Weapon up, he rounded the corner, just in time to see a metal cylinder skid across the tiled floor.
THORPE WOKE A FEW MINUTES after 6:00 a.m., not quite sure of his surroundings. The warm, smoothness of Ambretta pressed against his abdomen provided a pleasant reminder. He caressed her side, pausing at the waist before gliding his hand up the steep incline of her hips. She responded by thrusting her posterior deeper into Thorpe’s groin. Again, they made love.
After, and though he desperately wanted answers, he refrained from questioning her. He doubted he’d believe anything she said and didn’t want to argue, not right now. She too remained silent, perhaps fearing any talk would potentially light a fuse that couldn’t be extinguished.
He showered, dressed, kissed Ambretta, and walked out the hotel door without either of them saying a word.
He didn’t know what to do anymore. Maybe he should just go to investigators with what little corroborating evidence he had. Maybe he had something to live for again—Ambretta.
Who was he kidding? His future would be composed of steel bars and concrete walls.
Thorpe was tired, tired of the killing and tired of the lying. But mostly he’d grown tired of the visceral tug of war with his rope of a soul.
As Thorpe left the hotel, he fell in behind a young family of three. A man walked with a woman on his arm. A girl of about seven clung to his free hand. Thorpe felt the familiar gnawing in his chest as he witnessed a vision of what he’d been denied. Time to finish this thing, even if it meant marching directly into Phipps’ house under the watchful eye of the FBI.
As Thorpe drove back toward his home, he considered the night he’d spent with Agent Collins—Ambretta.
If he were the prime suspect in these murders, would she sacrifice the FBI’s case and her career by sleeping with him? Unlikely. He would never use the relationship to avoid prison, but she couldn’t trust him to do that—could she? Thorpe had too many questions and not enough answers. The only thing he knew for sure was he’d better extract his head from his anal cavity before Phipps put a bullet in it.
Thorpe pulled into Deborah’s barn, not remembering much of the twenty-five minute drive home. Damn it. He’d best get his mind right. He slipped a pair of coveralls over his dress clothes and exchanged his shoes for combat boots. He was armed with his Sig Sauer and department-issued, bullet-resistant vest. Other than that, he wasn’t much prepared for battle. As Thorpe started walking toward the road, he noticed Mr. Jennings’s Mercedes parked in front of their home. Thorpe didn’t know what to make of it, and didn’t really care. He just hoped Deborah would somehow find happiness. Trudging through the woods, Thorpe was overcome with a sense of finality, as if everything were about to come to an abrupt end. He also had the uncanny feeling of being watched, though he didn’t feel threatened.
Al and Trixie, I wish I’d kept you here; my senses are jacked.
Thorpe scrambled up the creek bank and peered over the berm. Everything appeared normal, though unkempt. The sun shone bright in the sky, and it seemed an unlikely time to be attacked. Of course, that’s when shit happens—while one’s pants are down. Thorpe retreated down into the creek with the feeling he’d somehow lost his edge. He sat with his back to a tree and retrieved a picture of his daughter from his wallet.
“I’m sorry, baby. Daddy should have been there.”
After a solid minute of staring at the image, Thorpe returned the photograph to his wallet and placed it on the ground. He removed his constrictive coveralls, dress shirt, and white t-shirt. Dressed only in black boots and black slacks, he pulled the dark, bullet-resistant vest over his bare torso. He grabbed a hunting knife from his gear bag and strapped it to his belt.
With the .357 in his right hand, Thorpe tore out of the creek and sprinted toward the rear of his home. He cleared the open expanse without incident but felt exposed against the side of the house. Staying below the windows, Thorpe crept toward the rear door, discovering a broken wax seal. Someone had been, or still lurked, inside.
The smart thing to do would be to back away and watch his house from a distance. If Phipps or someone waited inside, they’d eventually tire and leave, giving Thorpe the advantage. Of course, they’d have access to food and drink, and Thorpe didn’t have either, nor was he dressed to spend a potential overnighter in the elements.
It was just as likely the FBI had served a search warrant at his home while the capable Agent Collins kept him occupied. If that were the case, he would be sitting in the woods for hours for nothing. He was tired of waiting.
Thorpe tried the back door and found the deadbolt disengaged. He cracked the barrier open, paused, and burst in, weapon up. He saw a figure on the floor, and fired a round before realizing he was shooting at a corpse.
The smell of magnesium and blood hung thickly in the air. What the hell? He didn’t linger on the dead body, just registered that it was Corn Johnson and kept moving though the house. The next five minutes were as tense as any in the last year as he cleared the rest of the home. He found nothing. Thorpe checked the front door. Locked. He returned to the back door, engaged the deadbolt, and examined Corn’s body lying on the floor. Corn had been shot in the head—almost exactly where Thorpe had placed his own bullet.
The back of Corn’s head was largely missing. Well, not missing; it was spattered across his kitchen’s wall. Whoever had shot him was a professional. Thorpe noticed scorch marks and the remnants of a flash-bang not far from Corn’s body. Law enforcement and military use the devices to incapacitate suspects. The grenades are designed to stun, not injure or kill, and are often used in hostage situations.
Stuffed inside Corn’s open mouth was a sheet of paper with one handwritten word: “BARN.”
Once more Thorpe struggled to understand the situation. Had Phipps or McDonald killed Corn and left him in his home? Was he being set up? Too many things weren’t adding up. Thorpe gripped his pistol, pushed open the back door, scanned the area and headed toward the barn. Having cautiously crossed the fifty-yard span, Thorpe tried the rear door, finding it unlocked. He turned the knob, and once again cracked open the door before entering. Tactical teams refer to this process as “letting the room cook.” An impatient shooter will start firing when the door first opens or shortly after.
Staying off to the side, Thorpe heard nothing. He noticed the interior lights were on but couldn’t sense any movement. He entered the barn low and fast—damn near shooting Andrew Phipps as he sat in the far corner. The only thing preventing Thorpe’s finger from depressing the trigger was the fact that his target had been bound to a metal support pole. Gagged, Phipps was positioned much as how Thorpe had left Marcel Newman—except Phipps was alive and staring at Thorpe with malevolent eyes.
Thorpe passed behind Phipps and confirmed the man was secured to the pole with a pair of Flexcuffs. Thorpe then climbed a set of stairs to clear the loft. Confident the two were alone, Thorpe descended the steps and locked the aluminum door from the inside.
What in the hell is going on?
Thorpe withdrew the long blade from the sheath attached to his belt and approached Phipps. Few weapons have quite the same psychological impact as a large, sharp knife. Twice Thorpe circled his foe, noticing the bound man had a substantial contusion near his right ear. On a third pass, Thorpe searched him for weapons, then knelt down and cut loose the gag. The blade’s tip gouged out a sizable chunk of Phipps cheek—Whoops. Thorpe walked ten feet forward of the bound man and sat on the concrete floor.
He stared at Phipps without saying a word. Sometimes the best interview technique is to say nothing at all, particularly when your subject is scared. In this case, Phipps had much more to be nervous about than Thorpe. It didn’t take long for Phipps to begin talking.
“You ought to get on with killing me. If I get a chance I’m going to gut you like a pig.”