Wearing oversized clothing over a police radio, Thorpe stepped from his vehicle into the woody aroma of slowly smoked meat. Ignoring his mouth’s salivations, he walked behind the barbeque joint and around the rear of the convenience store.
A block to the east, he crossed the four-lane street and made his way toward the back of the law office. The building’s windows had inside levers that turned clockwise and up to unlock. Once unlocked, the windows were opened by pushing from the inside. Thorpe approached from the rear and found all levers in the locked position. Retrieving the pellet gun, he shot a tiny hole above and to the left of the lever. He then fashioned the wire into a hook and fed it through the opening, down toward the handle. Thorpe snared the lever and pulled it upward into the unlocked position. He then used his knife to break the seal on the window and pull it open.
Thorpe casually took in his surroundings before peeling off clothing so he could fit into the opening. Once inside, he rummaged through a cheap, laminate-covered metal desk before moving to a pair of unlocked file cabinets. He located a drawer labeled “K—R” and inside discovered a file with the name Leon Peterson. Along with legal papers, there were two unopened envelopes, one of which was addressed to Leon’s father, Charlie Peterson.
Could it really be this easy? Thorpe opened the sealed envelopes and found what he’d come for—handwritten statements detailing the events of his wife and daughter’s murders. They included the names of all those involved. Thorpe looked around the office a few more minutes, checking for additional documentation. Finding none, he replaced everything as he’d found it and shimmied out the window.
He doubted anyone would realize there’d been a break-in. The only evidence was a tiny hole in the glass that would most likely be attributed to vandals. If Leon’s body were discovered and Jessie went to retrieve the letters, he might chalk up the missing documents to old age and forgetfulness, if the idiot even remembered to look.
Returning to his truck, the smell of mesquite still ensnared in his nostrils, Thorpe decided to return to the office, tackle some paperwork, and then head home to rest. Tomorrow would be a long day.
Besides, he had a feeling a surprise might be waiting for him when he got home.
Saturday
February 10
Early morning
BY THE TIME THORPE ARRIVED at Deborah’s property, the temperature had plummeted, and a light sleet had begun to fall. He’d taken an unusual route to enter the neighborhood, being careful not to pass in front of his own residence; he didn’t want to endanger Deborah or her husband.
Thorpe jabbed at the numbered buttons on the keypad and was granted entry through the imposing gate. He drove his undercover truck to the large barn and pulled inside.
Thorpe shut the barn doors, turned on the interior lights and transferred his equipment to the truck’s tailgate. The most important item he carried tonight was an AR-15 equipped with a flash hider, collapsible stock, and Aimpoint red-dot scope. As he organized his gear, he heard someone lift the latch on the barn’s double doors. Thorpe quickly racked the AR’s bolt, feeding a .223 round into the chamber, shouldered the weapon and turned. Deborah let out a sharp cry as she looked down the muzzle of Thorpe’s rifle.
“Deborah, you should damn well know better!” Thorpe lowered the barrel. “Close the door; someone might see the light.”
Deborah held both hands over her heart as though she were trying to keep the organ from escaping. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were so jumpy.”
“Did I not tell you why I was using this place? Try knocking next time…I could’ve blown your head off.”
“You’re right. You have to be careful.”
“What are you doing down here? Your husband’s going to come inside and shoot us both.”
Deborah remained near the barn doors—as if afraid to approach. “He’s not here; we’ve separated.”
Trouble. “Oh…when did this happen?”
“It’s been a few days…I wasn’t going to tell you…but I’ve been thinking...”
Oh, shit. Stay strong, John. “Deborah, I’m not ready for a relationship, and technically, you’re still married.”
“Look, Thomas has been treating me like trash for years. He hasn’t been faithful since the day we married. I should’ve left him a long time ago, but I didn’t want to lose all this…” Deborah gestured with her hands, referring to her possessions. “I just put up with it. And when you and I slept together I didn’t feel bad because he has been doing the same thing to me for years. I finally had enough and confronted him; told him I knew about his affairs; told him I had one of my own. He was livid, tried to kick me out of the house. I told the drunk old bastard to get the hell out. It’s over. Even if I wanted to make things work, he wouldn’t have me back. I’ve insulted him.”
“Good for you, I guess…if that’s what you want.”
“I’m not ready for a relationship either, John. I just want to be with you…from time to time.”
Deborah wore a black ankle-length fur with matching trapper hat. She undid her belt and opened wide her coat. Underneath—other than knee-high leather boots—she was nude, her pale body in sharp contrast to the theatrical scrim behind her. Covered in gooseflesh, her nipples stood in mock salute of the frigid air.
Deborah took three catlike steps toward Thorpe, who lifted her off her feet and sat her on the tailgate, her fur coat spilling beneath her. Deborah spread her thighs and undid Thorpe’s belt. She pulled him closer as he entered her. Leaning back on a canvas bag, she raised her knees and her four-inch heels dug into the liner of her coat. Pushing Thorpe off she guided him to where she’d been lying. Straddling him, she arched her back as she rose and fell; her warm rhythmic breath visible in the chilled air.
When they’d finished, Deborah spoke breathlessly, “Don’t worry yourself about this. I’m not looking for a relationship either. And I know as well as you, it wouldn’t work between us. But that was good.”
Deborah wrapped herself in her fur and walked to the barn door where she paused and looked back at his semi-naked form.
“That’s a big gun you got there,” she said with a smile, before nodding at his assault rifle.
Damn it! Thorpe was pissed—at himself—and not for the first time with this woman. How can a man be so disciplined in some areas of his life and have absolutely no willpower in others?
From Thorpe’s personal and professional experience, he knew good sex could be an excellent indicator of a woman’s mental fitness. It seemed the better they were in bed, the crazier they were. With that reasoning, Deborah must be loonier than hell. Hopefully she’d keep her promise and not expect any commitment from Thorpe; at this point in his life he wouldn’t be able to give it, and Deborah wouldn’t be at the top of his list as a deserving recipient. He’d needed that though; he’d had enough tension building up the last few days to power a small town.
Thorpe slipped out of his remaining clothes and into Under Armour Cold Gear. He covered the thermals with several layers of clothing, topping it off with a three-dimensional RealLeaf suit, a commercial hunting accessory that breaks up the human silhouette with realistic man-made leaves. It’s a watered-down version of the ghillie suits used by military snipers. Underneath, Thorpe wore a layer of Gore-Tex and a black balaclava to protect against the falling sleet.
He stashed most his equipment in a CamelBak HAWG. The pack could carry over 1200 cubic inches of gear and was equipped with a water bladder system. Thorpe checked his watch—1:52 a.m. He grabbed his weapons, slung the pack over his shoulders and pushed open the barn’s doors as he simultaneously pushed thoughts of Deborah out of his mind.