break the law, and most important, he was expendable.
Loney could see through the window, and it was easy to tell that Camby was scared. Clark was going to force him to talk, and the problem was that Camby had plenty to say. At the top of that list were the dealings that he and Loney had had with Danny Butler.
Loney had the ability to remain calm and think clearly in a crisis, and it served him well here. His first idea was to shoot Clark; he had a clear view into the room, and a weapon that could easily bridge the distance.
But Clark seemed to be smart enough to stay out of the line of sight, and Loney could only get brief glimpses of him. Also, killing Clark would attract a lot of unwanted attention to Carpenter and the Galloway case.
The other option was to kill Camby before he could talk. Camby was visible through the window and Loney could pick him off with ease. Certainly, Camby’s death would not be a significant loss to the operation, especially since his identity was now compromised.
The other key factor that Loney considered was that he was soon going to have to kill Camby anyway. He knew far too much, and when the ultimate task was accomplished, it would be far too risky to let him live. A lot of people would be dying, and Camby was to be one of many.
Now he would lead the way.
Once he had made the decision, Loney didn’t hesitate. He took out his gun and in one smooth motion aimed and fired. The bullet made surprisingly little noise as it went through the motel room window, and it hit Camby square in the chest. The unnecessary second bullet went through his skull, and he went straight back and down.
Loney didn’t see Clark after the shooting; he was obviously taking cover in anticipation of more shots. Loney retreated to a position farther from the motel, from where he would be able to see Clark’s car leave, without being seen himself.
It was only three or four minutes before the car went by. Loney had not detected any other commotion; it seemed likely that the shooting had gone unnoticed.
Loney headed back to Camby’s room for what would be a cleanup operation. He was not unhappy with how things turned out, and recognized the element of luck that had helped in the process.
But he also knew that intelligence and resourcefulness were the qualities that had prevailed. They would continue to do so, right up to the time that the goal was reached, and everyone in the way was dead.
We wait almost five hours for Marcus to call us.
I’m so bored that I actually go on Facebook, something I probably haven’t done in six months.
I understand that it’s a social network, and that people feel it brings them together, but I just don’t get it. People fill it with boring, uneventful moments in their day, I assume believing that other people care about it.
Why should I care if Sylvia Swathouse is “having a cup of tea”? But as dreary as that stuff is, the responses are even worse, and completely cloying. “Oh, Sylvia, that sounds so warm and wonderful.” Or, “Is it chamomile, Syl? That’s my favorite.”
But everybody is doing it, even Hike. Though last time I looked, I was his only friend.
Laurie answers when Marcus finally calls, and for the next three or four minutes, just listens, not saying a word. Since I know from past experience that Marcus is not exactly verbose, it’s possible that the line has gone dead and neither of them knows it.
Finally, Laurie says, “Marcus, are you all right?”
Another minute goes by, and she says, “Okay. Right away,” before she hangs up.
“The situation has taken a somewhat surprising turn,” she says.
“Surprising good, or surprising bad?”
“You can make up your own mind about that. The guy tailing us waited down the block from here for about an hour, probably making sure we weren’t going to leave. Finally he left, and made some stops around town, with Marcus following him all the way.”
“Not too surprising thus far,” I say.
“I’m getting there. Eventually he stopped at a motel on Route 4, where he apparently was staying. Marcus decided to intercept him at that point, and he entered the guy’s room to question him.”
“The guy let him in, or he broke the door down?” I ask
“I don’t know, but one way or the other he got in. He was conducting an interrogation when two bullets came through the window and hit the man. Marcus took evasive action and was unharmed, and the sniper apparently fled the scene.”
“Dead?” I ask.
She nods. “Very much so. Marcus was quite impressed with the killer’s marksmanship.”
“So what did Marcus do?”
“He grabbed some of the deceased’s stuff, and then left. The room was in the back, and there was significant noise from the highway. The bullets went smoothly through the window, and no one seemed to notice. Marcus said there was no sign of the police being called.”
“Where is Marcus now?”
“On the way here.”
I suppose if I had normal human emotions, I would be reflecting on the tragic loss of life I just heard about. Fortunately, I’m not burdened with them, and I’m going to assume for the time being that the loss will be something that society can successfully recover from.
Instead I’m worried about Marcus, and whether he left traces of himself in the dead man’s room. Those traces could be fingerprints, DNA, or a witness who saw him enter the room. I don’t want to have to defend Marcus in a murder trial; juries would take one look at him and decide this is a person who should be taken off the streets. The trick would be to try and get twelve wardens on the jury, all of whom would greatly prefer Marcus stay on those streets and out of their jails.
Marcus arrives at the house, and indicates that he wants to talk to us in the kitchen. This allows him to be close to the refrigerator, which he clearly intends to empty. Marcus has the most amazing capacity to eat of anyone I’ve ever seen, and he’s going to demonstrate it now.
If Marcus is shaken by today’s events, he’s hiding it well. The stress of the ordeal has him babbling at the rate of one word every few minutes, and his relating of the story takes what seems like a couple of days, with extra time for chewing.
Marcus is positive that he left no trace of himself at the scene, and seems slightly put off that I would suggest such a thing. Since Marcus is the person in the world I least want mad at me, I resist asking, “Are you sure?” If he’s wrong, we’ll find out soon enough anyway.
Marcus had looked around the room before he left for papers that might identify the dead man, but could find none. The guy was also not carrying a wallet; obviously his identity was to be kept a secret.
Marcus took the man’s cell phone, which he places on our kitchen table, since that gives us the opportunity to know who he has been in touch with. He also took an empty beer bottle that was in the room for possible fingerprints. Marcus’s mother did not raise a stupid child.
The man was carrying two handguns, which Marcus left at the scene. It scares the hell out of me that a heavily armed person was following Laurie and me, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. To Laurie and Marcus, this is just another day at the office. I was clearly born with a defective courage gene.
With nothing left to tell, and absolutely nothing left to eat, Marcus leaves to go wherever it is that Marcus goes. I call Sam Willis and ask him to come over right away.
“What’s going on?” he asks, probably wondering if he should pack his gun.
“I need your help tracing some phone records.” Sam has amazing ways, none of which could possibly be legal, of finding out information like this on the computer.
“Oh.”
Sam is at the house in fifteen minutes, and I give him the cell phone. “I want to know everyone he’s called, and everyone who has called him.”
“Going back how far?”
“The Revolutionary War.” I also give Sam the motel name and room number and ask if he can check what calls were made from that room.
He nods. “Going out, but not coming in. They would come in to the main switchboard, and there’s no way to know where they’re directed from there. It’s not like the motel was going to bill him for incoming calls.”
