating letter in some lawyer’s files, or video recordings lying in a safety deposit box, that would be examined upon his death.
Alice entered the drab apartment carrying a bag of groceries, and Norton quickly stepped between her and Ralph to protect her. Gleason, as Ralph, balled his right and righteous fist, rolled his eyes, and then sat down at a bare table and buried his head in his arms. He wept in frustration.
The Skinner sipped his scotch.
The people at the bar, watching the TV, laughed at something Norton had said sixty years ago.
The Skinner weighed his options.
75
Hogart, the present
“You want me to drive over there?” Westerley asked, after Beth had described Roy Brannigan’s unexpected visit.
“No,” Beth said on the phone. “He didn’t actually threaten me, and he must have had to keep moving to stay on his route.”
“If the whole thing wasn’t a load of bullshit,” Westerley said.
“I believed him about the driving job. I saw the actual truck. One of those big diesel things the drivers leave running even when they go in someplace for lunch.”
“When’s Link due home?”
“Not for two more days.”
“I don’t like it, you alone in that house, especially tonight when we know Roy’s in the area. I could talk to the state patrol. Maybe they’d send a car around.”
“They’d tell you there wasn’t enough reason. Even I know they don’t have enough people to protect every woman who suspects she might be in danger.”
“True enough,” Westerley said. “How’d Roy seem to you after all these years?” He was trying to get a feel for just how real a threat Roy Brannigan might pose. After all, the business about the rape and trial was a long time ago. If time didn’t heal completely, it did tend to cool passions.
“Physically he looked about the same,” Beth said, “only bigger and stronger than I remembered. And he seemed to be calmed down some when it came to his religious beliefs.”
“Did his apology seem sincere?”
Beth hesitated. “I can’t say, Wayne.”
Westerley thought about it. “I could have Billy Noth drive out to your place and keep an eye on things till morning.”
“Your deputy’d just love to spend the night sitting in a parked car,” Beth said. “Or hiding in the woods.”
“He could sack out on the couch, Beth. Billy’s a light sleeper.”
Beth didn’t say anything for a long time.
“Wayne?”
“Yeah?”
“How ’bout you, after all? I’d like you to come over.”
“Sleep on the couch?” Westerley asked.
“Don’t try to be funny, Wayne.”
Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen at Beth’s that night. And Westerley didn’t sleep on the couch.
When they got up the next morning, he took Beth to the Bob Evans near the Interstate cloverleaf and they had breakfast. Westerley had eggs and biscuits, Beth a waffle and sausages.
“I appreciate you coming here,” Beth said, over their second cups of coffee.
“It’s not like I got nothing in return,” Westerley said with a smile.
There was a rumble outside the window by their booth, and they looked out to see a big eighteen-wheeler with a dusty black cab roll in. It parked some distance from the building with a hiss of air brakes. They stared and saw a short blond man climb down from the cab, stretch, and swagger toward the restaurant. He looked nothing like Roy Brannigan.
“I’m still jumpy,” Beth said.
“I should come back tonight.” Westerley said.
Beth smiled at him and stroked his bare forearm. It made the hairs on his arm rise up. “You’d do this all over again?”
He nodded. “I like the biscuits.”
“I don’t think I need anyone tonight,” Beth said. “Roy’s probably two states away by now. Besides, Wayne, you’ve got a job to look after.”
“The Hogart Bank hasn’t been robbed in forty years.”
“Overdue, I’d say.”
“Has Link got a gun?”
