Spinning around, Reid sprinted to the corner of the building and took the stairs three at a time. It was a stretch, but he'd been practicing the leaps for a week now, with no new bruises on his shins.
Locking the door behind him, Reid headed straight to his bedroom. He grabbed the big, old-fashioned alarm clock from the bedside table, and with a twist of his wrist the back popped off to reveal a cheap, pre-paid cell phone. He tapped in a number that was permanently stamped on his brain, and walked to his desk.
Two rings, four...ten. He lost count as his mind raced like a gerbil in an exercise wheel.
What had he been thinking when he deviated from his usual behavior pattern? He may have put the entire project in jeopardy.
“Do I want to hear what you have to say?”
The hearty, Irish brogue jerked Reid from his mental wanderings.
“No, but we've got a problem.”
“I figured that much, boy, or you wouldn't have called.”
Reid hated to be referred to as “boy.” It reminded him too much of his now-dead, foster father. The term had always reeked with condescension, mixed with derogatory words and followed by a bruising punch.
“Can it, Harold.”
A coarse laugh crackled through the phone. “Go on, spill the beans.”
“There's been a murder.”
“Nah. Isn't that part of the plan? Your job?”
“Harold, the police discovered a body in an alley tonight. The man was murdered.”
“What?”
“Do I finally have your attention?” Reid realized he was pacing and forced his feet to carry him to the soft, leather sofa. Flopping into its smooth embrace, he tried to relax.
“Reid, let me read you something. Are you ready?”
“I'm listening.”
Harold's raspy voice began:
Was I making a mistake?
Uncertainty sat heavily on my shoulders, like a cloak of chain mail. The alley lay in pitch darkness, sending creeping chills up my spine. I didn't doubt the rightness of the killing itself, but the manner in which I planned to do it.
I'd murdered – no, executed – five men, so far, but never with a personal touch. A certain distance existed when killing with a knife or a gun or poison. Now I was planning to use my hands.
I looked down at the black gloves. Smoothing the long fingers over mine, I tugged them to my wrists. The black leather stretched like a second skin.
Would it feel different? More satisfying or less? Though I had felt nothing but satisfaction at my past kills, I didn't want to develop a taste for shedding blood, like a rogue canine killing the sheep he'd previously guarded. I executed men for a purpose. I was not a common murderer. Mine was a higher calling.
Silence followed.
“Well, Reid?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Was that your description? Were those your words?”
“You know they were,” mumbled Reid. “I faxed them to you just this morning.”
“Hmmmm. And you say the police found a murder victim in an alley in the town where you are staying?”
“You got it in one, Harold.”
More silence.
“How many more before this project is complete, Reid?”
“One. Just one more.”
“We need to think on this. Does anyone in that dumpy little burg know what you're doing?”
Reid shook his head then realized Harold couldn't see him. “No. Not that I know of. I haven't told a single person here what I'm really doing.”
“Could someone have breached your security and read your research?”
“No way.” Picturing Anne or Callie or Doug pawing through his papers or scanning his computer data was so far-fetched Reid laughed.
“I'm glad you can laugh. I'm not sure I'm finding anything funny about this situation.”
Immediately sobered, Reid forked long fingers through his messy hair. Dragging his hand down his jaw, he felt the pull of whiskers and wished his biggest issues were a shave and a haircut. He heaved a sigh. “Nothing like this has ever happened before, and I'm not sure what to do. Let's mull it over tonight, then I'll call you again in the morning. Surely one of us can come up with a solution.”
“Sounds good. I'd hate for you to get pinched at this point. This is one of your most ingenious undertakings.”
“Yeah,” grumbled Reid. “Ingenious, I'll accept. Not sure I like the play on words though – undertakings.”
“That's it, maintain your sense of humor. And, son, remember, I'm behind you all the way.”
Reid heard the click signaling the end of the conversation. Sure you are, Harold, but how FAR behind are you?
Getting to his feet, Reid couldn't stop the groan that came from deep within and rolled forth to echo off the tall, tin ceilings. Long strides took him to his bedroom, and after tucking the phone back into its hiding place, he headed for his office.
He pulled a wad of keys from the pocket of the warm-up pants he'd slipped on before leaving the church. Fingering through them, he selected a small, square-topped key, flopped into the chair, and using his legs like oars, rolled himself to a tall, mud-colored cabinet. The thing probably took a half-dozen men to move it. The lock on the heavy, reinforced drawer required precise jiggling and maneuvering to unlock it. C2 plastic explosive might have been quicker, but Reid's attachment to the old office dinosaur far exceeded the need for speed. He'd grown quite fond of the ugly colossus, and it did a great job of keeping his laptop and papers safe.
Within minutes, Reid had his laptop open and running, and a stack of papers resting at his right hand.
He hit Ctrl End, then paged up three pages and began to read.
Was I making a mistake?
Boy, how that question resonated in his mind. He seemed to have done nothing BUT make mistakes since his arrival in Roulette, Louisiana.
He skipped over the next few lines picking up words here and there, letting them stand alongside the information Doug had shared about the recent murder.
I'd murdered – no, executed –
Though I had felt nothing but satisfaction at my past kills, … I executed men for a purpose. I was not a common murderer. Mine was a higher calling.
... into the dark alley. ...
Roger Eastman ... He died as he'd lived...in the dark....
Roger Eastman and Robert Ettermen. Reid shivered. Too close to be a simple coincidence.
...I pinned the familiar red and white, peppermint carnation boutonnière...
Had Doug said anything about a flower? He should have listened more carefully. He really needed to know that information and now he would have to contact Doug and try to weasel it out of him without making the guy suspicious. He was sure the police were withholding certain details from the public – they always did – and the flower would be just the type of item kept secret.
Reid tipped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Was it physically possible to kick oneself in the posterior? If so, he would do it.
Crazy. Totally crazy. How had he let every one of his safeguards slide away into the nether regions. The project had started out so well. Then he'd arrived in Roulette and everything had fallen apart. This blasted town.
No, admitted Reid with a shake of his head. It wasn't the town. He was at fault. He had made friends and gotten involved with community events as if he was a normal transplant to a new city. And, not only had he NOT stayed under the radar of the police, he had let his competitive spirit lead him into becoming pals with a local cop.
He'd blown it. No doubt about that. Now he needed to fix what he could and adjust his plans. He was so close to completing this job, and now if he didn't go back and cover his bases, he might lose it all.
Some other tidbit from Doug's explanation pricked at the back of his mind like a splinter rubbed the wrong way. What was it?
Reid picked up where he had stopped reading.
A surprising hint of sadness ...from the empty, right-hand sleeve of the man's coat....
That was it – a one-armed man. Anne had mentioned that Mr. Ettermen had lost an arm in the Vietnam war. Too many similarities.
Reid slammed his fist on the solid oak desktop. Frustration warred with anger. It was time he kicked his brain into gear and figured out what was going on in the sweet, little town of Roulette. Some unknown person was wreaking havoc with his plans. It had to stop. Whatever it took, he had to stop it!