While on the run, Evans had celebrated his forty-third birthday on October 7, 1997. At that age, he was still, Horton and his team were about to find out, in better physical shape than most twenty-year-olds. Living off Twinkies, one of his favorite foods, Freihofer’s chocolate-chip cookies, potato chips, doughnuts, bread, orange juice and milk, one might wonder how he kept himself so fit. To anyone who had known him throughout his life, they were amazed by how bad his diet was but how chiseled he kept his body. It was as if he could eat whatever he wanted and it had no effect on his weight or physique.
There was no magic pill or rational answer Evans could give other than to say he had worked out hard, day in and day out, and had always considered the life he led, and the anxiety and fear that shrouded him, a winning weight-loss program. Always looking over his shoulder, expecting to be “put back in a cage,” he felt the burden of that worry helped his metabolism. That, in itself, he later told a friend, was something he believed had everything to do with burning calories at a faster rate than if he were just some worker bee in the cubicle farm, wasting away at a desk, or a factory worker driving around on a forklift all day.
When Horton and his team arrived at his house in Latham to prepare to drive to Vermont, he explained how they would have to scrape all inspection and registration stickers off the inside of the windshields of their vehicles, exchange license plates with ones from different states DeLuca had taken from the barracks, and remove any radio antennae. There was no room for error. Evans would be looking for any sign indicating cops were in town. He could sniff out the Bureau from anywhere. If he spotted a car in St. Johnsbury that even remotely resembled an unmarked police cruiser, he would abandon his rendezvous with Lisa in an instant.
“There was one hotel in St. Johnsbury, Vermont,” Horton recalled later, “which worried me. I knew Gary would scope it out for cop cars. Changing those plates and removing those stickers and antennas seemed a bit overly dramatic and obsessive at the time, I admit. But this is what Gary had driven me to: as he was plotting every single move on his part, I was plotting every move on ours.”
Indeed, each brought out the best in the other, despite being polar opposites.
While the team assembled in Horton’s driveway and removed radio antennae, registration stickers and changed license plates, Horton retreated upstairs in his house to pack a bag for the trip. Mary Pat, his wife, had been on the receiving end of an often one-sided relationship for the past twenty years. There were times—like tonight, for instance—when Jim would come home unannounced and explain he was taking off on a trip out of state. No warning. No good-byes. Just a peck on the cheek and a promise he’d be home as soon as he could.
Because of the secrecy surrounding some cases, there were even times when he couldn’t say where he was off to, or why he was going.
Tonight was different, though. Mary Pat had known Evans on a first-name basis for well over a decade. Evans had called the house for Jim many times during the years and had written him several letters. Mary Pat had read the letters and answered the calls. She had stayed up nights listening to stories about Evans. A petite woman, attractive and motherly, home with two kids for the most part, Mary Pat and Jim met in high school and had been together ever since. A tough woman, thick-skinned, she was devoted to her husband and supported him 100 percent.
Whenever Jim came home and had that focused look on his face, Mary Pat didn’t need an explanation, or some sort of glossed-over speech to assuage her feelings of concern. Without asking, she could tell how serious a case was by looking at her husband, and she never once stood in the way of his work. Additionally, she was well aware of the ordeal he had been through with Evans for the past eight months, not to mention thirteen years, and how important this particular event was.
“This is it,” Horton told his wife, looking up from packing his clothes into a duffel bag, his eyes bulging with exhilaration and alarm. “I think we’ve got him.”
It was a double-edged sword: both enthusiasm and the gravity of the situation were evident on Horton’s face, visible in everything he did. An unwavering sense of determination was obvious in the way he had, over the course of the last twenty-four hours, switched gears into battle mode. Nothing else mattered. For maybe the first time in the nearly eight months since Tim had disappeared, Horton was positive Evans had cold-bloodedly murdered him. That meant Evans was also likely responsible for the disappearances of Michael Falco and Damien Cuomo.
When it came down to it, Evans was a serial murderer. Not just some thief who had become a CI throughout the years and had bartered prosecutors and cops for “good time,” using information about other thieves and drug dealers as currency. Evans was a vicious killer who would likely kill again if he felt boxed into a corner. Here now was Horton’s chance to sweep Evans up and, with any luck, find out the truth. Evans was considered a habitual offender and was looking at twenty-five years behind bars, at the least. On top of that, his bargaining days were over. The chances of him ever getting out of jail early for turning state’s evidence against another felon were nil. When he was caught this time, he was going to rot in prison for what would amount to the rest of his life—which worried Horton more than anything.
In effect, Evans had nothing to lose.
“Jim,” Mary Pat said in nearly a whisper, brushing his back with her hand, “good luck. Stay safe, honey. Okay?”
Horton didn’t answer. He grabbed his bag and rushed downstairs, throwing it on the kitchen table, and went down another flight of stairs to the basement, where he kept his gun safe.
It is against policy for a cop to bring a personal weapon on the job with him. Horton, though, had little time to follow rules. Decisions were being made on the spot. He would deal with the fallout later.
He opened his safe and took out a sawed-off shotgun he’d had for years, grabbed a box of shells, and ran back up the stairs.
“What are you doing?” one of his investigators asked when he got outside.
“I need it,” Horton said. “I don’t care….”
Mary Pat had wandered outside into the driveway to see everyone off. As if she were a mother sending her children off to school on a frigid day, making sure they hadn’t forgotten their scarves and gloves, she asked, “Does everyone have their [bulletproof] vests with them?”
Jim nodded. “We’re all set, Mary Pat. I’ll call you when it’s over.”