“This is Nancy Burchett. I need to see you.”
Monk sat on the edge of the bed, the phone next to him, the handset in his left hand. “I’m surprised you called me.”
He’d placed his father’s .45 close by on the night stand. He’d lubricated the rebuilt parts of the ACP 1911 model late in the afternoon after talking with McClendon and getting a four a.m. flight out of Memphis. The Colt was in cocked-and-locked mode, the hammer pulled back and ready to drop should he have reason to pull the trigger. He’d noticed some pull with the slide assembly shooting at the range a few weeks ago. Therefore, he’d paid close attention to any burrs along the edges of the metal or fatigue in the spring when he’d disassembled and oiled the weapon.
“I gotta talk to you, Mr. Monk. I gotta be done with this.” Her voice had a slight quake in it from apprehension.
“Bodar call you?” Outside, the floorboards of the walkway creaked. Muffled voices floated in to him through the walls.
“He said we couldn’t duck this any longer.” There was a resigned quality in her voice. Like she’d reached a boulder in the road blocking her after a long and fruitless journey. There was something else there, too, a suggestion in her tone that one of McClendon’s reporters was right about his hints concerning Bodar’s crack-up.
“Are you two lovers?”
“What you want to know, mister? You want to know what my daddy told me or you want to be on Jerry Springer?”
“So you decide to call me now at”—he glanced at his watch—“damn near nine-thirty.”
“Shit, mister, I didn’t call you up just to hear you be sour. Frankly, I think it does make better sense for me to stay gone.”
It was a chump play, but what if she was for real? He couldn’t let a chance at a valuable link in this affair simply slip away. “Come on out to the airport in Memphis.”
“All right,” she agreed, surprising him. “It’ll take me a couple of hours from where I’m at. Make it twelve-thirty, tonight, okay?”
“I’ll be at the Southwest section. How will I know you?”
“I’ll know you.” She severed the line before he could say anything else.
He wondered who she’d talked to, but would go with the flow. Monk finished packing and, having settled his bill with his credit card, exited the room. He put his bags in the back of the pickup truck and got out on Highway 61, heading north. He’d wait around at the airport to see if the woman would actually show. As he drove through Gator, a stationwagon pulled out from an access road behind him. The car remained steady on him and Monk periodically kept watch on the vehicle in his rearview mirror. Crossing the state line, the wagon’s driver put on his turn signal, and went east. The rest of the drive was uneventful.
He returned the truck at the National stall set aside for after-hours dropoffs. The shuttle took him to his terminal. He was walking in just as a kid with long stringy hair, a baseball cap emblazoned by a silver AC/DC logo jammed on his head, came toward him. The teenager had been standing in the recess of the automatic doorway. He was sniffling like he had a head cold, and had passed Monk before he spoke.
“This is for you.”
Monk whirled, dropping his bags as his right hand went for the belt holster beneath his jean jacket. The kid wasn’t facing him and was trotting away across the lanes toward the parking structure. Near where he’d been was a six-by-nine manila envelope on the ground.
Inside the envelope was a single Polaroid. The woman sitting in the chair in the shot had her top ripped off, in shards about her waist. Her mouth and eyes were covered over by duct tape. A gloved hand was grabbing one of her breasts in her plain bra, the fingers sunk deep in the ample flesh. The arm extended into the frame of the close shot, the face, of course, not seen, but he didn’t think this was Nancy Burchett’s idea of fun. He went inside.
He was being paged to a courtesy phone over the PA system.
“She gets butt-fucked with my shotgun, then her brains will be blown out, nigger boy,” the voice on the other end of the line gleefully informed him after he’d picked up. “You got an hour.”
“I turned in my truck.” Monk was calculating how long it would take him to convince the cops to believe him.
“You got fifty-nine minutes, Snowball,” the voice advised. “Go back south on Sixty-One.”
Monk got back to the rental stall and shot the lock off the strong box holding the keys. He took off in the pickup truck. Back below the border the same station wagon that had been behind him earlier—a ’70s-era LTD Country Squire with numerous rust spots and peeling fake wood grain—got close and zoomed ahead of him. It was a moonless night, and the lights along this stretch of the road were spaced far apart. The wagon took a turn onto a gravel road barely discernible among the maples and poplars, and Monk followed.
The car went deep into the woods, passing an occasional mail box staked at various intervals along the edge of the single-lane pathway. The wagon made a sharp left and the route took them deeper into the gloomy topiary. Monk bounced along not too far behind. They were heading west, in the direction of the Arkansas border. The wagon took another turn and came to a stop at a series of low buildings spaced at numerous angles to each other. A halogen light was on over one of the buildings in the center of the yard. Several tractors, a grader, a combine harvester, a manure-spreader and a tandem-disk harrow were also about. Another car, its lights off, had pulled in behind the pickup truck. It was the cream-colored Taurus Monk had seen several days earlier at his motel. Grinding the clutch’s throw-out bearing, Monk forcefully reversed the Dodge’s gears, violently plowing into the Taurus. The grill and upper hood crumpled as that car’s front end went under the truck’s higher bumper.
“Fuck,” someone yelled over the grinding of metal and molded plastic.
Simultaneously, Monk tumbled out of the truck on the passenger’s side, two lit flares in his hands that he’d retrieved from the highway kit in the truck’s bed before leaving the rental depot. The pickup truck’s windshield exploded from a shotgun blast. He threw the flaming sticks over the roof of the truck at the driver’s side of the Taurus. Then he pivoted and cranked off two shots at the wagon.
“Get down,” the voice screamed again.
Monk ran and dove beside the manure-spreader, which was positioned near the right rear of the Ram pickup.
“Blast his monkey ass,” the voice bellowed.
Three more shots in rapid succession from Monk’s .45 rang out, and the halogen light was extinguished. Blackness caressed the area, the buildings and farm machinery becoming murky forms seemingly strewn about by a capricious baby titan.
“Scared, nigger?” one of the men from the wagon taunted evilly, crouching near the vehicle on the passenger’s side.
“Shut up,” the wagon’s driver hissed, also crouching down.
“Smart bastard,” the one who had driven the Taurus summed-up quietly. “We can’t see him, but he can’t see us clearly neither,” the wagon’s passenger said unnecessarily.
“Find him,” the quiet-voiced one commanded. “He can’t be allowed to say anything to anybody.”
“Who in fuck put you in charge?”
“Who do you think?” came the assured reply.
Cicadas made their whines and frogs did their croaks. Nothing human talked nor moved for several moments. There was no gravel or leaves in the clearing and the footfalls of the killers would be hard to discern, if at all.
Monk had moved off from the manure-spreader, belly crawling across the moist ground. He’d noticed tall poplars among the heavy undergrowth bordering the clearing on its eastern end as he’d driven in behind the wagon. He made for their relative safety, and came to rest beside a tree. The automatic was in his hand, shells stuffed into the front pockets of his Levi’s. He got his breathing under control in an attempt to hear the men.
Was it three hitters? Or was there a fourth like the ones who’d done the girls decades ago? One to watch out, two to hold the young women, their callused hands gripping them hard, gags tied excruciatingly tight around their mouths. And the last one to do the cutting. Burchett must have been the knifer, proud to do his bloody duty for the cause.
A flashlight’s beam probed the dark, some yards from where Monk had kneeled down. The owner of the flashlight was moving about tentatively, aware his light could also pinpoint his existence. Monk obliged and clipped two off at the point of origin.
“Goddamnit,” the man yelled, clicking the light off.
“I told you not to use it,” the other one snickered from the other side of the yard. Monk recognized that voice—Kanner, from the riverboat.
Monk went flat again, scratching his face and hands as he burrowed through some low shrubbery. Absently he wondered if the stuff was poison ivy. He needed to draw the one nearest him closer. The fact that his eyes had adjusted to the dark mattered little. Everything was hulks and amorphous blobs, the night sky only slightly darker than his surroundings.
He could hear footsteps in the brush, legs sweeping past the calf-deep foliage covering the floor of the wooded area he was in. Monk felt about him and closed on a loose branch. It was a hefty piece of wood and he tried to snap it by leveraging it against the soft earth, bending it in his left hand. The bough wouldn’t break. The footsteps were now moving away from him. He didn’t want the men regrouping.
Hurriedly he put the gun under his chin, holding it there propped against his upper chest. He got in a position on one knee, making too much sound. He snapped the branch and squirmed away to his left, the opposite direction he guessed the man with the flashlight to be. A shotgun blast boomed, wide and way off target to where he’d been. He could hear some of the shot hit a tree.
Monk moaned loudly, cupping a hand to his mouth.
“I bagged that nigger,” the shot-gunner declared proudly, clicking on the flashlight.
“Idiot,” his friend warned.
Monk, both hands supporting his handgun shooting-range style, sent two toward the light, higher and to his right. The man would be holding the flashlight in his left, the gun in his right. The clip was now expended, and he didn’t bother bringing the hammer down on an empty chamber. The light had fallen into the broad expanse of leaves and plants, its owner down.
He could hear the wounded man sucking in air. “Fuck, fuck,” the man he’d shot gasped. “Help me, Grainey.”
Grainey either wasn’t that good a friend or that kind of fool. Monk took a chance and, crouching and scuttling, made for the point where the flashlight partially shone through the underbrush, the sounds of the fallen man coming from close to the beam.
Monk got there as the man, holding both hands over his stomach, suddenly focused on the figure before him.
“Nigger shit,” he screamed. He made an attempt to reach for his shotgun, a Browning with walnut stock Monk could see in the cast-off light coming through the brush. The substantial weapon was lying across the man’s lower legs, but when he removed one of his hands, viscous fluids seeped from around his fingers. He quickly put his hand back, doing his best to press his intestines, or what was left of them, back into place.
The man rocked back and forth and from side to side, wailing and writhing and cursing black people, God for making black people, and some woman named Linda who’d left him. Monk scooped up the Browning, and took shells for the weapon out of the man’s Army jacket pocket. He tried to grab at Monk’s arm, yelling for Grainey to come. Monk knocked the weakened hand away. The shotgun-wielder wouldn’t last an hour like he was without medical attention. But an hour right now might as well be forever.
Monk had to push any empathy he might work up for his would-be executioner out of his mind. He could not afford to focus on anything but wanting to see his mother, and Jill and his sister and everybody else who meant anything to him again. Monk wanted desperately to be able to walk through the door of his donut shop and see Elrod’s impassive face. And he wanted more than anything to be swamped by the aroma of fresh glazed donuts and brewing coffee. He had to survive.
Monk plowed deeper into the woods, tripping over some roots. The .45 went out of his grasp and landed somewhere among the thick leaves and vines. The shotgun was beneath his body, the barrel pressed under his chin. He was thankful its owner kept it in condition, since it hadn’t gone off and blown his brains out through his ears.
He felt around for the pistol, hoping to latch onto its familiar casing with the gouge in the finish, a legacy of a deflected bullet his father, the sergeant, had earned in Korea. Of course, his dad’s re-telling of how the nick happened took on different details each time. No time for reminiscing. Footfalls were getting close. One man, light on the tread and moving easily. He must know these woods. That was not good.
Without his automatic, and clutching the shotgun like it was a broom handle in his right hand, he scrambled forward, then ziggedzagged right, into another part of the forest. A gunshot went off, but struck nothing near him. From the echo of the report, Monk guessed the gun was a large-caliber pistol, a .357 or maybe a 10-MM Desert Eagle, all the rage since their use in movies and TV as the latest weapon of choice. Monk slammed against a tree, momentarily stunning himself
He steadied himself. Not too far away, he could hear water, a stream he reasoned. Beneath the sound of the running water, he couldn’t discern a human one. His tracker must be an experienced game hunter. Or for all he knew, this might not be the first time he’d pursued a victim in these woods. Monk considered hunkering down and waiting, but he didn’t think he’d catch this one off-guard like he had the first one. No, Grainey would be different, more calculating and more patient. And more careful after Monk had dropped his buddy.
But even he was not as patient as the one he thought was Kanner, who must be circling around. This one, and Monk assumed it was the martial artist from the river boat, would understand there was no rush. That there was very little chance Monk would reach any help before he got to him. He might even have a pair of see-in-the-dark binoculars or goggles to give him an added advantage as he stalked his prey, until the right moment to get his sights lined up on Monk’s form in his night scope.
Monk moved off toward the creek. Branches and dead leaves crunched underneath his feet as he plodded toward the water. He heard brush give way as the second gunman came for him. He probably knew where this stream was in the map in his head. Monk trotted, holding the shotgun soldier-fashion, one hand around the stock and trigger guard, the other supporting it by the barrel grip. He fell again, over a tree trunk, and slid into a clump of leaves. Their dry odor filled his nostrils, and he fought the terror increasing his heart rate, knowing the gunner had heard him crash.
He got up groggily, and did his best to weave through a stand of tall trees that he judged, from the amount of fallen leaves about, to be oaks or maples. Monk halted, kneeling down against a bulk he could feel was the log of a fallen tree. The stream was behind him. Something moved in the brush and the hot sweat on his face went cold. Reflexively, Monk flung himself forward but no shot rang out. The noise persisted and listening closer, he guessed it was a smaller form, a squirrel or possum. Hopefully.
Despite himself, Grainey smiled. Sure, he’d probably be sad later that Lester was lying back there dying, might even kick the bucket. But the goon was always so cocksure of himself—he always gotta be the man, the one to drink the most, the one to do the most shitkickin’—Grainey knew something like this was going to happen to him sooner or later.
Anyway, the motherfucker had been fucking Linda, filled her full of lies about him, and he’d been seeing her first. Lester always did think he was smarter than him, getting the swank jobs from the big boss and all, now who was top dog?
The black boy was no knock-over. He was seasoned; Grainey could tell he’d been in tough spots before. He wasn’t running around panicked-like, he was trying to move with purpose through these woods. But Grainey had grown up around here, still hunted venison and rabbit. They were on the outskirts of the St. Francis National Forest, and that city coon didn’t know his right from his left out here. Grainey did.
He stopped and listened. He knew exactly where he was. There was the fallen log with the sunflowers growing out of its end just to his left. The stream was about three yards in front of that, and it flowed diagonally through several patches to the east where Grainey figured he’d catch up with his intended target. If he didn’t get him before. Damned if he was going to let that weird bastard Kanner plug the jig. He really didn’t like Kanner.
Best to concentrate, Grainey admonished himself, cautiously prowling forward, his Desert Eagle at the ready. He wished he had his Winchester, but goddamn Lester had insisted he only take a pistol. Telling him why did he need his hunting rifle since Monk would drive up, they’d box him in, and that would be that. But the sumbitch proved to be wily, and now your smart ass is breathin’ through your stomach, Lester. He knew Lester had figured Monk would run, and that Lester’d be the one to cut him in two with his Browning. The funny thing was, Monk now had the shotgun.
Yeah, he told himself, easing along, he’d better be wise. That dinge might not be familiar with these surroundings, but he was still armed. Grainey reached the section of the woods where the rise of Wacha Mountain caused the river to bend, and veered off to the southeast. Nothing. No sounds except the usual night noises. Where’d that porch monkey get to? He couldn’t be moving that confidently in all these unfamiliar surroundings, especially at night. Shit.
And where in the fuck was that Chuck-Norris-wannabe Kanner? When the shootin’ started, he just kinda disappeared. Making all mysterious with his kung fu bullshit. Shit. Now what should he do? Keep going. He knew Monk would follow the river, figuring it would take him to clearer ground, and it would. But as there were several tough spots along the way, like where the small mountain was, that would slow the darkie up. Had he gone on, thrashing through the forest, lucky not to bang into a tree or trip over some roots? Or had he not gone on at all?
All right, he should find Kanner. Fuck. It was his idea that they should take some cellulars with them, but no, Lester had nixed that, too. It was only because he’d suggested it that the small-minded asshole had said no. Grainey moved back the way he’d come, slow and steady, his ears pricked for anything out of the ordinary. At some point Kanner would find him, and together, they’d smoke the black boy into the open.
He got back to the tree trunk and called out. “Kanner, it’s me. I’m over by the log with the sunflowers.” No answer. Slope-thinkin’ motherfucker. “Come on, Kanner,” he shouted, exasperated.
Something rustled and for that single moment he turned toward the area directly in front of him, straining to see Kanner’s form. Almost as quickly it occurred to him the sound wasn’t quite leaves crunching underfoot, but something else. He aimed the gun at the log and fired. At the same moment, hands clamped on his ankle and he was upended. “Kanner!” Grainey hollered. He was bringing the pistol up, firing as Monk’s fist struck him in the windpipe.
Monk pressed his attack. He leaped and landed on the man named Grainey, who was trying to get to his feet. They became entangled, and Monk could feel the hot muzzle of the man’s semi-auto press against his groin. He ducked, and in the same motion, shoved the heel of his hand against the bottom of the other man’s chin. The gun fired.
Grainey let out air in a rush, the gun going momentarily slack in his right hand. Monk’s shoulder blade burned where the second shot had clipped him, but he couldn’t let up. He wasn’t going to die.
“Kanner!” Grainey cried hoarsely, his windpipe severely damaged, slamming his knee into Monk’s kidney.
His back up against it, Monk became more ferocious. He got on top of Grainey, their arms intertwined. Having no hands free, he used his head to try to butt the other man. But Grainey had anticipated such a move, and kept his own head moving.
Driven by the certainty Kanner would be arriving at any second, Monk notched up his attack. He let his grip go on Grainey’s forearm, where his pistol resided at the end of it. As the pistol hand came up, Grainey twisted his body to get in position to blast Monk in the head. In a blink, Monk shifted, crabbing forward over the man, freeing his left arm. Monk hit him again, stunning the man, temporarily halting the ascent of the gun. Monk latched both his hands around the man’s throat, squeezing with as much force as if he were molding clay.
The gun hand, and he could sense this more than see it against the darkness, was at an angle to their bodies. Monk let go of Grainey’s throat with his right. He grabbed the gun hand and brought the piece down against the middle of the man’s face as he tried to orient himself. Monk then boxed the man’s head with his right in two rapid blows.
Grainey moaned and Monk lurched to his feet, wrenching the gun away from the man. Monk kicked him in the face with his heel, ceasing the moaning. He paused, bent over, hands on knees, taking in air rapidly, and looked around. The clearing and the buildings lay behind him. It made sense for him to try to reach their respective shelter. If Kanner was the third and last man, that would make him come to him. Even if he wasn’t, it was the smartest thing to do, even though it meant crossing the clearing. His breathing somewhat regular, he retrieved the shotgun from where he’d placed it next to the log.
Monk had resigned himself to being cocooned in his canopy of leaves and earth all night. The ground near the river was soft, the leaves over it had kept the moisture tamped down. Like a mole, he’d clawed his way beneath the leaves and dirt next to the fallen tree trunk as much as he could. He knew he was giving fate the finger, traipsing around in these woods with at least two men after him. And that inevitably, he’d be caught.
When he heard the footsteps return, he’d had no choice but to take a chance and spring himself on Grainey.
Moving back toward the buildings, he concluded that’s where Kanner had been all the time. Lying in the cut, he could have had the two country boys do the dirty work. If they were successful, fine. He was the cool, level-headed administrator. If they failed he’d be Mr. Clean-Up.
Monk was returning to the buildings like a salmon swimming upstream. Reaching the area where the machines were, he hunkered down, the pain along his shoulder blade starting to effect his endurance. Cold made him shiver and he hoped he wasn’t hyperventilating. The bullet seemed to be in muscle and not in the bone, so that was good. But it was in him nonetheless and you couldn’t just jump around with a foreign object in you and not notice.
His jacket and shirt were wet from sweat, mud and blood. He had to keep going. If he slowed down too much, if he stopped to rest, he’d become too aware of the fatigue starting to corrode his energy. He reached a large machine, the harvester. Fantastically, Monk figured how long it might take him to get the tiling going and drive to the buildings. He Just as quickly dismissed the idea. Stuck in the cab, fumbling with the levers and buttons in the dark, was putting himself in too vulnerable a position.
Going around the machine, a bolt of pain lanced his side. He sagged against the harvester, pinwheel bursts going off behind his eyes. Come on, Monk, don’t let yourself down now. Come on, breath in, breath out, legs up then down. He got up, the butt of the Desert Eagle pistol digging into his back where he’d tucked it snug in the waistband of his ruined Dockers. He listened and of course there was no sound of another human. No creak of feet on leaves or the click of a gun’s hammer.
Monk was now feeling along the harvester. In front of that was the low-slung rectangular hulk of the main building not more than twenty-five yards away. Its door was probably locked, but that wasn’t a problem with a shotgun.
Then again, maybe he wouldn’t go there. Didn’t it seem the most obvious way to go—for the main building? Why not try one of the ones he’d noticed set at angles to this central one? Whatever he chose, he was going to expose himself. He didn’t think Kanner had a high-powered rifle with a night scope. At least, to keep himself from freezing up with self-doubt, he had to believe he didn’t; Kanner would have used it by this time. Kanner had to believe he was as alone as Monk was. But Monk had to believe he had more to live for.
Whatever prankish supernatural being rolled the dice to decide his personal destiny, he just had to believe he had one more throw of good luck left. He didn’t run straight toward the main building, but toward the one tucked behind a stand of several tractors. A couple of the machines had loaders attached. Several shots cut the dirt to his right ahead of him. Kanner was in the main building, having guessed that would be where Monk would head. Monk dove beside one of the loaders. Kanner didn’t waste a shot.
Luckily too, Kanner only had a pistol, judging from the weapon’s report. Which meant he’d have to get close to get the job done. Good enough. Monk felt around and undid the wheel locks of the loader. Pressing his shoulder against it, the throbbing steady, he pushed the thing. Designed to be mobile enough to hook and unhook from a tractor, the loader with its slanting elevator leading up to its discharge spout creaked along. Monk had placed the shotgun on a horizontal area of the machine. Having gone several feet with the loader for cover, he was now breathing hard and sweating like a stuck pig, as his dad used to say.
The gun clattered and got caught in something at the loader’s base. The wheels stopped turning, and Monk concentrated on remaining calm. In the murk, he felt about and latched onto the Browning, partially jammed against the tilling shaft. He yanked on it, his shoulder blade warm with his blood. Was that footsteps? Come on, please, he pleaded with himself, trying to wrench the shotgun free.
Abruptly it loosened, and Monk staggered backward, bumping into something smooth and cold. It was another piece of farm machinery, the purpose of which escaped him at the moment. He was near his destination and took several moments to get some strength back up.
“Monk,” came a quiet voice over the stillness.
Monk cradled the shotgun.
“There’s money in this for you, Monk. Two hundred, hell, three hundred thousand for you to make it go away.”
“Aw, why didn’t you say so before, buddy?” He started moving the loader again toward the smallish bulk of the building. “Those guns going off at me were just to get my attention, huh?” His shirt underneath his mud-caked jacket was clammy and clung like Spandex to his skin. The building was less than forty feet from him.
“Two bodies in the woods, even in Mississippi, are going to take some explaining,” Kanner went on. “You’ve proved yourself a difficult man, Monk. We want to keep things efficient. Money is a great way to achieve understanding.”
Monk assumed he wanted to keep him talking as he snuck out of the main building and crept toward where he could hear the loader being moved, the sounds masking Kanner’s movements. Monk stopped moving the loader. He was tired and he was getting fuzzy in the head again. He plucked the shotgun off the machine, and sat in the dirt next to the wheels.
“I suppose I’m to wait here while you go fetch the dough.” And more gun hands.
Kanner laughed easily. Monk could tell he wasn’t calling to him from the building. “I know you’re no fool, Monk. I drive off, you drive off. The money gets wired to you where you say.”
“You got Tigbee’s say-so to approve this?” He got up on one knee, listening for the footsteps beneath the voice.
“You know I do,” the other man said with confidence.
Monk positioned himself so the barrel of his Browning was pointing toward the main building. He adjusted, swinging the shotgun left, guessing, if he were Kanner, what path he’d take toward him. Certainly not a straight line from the structure. “Let’s say four hundred grand. That way I got enough to set aside, and your boss has made a substantial payment knowing I won’t be showing up for another bite.”
“Fine,” Kanner said casually. “I’m sure you’re a man of your word.”
Monk let off two blasts, one beside the other to hopefully give the other man pause. He darted for the small building and sank beside a corner and some overgrown grass just as a shotgun blast tore into the air. Kanner had been holding back. Monk crawled on his hands and knees to the rear of the building. He got up and felt along the wall until he clasped a metal knob. The door was locked, but one blast took care of that. Monk plunged inside, closing the metal door behind him.
The Browning was empty but he still had the five shells he’d gotten off Grainey. The room he was in had several low tables at right angles to each other. He felt around and determined the room was for repair and general maintenance. Various parts lay about the tables, and numerous tools were pegged on the walls and encased in their rollaway tool boxes. Monk went to the front door.
The area around his shoulder blade had settled down again to a dull numbness, and the blood seemed to have begun clotting.
There were safety-glass windows on either side of the front door. Crouching down, Monk looked out as he reloaded the shotgun by feel. Gasping, he put one of the rollaway tool boxes, itself about four feet high, against the door. If Kanner blew off the lock, the rollaway would slow him up a few steps.
There was a phone with several lines available on an industrial-type office desk. Picking up the handset, Monk couldn’t get a dial tone no matter what line he punched. He didn’t expect to, but he had to try. He reviewed the possibilities.
Kanner might have called for backup already, but Monk doubted it. Surely Tigbee had learned from experience that the more people he called in on this, the more chance there’d be a leak about the killing later. Conversely, waiting here until the sun came up didn’t necessarily improve his odds. This must be a company Tigbee owned. No doubt he could shut it down for a day or two for some reason or another, and wait Monk out.
No, he had to do something of a more aggressive nature, because Kanner would also be upping the stakes. He would have to show Tigbee, now, after Monk had bested the first two, that he was the man. That he could get the job done.
An engine revved. It must be the LTD since the Taurus wasn’t driveable. With icy certainty, Monk leaped ahead in his reckoning as the lights snapped on from the vehicle. The car’s lights swung toward the building, then veered off. Monk unlocked the front door and cracked it open a millimeter. He could hear the car circling, the lights off now.
Kanner plowed the stationwagon through the rear of the repair building. Parts and tools sailed everywhere as several work-tables got shoved toward the front. Monk tumbled out the front door, seconds ahead of getting trapped against the wall. As quickly as he could, he ran around the building. Kanner would think he’d dash away—he was going to catch him as he came around the corner.
The Browning was up and aimed and suddenly Monk was staring at a heavily breathing form also holding a shotgun up and ready. So much for his plan.
“My, my,” Kanner proclaimed. The barrel of his shotgun twitched.
“Isn’t it,” Monk responded, his finger tightening on the trigger. Oddly, he could hear frogs splashing into the stream but not his own heartbeat. The world was Kanner and his shotgun. Time crawled. Sweat clouded his right eye, blurring his sight. The wagon’s engine was still running. His finger shook. Monk blinked rapidly, trying desperately to clear his eye. The shotgun felt so heavy.
Both guns went off almost in the same instant.