Tirabassi said, “I’m not surprised. This is why we put these people in prison; they’re stupid, and they make mistakes. If this woman is talking about Mortvedt, we’ve finally got a shot at him. Even if she isn’t, we’ve got to set up surveillance out at Willowdale for whoever might show up. But I’ll bet it’s going to be Mortvedt.”
Doyle had emphasized to the agents, “We can’t have some SWAT team crashing around out there at Willowdale. If Rexroth gets wind of any FBI presence, he’ll call off Mortvedt for sure. You better figure out a way to do this real quietly.”
What finally unfolded was a schedule that saw either Karen or Damon be picked up by Doyle at the hotel each evening, then transported to his apartment on the Willowdale property while crouched down on the backseat of Doyle’s car. Whichever one it was that accompanied him stayed the night in his place, where Doyle tried to sleep so that he would be ready for his regular duties in the morning. The agent not with Doyle communicated by radio with the other team leader, who was positioned in a car located a mile down the road from Willowdale.
Meanwhile, two other FBI agents slipped onto the property each night and made their way to the stallion barn without being observed. Doyle had sent the barn’s security guard on a surprise one-week vacation with pay, telling him he would “check on these horses every night, don’t you worry.” The guard, Alan Henry, gratefully agreed to this plan. Doyle felt better once Henry had been removed from any potentially dangerous situation.
Ralph Ebner and Ed Kamin were the FBI agents stationed in the stallion barn. One was positioned in an empty stall midway of the north wall, the other in the hayloft that ran the length of the building.
On the fourth night of this surveillance schedule, Doyle had again finished hammering Damon Tirabassi at gin rummy. As much as he liked winning, their card games were beginning to bore him. Shaking his head in mock sympathy, Doyle said, “I’m beating you like a drum, man, like a drum. I’m going to have mercy on you and call it a night.”
Although he would again have to rise at five the next day to fulfill his acting farm manager duties, Doyle did not feel like going to bed. At the beginning of this week, Doyle had felt energized, full of that good impatient feeling he used to get before his fights. He’d loved those adrenalin-packed minutes as he entered the ring and warmed up, casting sidelong glances at his opponent, every cell in his body seeming to cry let’s get it on! It was one of the best feelings in the world as far as Doyle was concerned.
Now, four days into the vigil, he was growing increasingly impatient and losing faith in the plan as well. He’d slept fitfully the past two nights and was more restless than ever this night. Putting down the deck of cards, Doyle announced, “I’m taking a walk.”
“Stay away from that barn,” Tirabassi warned. “I don’t want Kamin or Ebner coming down on you.”
“Remember, Damon, this is Willowdale. There are five hundred ninety-nine other acres here I can use,” Doyle said as he went out the cottage door.
It was twenty-one minutes after midnight when Doyle began strolling under the starless autumn sky. He stopped in front of the silent house that had been shared by Aldous and Caroline and her children. For a moment or so, he visualized them all on the front porch, at their ease of a summer evening, so innocent in their ignorance of what was to come. Doyle shuddered at the memory. Then he moved away on the gravel path, intending to circle the pond. He wished he had brought a flashlight.
Suddenly, Doyle heard movement in the darkness off to his right. There was an empty paddock there, so he knew it was not a horse he was hearing. Quickly he crouched down at the edge of the viburnum bushes that lined the path. There was another rustling sound, closer now. As Doyle knelt on the damp grass, he could feel drops of sweat beginning to trickle from his armpits, just as during the nights when he’d stood in the ring corner, looking across at his opponent, both of them riding adrenaline highs as they waited for the opening bell.
Doyle took off his boots and crawled closer to the bushes. He heard a harsh whisper, “Jud, creep up into that barn and make sure our horse is where he’s supposed to be at. Fifth stall on the right was what the man told me. If he’s there, flick on that flashlight for a second to let me know. I’m not gonna move our stuff up there till I know we can use it.”
Doyle strained to hear more. He thought he heard a muttered “You got it,” then departing footfalls. Doyle crawled closer to the break in the hedge. The damp grass felt cold on his hands and feet; his socks were becoming soaked with the dew.
Doyle rose silently to his feet when he’d advanced to the point where a path split the hedge. At precisely that moment, Ronald Mortvedt arrived at the hedge opening from the other side. For a split second, they looked at each other, equally startled. Doyle let out a grunt. Mortvedt was silent. He was dressed completely in black, from ski mask to gloves, and Doyle didn’t see the beginning of his movement. Mortvedt dropped the canvas bag he carried in his left hand. As he did so, he dipped his right shoulder and reached down toward the knife in his boot.
Doyle slipped slightly as he tried to set his feet on the wet grass. The left uppercut he unleashed missed its target, Mortvedt’s jaw, landing on Mortvedt’s right temple.
But it served to raise Mortvedt’s head. Right behind that punch Doyle delivered an overhand right that arrived with a satisfying thwack. The little man dropped face-forward to the ground and lay still.
“Damn,” Doyle said, “what a living I could have made fighting bantamweights!” He was so pumped it was several moments before he realized he’d probably broken a knuckle on his left hand. He flexed the hand, winced, then bent to examine the man in black, who remained still.
There was no wallet in the man’s pockets. But when Doyle unzipped the canvas bag, he knew the figure at his feet was the one they were after. Amid the extra pair of gloves and the bags of peppermint candy used to entice the horses was an electrical extension cord and a pair of alligator clips.
Doyle remembered the veterinarian, Dr. James O’Dea, who had speculated to agents Engel and Tirabassi that the killer was “electrocuting horses, making it appear as if they’ve died of heart attacks. I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. It’s a method that leaves no marks.”
He heard Mortvedt stir as he continued to rummage through the black canvas bag. Quickly, Doyle took out a section of rope and tied the little man’s hands behind him, then lashed together his ankles. He twisted the rope as deep into Mortvedt’s skin as he could, relishing the groan it elicited. Then he tore up the little man’s ski mask.
From somewhere in the distance-it must have been at the stallion barn-Doyle heard shouts, the sounds of feet scrambling through gravel, and somebody hitting the ground hard.
“On the ground! On the ground! Hands behind your head,” Doyle heard one of the agents shout. They must have done their job, Doyle thought.
Doyle hooked his left arm around Mortvedt’s feet and began dragging the little man, face down, through the wet grass. As they proceeded toward the patio behind his building, Mortvedt began to mumble. What Doyle heard as he stopped and let Mortvedt’s feet thump to the concrete floor of the patio was “You cocksuckah.” Mortvedt shifted his body, straining against the rope. His eyes were wild, darting about, then concentrating on Doyle like malevolent lasers as he regained full consciousness.
Doyle went to one knee, his left, and jackhammered two punches with his right hand into Mortvedt’s left kidney. Mortvedt screamed after the first punch landed, a quick gulping sound that he tried to call back, but couldn’t. He only gasped when Doyle’s second blow struck him.
“If you were going to live any longer you’d be pissing blood, you piece of shit,” Doyle said, getting to his feet. Then he pivoted and dropped down and again buried his fist into Mortvedt’s side, same place as before.