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Albert woke at 1:32 in the morning, needing to take a leak, and as he stood there at the toilet, half asleep and swaying, trying not to splash all over the damn floor, his mind continued to process everything that had happened in the past few days.
Zoos are prissons.
That damn note. Albert had been too complacent after nineteen years to understand what it had really meant. The note was bogus—a red herring to fool the cops later. The kid in the Dallas Cowboys hat wasn’t some animal-rights activist; he was a hired gun, sent by Anthony Carducci to kill Albert. And he’d come damn close.
But how had Carducci located Albert after all this time? Good question. Albert might never know the answer.
He finished pissing and went back to bed. He could hear an eighteen-wheeler slowly passing on the highway, no more than seventy feet away. Now he was wide awake—and the same question returned to his mind. Had Sylvia accepted his friend request?
He resisted the urge to grab his phone off the nightstand, because he knew it would only lead to disappointment. He was torturing himself by indulging in the idea that Sylvia had accepted the request, and they would make further contact, and who knows what else might happen? Yeah, sure. He was living in a fantasy world. They hadn’t seen each other in nineteen years. It was inconceivable that she might still think about him. He was probably nothing more than the dimmest haze of a foggy memory.
Right?
He rolled onto his right side, away from the nightstand. Away from the phone. Away from temptation. His eyes remained open. Well, shit. This was futile. He knew he wouldn’t fall asleep again until he checked. That was a good reason to check, wasn’t it? So he could fall asleep again.
He rolled in the other direction and grabbed his phone. Opened the Facebook app. And stared for a long moment at what he was seeing. Could this be right?
Sylvia had accepted his friend request.
But there was more. Good God, there was more. He sat up straight as an arrow.
She’d sent him a message.
Marlin opened the garage door about two feet. The hinges on the left side of the door squealed, but just faintly. Not loudly enough to be a concern. Nobody inside the house could hear it.
He leaned forward to take a quick look to his left, and there it was, just as he expected. Bryce Cauley’s truck—the blue Ford Ranger they’d been looking for earlier in the evening. The one Trevor Larkin had stolen after most likely killing Cauley. It was parked in the nearer bay. The gold Impala owned by Renee’s grandmother was parked on the other side of the Ranger, on the west side of the garage.
Marlin could see everything inside the garage just fine, because the light he’d seen through the blinds wasn’t coming from a battery charger or a lamp or a nightlight. It was an overhead light.
Maybe the light had been on when Trevor had parked the truck, and he’d left it that way in his haste to get inside with Caitlin.
Then Marlin noticed that there was also light inside the Impala. The dome light was on. But why? Had Trevor or Caitlin failed to close a door completely? Did it really matter at this point?
Marlin was about to pull back and exit the garage when he saw something that made him freeze.
Trevor stood as still as he possibly could. Holding his breath.
Thirty seconds earlier, he’d been sitting in the Impala, deciding what to do next, when he’d heard a voice. Same here. Male voice. Just barely audible. Who was it?
Trevor gently opened the car door, stepped out of the Impala, and eased the door shut—but not all the way. It would make a loud click if he closed it all the way.
Then he’d hustled to the garage door, hoping to reach it and lock it before—
Too late.
Somebody was turning the knob, and Trevor flattened himself against the wall behind the door. He had the gun raised in his right hand, pointing at the ceiling. Waiting to see. Was it Renee’s dad? Who else would it be? A nosy neighbor?
Trevor realized he was scared, but also excited as hell. He would probably never have this chance again.
Then the door slowly swung open. Trevor began to lower the gun.
The rear window of the truck.
There was enough light in the garage that the glass reflected perfectly.
Marlin saw a figure in the glass—and it moved. Had to be Larkin.
Marlin didn’t necessarily decide what to do next. Instead he reacted instinctively, on impulse, in a fraction of a second, without the benefit of weighing the pros and cons.
He swung the metal door open as fast and forcefully as he could, driving it with his shoulder and putting every ounce of his weight into it. Marlin felt the door collide with flesh and bone. He heard a loud grunt of pain and surprise.
Followed immediately by a gunshot, extremely loud in this closed space.
Marlin pulled the door back and prepared to slam it again, but Larkin lurched out from behind it and scurried past the rear of both vehicles, taking cover on the driver’s side of the Impala.
Again, Marlin had little time to decide how to respond, and his emotions were running high, impairing his judgment. He should’ve ducked through the door he had just entered but instead he took three quick steps and crouched behind the Ranger’s passenger-side front fender, using the engine for cover.
“State game warden! Drop the weapon!”
Marlin was looking through the sights of his M4, which was steadied on the hood of the truck. Larkin was out of sight.
By now, Bobby and Lauren would be headed in this direction, after hearing the shot. Marlin thumbed his microphone and said, “Shot fired by Larkin inside the garage. He is not inside the house. He is now on the west side of the garage, behind the Impala. Be advised that I am on the east side, behind the Ranger. I am not hit.”
“Copy that,” Garza said immediately.
Marlin had made an enormous error. A minute earlier, when Garza said he’d heard the female subject talking inside the house, Marlin had assumed Larkin was inside with her.
“I will be making contact with the girl shortly,” Garza said.
“Copy,” Lauren said.
Marlin spoke loudly. “Larkin, it’s over. There’s no getting out of here.”
That was true for Marlin, too. He couldn’t make a break for the door now without exposing himself. Again, Larkin didn’t reply, but Marlin could hear heavy, shallow breathing.
“We’ve got half a dozen deputies here right now and a SWAT team is en route,” Marlin said.
After a moment, Larkin said, “You’re the guy from yesterday.”
Yesterday? What was he talking about? Then Marlin realized Larkin was referencing the incident at Darren Meyer’s ranch. Had that been just yesterday? It seemed like a week ago.
“You need to put your gun down and come out slowly,” Marlin said.
“Yeah, right.”
“Let me take you in, for your own safety,” Marlin said.
Larkin had nothing to say.
“Why’d you point that rifle at me?” Marlin asked.
It would be good to keep Larkin talking until SWAT arrived.
“Sometimes I do things because I can’t stop myself,” Larkin said, and he laughed. He actually laughed.
“Like what?” Marlin asked, and at the same time, he leaned low, trying to look under the truck and see Larkin’s legs on the other side of the Impala. But Larkin was wise enough to have set up behind one of the tires.
“All of this,” Larkin said. “Right here, right now. And yesterday. All of it.”
“Did you kill Bryce Cauley?” Marlin asked.
“Of course I did.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“You’ll figure all that out,” Larkin said.
“But what if we don’t? Tell me what happened.”
“There’s not enough time.”
What did that mean? Was Larkin planning to act before the SWAT team arrived?
“Did you kill the man at Safari Adventure?”
“No. I don’t even know who it is.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“How would I know that?”
“Do you know where Albert Cortez is?”
“No idea. Probably dead.”
“Why do you say—”
Larkin suddenly raised the gun over the hood of the Impala and fired off a round, without aiming. Marlin felt the impact on the driver’s side of the Ranger.
Caitlin was just about to pull her jeans down and pee right there in the closet when she heard a gunshot. It was from outside the house, but not far away. Really close, in fact. Not some deer hunter half a mile away. Plus, it sounded like a handgun, not a rifle. Caitlin had shot both enough to recognize the difference.
Her hopes soared. She didn’t budge at all. Just listened. Who was it? Cops? Somebody else? Renee’s dad? Or was it Trevor? Had he fired his gun for some reason? What if he’d shot himself? That was a possibility.
If it wasn’t him and he was still inside the house, how would he react to the shot? Was he freaking out? She kept the shotgun leveled at the bedroom doorway, just in case he might rush back into the bedroom.
Deep. Slow. Breaths.
“Trevor?”
The house sounded empty. It felt empty. Trevor had probably gone outside. Unless she’d hit him and he died. She found herself hoping that was the case, and then she felt guilty about it.
But it wouldn’t explain the shot from outside.
“Did you hear that?” she called.
A few minutes passed. Then she heard another shot. What in the world was going on?
Then she heard the front door opening again. Her hands were trembling.
Deep. Slow. Breaths.
“Caitlin?”
Oh, my God. It was a man’s voice, but not Trevor.
“Yes! I’m back here!”
“This is Sheriff Bobby Garza. Can you hear me?”
“Yes!”
“Do not move, okay? Stay right where you are. Do you hear me?”
“Yes!”
“Is there anyone else inside the house with you?”
“I don’t know where Trevor is.”
“Is there anyone besides you and Trevor here?”
“No!”
“Who were you talking to earlier?”
“I thought Trevor was still here, but I don’t know where he went. He might’ve gone outside.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes! I have a shotgun! I shot at him twice.”
“I need you to put the shotgun down. Do you hear me?”
“Yes. I’m putting it down!”