“He and Shaw are tight, right?” McDonald asked.
“Real tight. They’re like brothers.”
“I think I have an idea that will eliminate one problem and get the rest of the group on board.”
RETURNING FROM BASS PRO, THORPE called dispatch and obtained the phone number for his neighbor, Deborah Jennings.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” she told him. “What can I do for you?”
“I hate to impose, but I was wondering if I could park my truck on your property for a while.”
“Park your truck on my property? Is that what you men call it these days?”
Thorpe laughed. “Not that I know of…no, I’ve got some bad guys who’ve learned where I live and what I drive, so I’d rather not announce when I’m home.”
“Will you be putting me in danger?”
“Not if you have some place I can hide it.”
“You sure you’re not talking about sex?”
“Deborah, you have a one-track mind.”
“My gate code is 5432. I’m certain I have a place it’ll fit.”
Later, when he pulled onto the Jennings’ estate, he was surprised to see Deborah in slacks, a conservative blouse and coat. He’d expected something formfitting and easily removable. She directed him to the west side of the property where a large barn stood out of sight from the road. Deborah was friendly but not overtly sexual. She said she would explain the arrangement to her husband, adding he probably wouldn’t be too happy about it, but he could kiss her ass—she was doing it anyway.
Having pulled his truck inside the barn, Thorpe transferred his purchases to a new duffel bag, slung it across his shoulders and thanked Deborah. He walked through the gate onto the gravel road then into the woods. Teeming with thorny underbrush, the first part of the trek was tough going. But within a couple of minutes he sped along a trail that led to his house.
Thorpe had carved out this trail through the woods as a running route. The path passed through his and several of his neighbor’s properties, with one loop being nearly two miles. Thorpe preferred the solitude of trail running, and because he’d littered the course with obstacles, it offered a total-body workout.
After a few minutes, he neared the back of his house where he could see the deck overlooking the creek. Thorpe descended into the brook, waded through a foot of water and crossed to the opposite embankment. Climbing short of the rim, he sat his bag on wet leaves, retrieved a set of binoculars, and dropped to his belly. He crawled to the top, and, elbows in dirt, peered through his optics into the woods across the road.
If a competent sniper hid in the undergrowth facing his home, the shooter would be nearly impossible to spot, a scenario Thorpe considered unlikely to occur during daylight hours. His assassins would come at night, and though it was an assumption that could get him killed, he couldn’t spend his days peering into the deep dark across the road, flinching at every windblown limb.
Thorpe rose swiftly, sprinting to the rear of the barn so as not to present an easy target for any lurking marksman. If someone were going to shoot him, by God he’d make them work for it. His footfalls elicited a volley of barks from a startled Al and Trixie, who, sequestered inside the barn, had not yet gathered his scent. When Thorpe reached the rear, he threw open the back door and greeted his dogs. Reunion complete, he ordered the animals outside with a command, “Search.” The racket of sharp nails seeking traction where none was to be had echoed off the barn’s walls, as legs moved and bodies didn’t. Once free of the concrete floor, Al and Trixie tore off toward the front of the property, finely-tuned muzzles in exploration.
As the dogs went about their work, Thorpe conducted his own search—for evidence of outdoor animals having suddenly been confined indoors. Pleasantly surprised to find a sanitary gym, Thorpe waited for the dogs to empty their bladders and finish their search before retrieving his duffel bag near the creek bed.
Thorpe summoned the dogs, opened the rear door of his house, and aware muddy paw prints would most likely be their greatest accomplishment, ordered them to search the interior. Al and Trixie scattered to opposite ends of the home, returning a minute later with wagging tails. Thorpe walked inside and dumped the contents of the duffel on the living room floor.
He had much to do before reporting to work.
Friday
February 9
Evening
OFFICER COLE DANIELSSAT IN the living room of his modest home, wringing his hands in contemplation.
Were those crazy bastards really going to kill Thorpe? He knew Phipps wouldn’t hesitate; the man always did have a mean streak and war had twisted an already-troubled mind.
They should never have tried to frame Thorpe in the first place. The plan had been set in motion without Cole’s input.
Still, hesure as hell didn’t do anything to stop it, did he?He’d tried to justify his inaction by pretending the matter was out of his hands. Then those two dumbasses killed Thorpe’s wife and daughter. Oh God, how had he gotten involved in all of this?
Even after the killings, he’d sat back and said nothing. He was afraid. Afraid of losing his wife, son and freedom. Fear had made him weak. Well, not anymore. First thing tomorrow, he’d get his family out of town, then drive to the local FBI office and tell them everything. Maybe he could even strike a deal to stay out of prison.
COLE’S WIFE, SAMANTHA, STOOD AT the stove preparing dinner. Samantha knew something was bothering her husband but had been asked to be patient while he worked matters out on his own. Having put the finishing touches on her trademark lasagna, Samantha called for her husband, announcing dinner was ready. As she carried the steaming dish from stove to table, she heard the faint but distinct sound of breaking glass followed by a thud. Samantha hurried around the corner to find her living room wall stippled with bloody bone fragments and brain tissue. Her husband lay face-down on the floor, the right side of his head an open cavity. The dish slipped from Samantha’s mitt-covered hands.
Later, it would prove difficult for detectives to determine where the lasagna ended and pieces of Cole Daniels began.
THORPE AND HIS UNIT WERE wrapping up a search warrant in East Tulsa when the emergency tone was broadcast over the radio. The tone signified an officer in distress. Everyone stopped what he was doing and tuned in to the dispatcher’s voice.
“Adam 303, Adam 303 and a car to back. Off-duty officer down at 1450 E. 56th Street North, one-four-five-zero east five-six Street North, break. Caller reports her husband is DOA from a gunshot wound. Caller was hysterical and provided no other details. EMSA and fire are staging…”
Tyrone recognized the address. “Shit! That’s Cole Daniels’ house. What the fuck?”
Thorpe wondered the same thing. According to Leon, Daniels was one of those involved in the attempted dope planting at his home.
Why would Daniels be killed? It was too soon to speculate. Thorpe instructed Jennifer and Donnie to transport the lone prisoner. The rest of the unit would respond to the shooting scene to see if they could lend assistance. It’d provide Thorpe an opportunity to gather information.
En route, Thorpe tried to piece together what must be happening. Had Daniels become a liability to the rest of the collaborators? If so, the group was growing desperate, and they’d be coming for him sooner rather than later. They’d also inadvertently given Thorpe an airtight alibi; he’d been surrounded by fellow officers while another suspect in his family’s murder was killed. Thorpe shook his head at his own assumptions. For all he knew, Cole’s wife may have shot him—but that would be a nearly unfathomable coincidence.