Alarmed, Quentin Altman had another thought. He turned to the reporter. “Where was Fletcher when you left the office? Did you see him at the station?” The detective’s hand strayed to his pistol as he looked around the tall grass, wondering if the sergeant had followed him here and intended to kill them as well. Fletcher was a crack rifle shot.
But Randall replied, “He was in the conference room with Andy Carter.”
No! Altman realized that they weren’t the only ones at risk; the author was a witness too — and therefore a potential victim of Fletcher’s. Altman grabbed his cell phone and called the central dispatcher. He asked for Carter.
“He’s not here, sir,” the woman said.
“What?”
“It was getting late so he decided to get a hotel room for the night.”
“Which one’s he staying at?”
“I think it’s the Sutton Inn.”
“You have the number?”
“I do, sure. But he’s not there right now.”
“Where is he?”
“He went out to dinner. I don’t know where but if you need to get in touch with him you can call Bob Fletcher’s phone. They were going together.”
Twenty minutes from town, driving at twice the posted limit.
Altman tried again to call Fletcher but the sergeant wasn’t answering. There wasn’t much Altman could do except try to reason with the sergeant, have him give himself up, plead with him not to kill Carter too. He prayed that the cop hadn’t already done so.
Another try. Still no answer.
He skidded the squad car through the intersection at Route 202, nearly sideswiping one of the ubiquitous dairy tankers in these parts.
“Okay, that was exciting,” Randall whispered, removing his sweaty palm from the dashboard as the truck’s horn brayed in angry protest behind them.
Altman was about to call Fletcher’s phone again when a voice clattered over the car’s radio, “All units. Reports of shots fired on Route One-twenty-eight just west of Ralphs grocery. Repeat, shots fired. All units respond.”
“You think that’s them?”
“We’re three minutes away. We’re about to find out.” Altman called in their position and then pushed the accelerator to the floor; they broke into three-digit speed.
After a brief, harrowing ride, the squad car crested a hill. Randall called breathlessly, “Look!”
Altman could see Bob Fletcher’s Police Interceptor half on, half off the road. He skidded to a stop nearby and the two officers jumped out. Wallace’s car — which’d been hitching an illegal ride on their light bar and siren — braked to a stop fifty feet behind them. The reporter too jumped out, ignoring the detective’s shout to stay back.
Altman felt Randall grip his arm. The young officer was pointing at the shoulder about fifty feet away. In the dim light they could just make out the form of Andrew Carter lying face down in a patch of bloody dirt.
Oh, goddamn it! They weren’t in time; the sergeant had added the author to the list of his victims.
Crouching beside the car, Altman whispered to Randall, “Head up the road that way. Look out for Fletcher. He’s someplace close.”
Scanning the bushes, in a crouch, Altman ran toward the author’s body. As he did he happened to glance to his left and gasped. There was Bob Fletcher on the ground, holding a sheriff’s department shotgun.
He shouted to Randall, “Look out!” And dropped flat. But as he swung the gun toward Fletcher he noted that the sergeant wasn’t moving. The detective hit the man with his flashlight beam. Fletcher’s eyes were glazed over and there was blood on his chest.
Wallace was crouching over Carter. The reporter called, “He’s alive!”
The detective rose, pulled the scattergun out of Fletcher’s lifeless hands and trotted over to the author. Fletcher had shot him and he was unconscious.
“Andy, stay with us!” Altman called, pressing his hand onto the bloody wound in the author’s belly. Over the crest of the road the detective could see the flashing lights and hear the sirens, growing steadily louder. He leaned down and whispered into the man’s ear, “Hang in there! You’ll be all right, you’ll be all right, you’ll be all right…”
His book had saved his life, the author was explaining with a laugh that turned into a wince.
It was the next morning, and Quentin Altman and Carter’s wife — a handsome, middle-aged blonde — were standing at his bedside in Greenville Hospital. Fletcher’s bullet had missed vital organs but had snapped a rib and the author was in major pain despite the happy pills he’d been given.
Carter told them what had happened last evening: “Fletcher says let’s go to dinner — he knew some good barbecue place in the country. We were driving along this deserted road and I was talking about
“But he said he hadn’t read the book,” Altman said.
“Exactly…. He realized he’d screwed up. He got real quiet for a minute, and I was thinking something’s wrong. I was even going to jump out of the car. But then he pulls his gun out and I grab it but he still shoots me. I reach over with my foot and slam on the brake. We go off the road and he slams his head into the window or something. I grab the gun and roll out of the car. I’m heading for the bushes to hide in but I see him getting the shotgun from the trunk. He starts toward me and I shoot him.” He shook his head. “Man, if it hadn’t been for the book, what he said about it, I never would’ve known what he was going to do.”
Since Altman was involved in the incident, the investigation of the shooting went to another detective, who reported that the forensics bore out Carter’s story. There was GSR — gunshot residue — on Fletcher’s hand, which meant he’d fired the pistol, and a bullet with Carter’s blood on it embedded in the cruiser passenger door. Evidence also proved that Fletcher was indeed the Greenville Strangler. The sergeant’s fingerprints were all over the mallet and a search of the sergeant’s house revealed several items — stockings and lingerie — that had been taken from the homes of the victims. Murdering Howard Desmond and trying to murder Andy Carter — well, those had been to cover up his original crimes. But what had been the sergeant’s motive for killing the two women in Greenville? Maybe the anger at being left by his wife had boiled over. Maybe he’d had a secret affair with one of the victims, which had turned sour, and he’d decided to stage her death as a random act of violence. Maybe someday an answer would come to light.
Or maybe, Altman reflected, unlike in a mystery novel, they’d never know what had driven the man to step over the edge into the dark world of the killers he’d once hunted.
It was then that Wallace Gordon loped into the hospital room, saying, “Hot off the presses.” He handed a copy of the
“Keep that,” Wallace said. “A souvenir.”
Thanking him, Carter’s wife folded the paper up and set it aside with the stiff gesture of someone who has no interest in memorabilia about a difficult episode in one’s life.
Quentin Altman walked to the door and, just as he was about to leave, paused. He turned back. “Oh, one thing, Andy — how’s that book of yours end? Do the police ever find the Hunter?”
Carter caught himself as he was about to answer. The author gave a grin. “You know, Detective — you want
