THORPE HAD DIFFICULTY READING THIS woman. He’d spent considerable time with her and still couldn’t nail her down. Usually when people recalled a fact, they looked up and to one side—the same side—every time. When they used the creative side of their mind, a.k.a. the fabricating side, they looked the opposite direction. A myriad of other behaviors combined with these cues: breathing rate, the relaxing or tensing of facial muscles, sometimes even ticks. Often people touched their face when lying, particularly their nose or mouth. They assumed a defensive posture—crossing their arms or legs or leaning away from their interviewer. These subconsciously displayed signs were available for scrutiny by the trained observer. Ambretta’s cues were inconsistent; if anything, she appeared smoother when the validity of her statements was in question.
Her last declaration had struck too close to home. She’d been in full flirt mode since he’d walked in the hotel, and now this.
Look how much we have in common, John. People killed my family, and I’m out for revenge just like you. Bullshit!
“Agent Collins, you’d better get on the phone with your boss and find out how much you people are willing to tell me because I’ve had about enough of this shit. Either put me in handcuffs right now or watch me walk out of here, but let’s end this charade.”
“I don’t have to call my boss. I know what I can tell you. I haven’t told you a single lie…not tonight, anyway. You, more than anyone else, should know things aren’t always what they seem.”
Thorpe stood, walked to the bar and ordered another beer. He looked over at the two suits who seemed anxious to hear the news.
“Turns out she’s a high-priced prostitute. Wanted four hundred for the night. Can you believe that shit?”
Thorpe took his beer and walked out of the lounge to the shouts of the bartender saying he couldn’t leave with the beverage.
Behind him, Ambretta pulled out her phone.
“He’s pissed, and he’s moving.”
Sunday
February 11
Evening
THORPE SWALLOWED THE LAST OF the beer as he reached his pickup. He opened the cab and retrieved a flashlight. Knowing he would ruin his clothing, he dropped to the pavement and shimmied beneath the undercarriage. There he found a tracking device that’d been attached while he’d been inside the hotel. Ripping it loose, he crawled out from under the truck and threw the tracker toward the lobby.
He felt himself losing control. The bottled emotion of the last year, compounded by the stress of the last week, had dealt a devastating blow. Though he recognized the loss of restraint, he couldn’t stop the downward spiral.
Behind the wheel, Thorpe slammed the accelerator to the floorboard. A car driving diagonally across the hotel parking lot forced him to do the same with the brakes. The antilock system vibrated through the pedal up into his leg, and he felt something slide into his heel. He bent over and retrieved the object.
It was his daughter’s old Game Boy. She’d lost it shortly before her murder and Thorpe had scolded her for being careless with the expensive toy. The memory crashed over him in a towering wave. His chest heaved. His throat tightened.
Visions of his daughter eclipsed the traffic-filled streets, yet he continued to drive. Images he’d managed to suppress over the last few months burst like fireworks in his mind: Ella singing on her karaoke machine, laughing across from him as they spun on the teacup ride, giggling as her mother bathed her fragile body in the kitchen sink. Her shame as her daddy reprimanded her for being irresponsible. Images of looking into her lifeless eyes, of sitting in the patrol car outside his home awash in red and blue lights; the pity on his fellow officers’ faces. Images of himself ripping flesh from Marcel Newman, of dislocating Leon’s shoulders, of Shaw’s fear-filled eyes as he impaled the man’s throat.
Who had he become—surely not the man his father had hoped?
My father.
Thorpe recalled a quote the man had sometimes recited, “Action is the antidote to despair.”
THIRTY MILES SOUTHWEST, ANDREW PHIPPS lay secreted inside Thorpe’s house with much on his mind, not the least of which was Cornelius Johnson in the next room, his breathing labored. Another was the mystery location of Thorpe’s guard dogs. He had no idea where the beasts were kept; he and Corn had searched the property without success. One thing was certain: if the two shepherds led their master into the home, things were going to get real ugly, real fast.
Both men had been in place since 9 p.m., and the tension was about to boil over, especially for Corn who wasn’t accustomed to combat situations. Remaining static for hours—while anticipating a gun battle that will occur on an unknown schedule—is enough to test any man’s iron. The men had taken up positions where they could cover the front and back doors simultaneously. When Thorpe stepped into his home, his body would be transformed into a sieve.
Watching the front door, Phipps was armed with a Remington 1911 .45 caliber pistol, a very reliable weapon with knockdown power. Even if Thorpe wore a vest, it’d smack the piss out of him until Phipps could get in a headshot. Armed with a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with double-aught buckshot, Corn covered the back door, at least between trips to the bathroom. Because of nerves, Corn had been relieving himself far too frequently. Phipps hoped to hell Thorpe wouldn’t slip in the back door during an ill-timed bladder movement.
After Phipps took care of business here, he planned to kill Corn. The man was a wreck, and every time the idiot pissed in the dark, he probably sprayed DNA evidence all over Thorpe’s bathroom. If left alive, Corn would get caught and give up his accomplices.
After Phipps finished with his old friend, he’d next pay Sergeant McDonald a visit.
It was time to clean house. But first he had to kill Thorpe. Where was that motherfucker?
THORPE WIPED HIS SALTY FACE with his shirt sleeve and—uncertain how he’d arrived or for how long he’d been there—found himself in the parking lot of Jasmine’s Lounge on the northeast side of town. The establishment was a cheesy strip club and the location of several shootings and stabbings. He wouldn’t admit to himself why he’d come here but knew it wasn’t to ogle the dancers. Thorpe stuffed a small pistol down the front of his pants and approached the bar.
He received a cursory pat-down by the unarmed, long-haired security guard manning the front door. The guy was making a feeble attempt at keeping weapons out of the business but neglected to inspect Thorpe’s genitals, a mistake heterosexual guards tend to make.
Entering the club, Thorpe was relieved to find several patrons of questionable character. Wearing slacks and a button down, he didn’t exactly fit in with the regulars. Thorpe went directly to the men’s room and entered a stall. He removed the Glock 27 from his crotch and placed the weapon in the waistband of his pants. Reconsidering, Thorpe stood on the toilet and hid the pistol in the drop-down ceiling. He hadn’t come here to kill anyone.
Thorpe left the restroom, selected a stool at the bar and ordered a bottle of beer. He wasn’t about to drink from a glass at this shithole; plus bottles make great impromptu weapons. Thorpe scanned the lounge, settling on a table occupied by three white males, each proudly displaying an assortment of prison tats. He kept his eyes focused on the group, knowing full well what the gaze would reap. It didn’t take long for one to notice the unwanted attention.
The man mouthed the words, “What the fuck?” That prompted his two associates to follow their friend’s stare. None of the three men were huge, but all bore prison muscle. Adrenaline seeped into Thorpe’s veins, the sensation a welcome alternative to crushing despair.