I glanced around the bedroom and went back to the mail in the kitchen. If there was a pay stub or pay summary in one of those piles that gave the name of his employer, it would make my day. I was flipping through the envelopes when I heard another car pull into the driveway.
The dog in the back yard began yapping. I sat down at the kitchen table, got out the automatic, and laid it in my lap.
From where I sat I could see the front door. The key turning in the front door lock was plainly audible. The door opened and a woman in her early thirties dressed in a nurse’s white uniform entered the house. She had a bag in her arms and was so intent on getting in and not dropping the bag or her keys that she didn’t see me. She closed the door and turned to walk along the hallway to the kitchen. That’s when she saw me.
She stopped, tried to recognize my face. The light wasn’t great, so she took several more steps toward me.
“Johnson?” She raised her voice. “Johnson?” Then to me: “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I came alone.”
“But the car?”
“I borrowed it from your husband.”
She entered the kitchen. She set the bag containing groceries on the kitchen counter and extracted a half gallon of milk, which she placed in the refrigerator. She had short dark hair, was a tad plump, and had had an accident with some food during her shift — there was a stain on her blouse. It looked like mustard.
“Did you just get off work?” I asked.
“Yes.” She named the hospital. She glanced around the room again, noted the dog in the back yard, made eye contact with me and asked in a worried voice, “Where is Johnson? Has he been hurt?”
“He’ll be along shortly.”
“How’d you get in here?”
“You left the back door unlocked.”
She passed over that — she probably had forgotten to lock the door many times in the past — and said, “Would you like some coffee?”
“I could use a cup,” I admitted.
She was getting a little steamed, I could tell. “You have a name?” she asked as she went about putting a filter and coffee and water in the machine on the counter.
“Tommy Carmellini. And you?”
“Michelle.”
When the coffeemaker was going, she turned to face me, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the counter. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”
“Who does Johnson work for, Michelle?”
“Don’t you know?”
“We met only once, earlier this morning.”
She stood silently with her butt against the counter, staring at me as the coffeemaker gurgled.
“He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
She visibly sagged. “What agency are you with?”
“CIA.”
She covered her face with both hands. After a bit she lowered her hands and tried to get her breathing under control.
“I don’t know who he’s working with or for. He said he could make some serious money. For the last two weeks he’s been working odd hours.”
I didn’t say a word. She waited for the question that didn’t come, examined my face carefully, then continued: “He’s been looking for a real job since he left the FBI. That was last August. He couldn’t find anything. Since they forced him out, he couldn’t use the bureau as a reference, couldn’t get any law enforcement agency to talk to him. He’s got a degree in law enforcement, worked for a police department for five years before he got accepted by the FBI. He’s never done anything else. I thought, this time…” She ran out of steam and had to use a hand to brace herself against the counter.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunlap.”
She bobbed her head.
“What’s he done?” she said, her voice a whisper.
“I—”
“Tell me the truth!”
“They killed some people.”
She tried to keep a straight face. She looked around, saw the coffeepot, got cups from the cupboard, and poured. She brought one over, handed it to me, then sat across from me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She bit her lower lip.
“So you don’t know…?”
She shook her head.
I tasted the coffee and realized I didn’t want it. I got up, and put the pistol behind my belt in the small of my back. She watched me do it, didn’t say anything. I went out the front door, closed it behind me, got in her husband’s heap, and drove away.
I guess I was pretty paranoid as I drove back to Dorsey’s shack in the forest. These guys had gotten to Sal Pulzelli and Willie Varner — it was only a matter of time before they got to Kelly Erlanger and Dorsey O’Shea. I had figured I had a few hours. Now I was hoping I hadn’t figured wrong.
Amazing how the mind works. My pea brain, anyway. Johnson Dunlap had seemed important two hours ago — now he didn’t. I’d forgotten how time was rushing on. Now, as I drove toward Dorsey’s, I could think of nothing else. I must have looked at my watch fifty times. Of course, when you are in a hell of a hurry every old fart and white-haired lady in the state gets out on the street in his or her Lincoln or BMW or Cadillac and drives slowly and erratically. They had nowhere to go and all day to get there. Me, I knew my time was fast running out.
I passed cars and vans and trucks on the right and left, ran a couple red lights and pushed the speed all I dared. If I had been stopped by a traffic cop, I don’t know what I would have done. Wrap him up and take him along would have been my only option. Actually, I could have used a cruiser with a siren and overhead lights right about then.
So these dudes weren’t Russians, weren’t suicidal ragheads. They were plain old American scum who killed for money and the sheer fun of it.
That fact relieved me somewhat. At least when I caught one of them and put the fear in him, he would know my language. If he died before he could get his conscience polished clean, at least we wouldn’t have had one of those tragic failures to communicate.
I used Westland’s cell phone to call Dorsey. I had difficulty remembering her phone number. I never used to forget the number of a beautiful woman — so either the lack of sleep was getting to me or I was losing it as I aged.
The telephone rang four times before she answered.
“It’s me. Are you and Kelly still alone?”
“Where are you, Tommy? I have never in my life had a man sneak out of bed after sex. What’s the matter — wasn’t I good enough for you?”
“Hey, babe, I had a few problems I had to check on. I’m on my way back to your place. Are you two women alone?”
“Very much so.”
“For Christ’s sake, don’t call anybody. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Keep the doors locked and stay away from the windows!”
I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
“Get outta my way,” I shouted at one old lady who slowed a half block before she turned left. I was tempted to give her the finger, but reserved it for a van driver who looked as if he learned to drive yesterday.
I whipped across traffic into Dorsey’s drive and stopped. No one was parked nearby. The traffic kept flowing past. I zipped back to the trunk and unobtrusively rescued the MP-5. Put it on my lap and checked the safety and tried to think logically.
These guys might come through the woods like they did at the Greenbrier safe house, avoid the driveway altogether. I looked at my watch again. It was still there — right on my wrist.
Ahhh shit! How did I get into this mess, anyway?
I drove slowly up Dorsey’s drive, looking around like a naked shoplifter. Saw a lot of trees. In addition to money, Dorsey had a zillion trees, by God. Didn’t see a living soul.