‘You don’t believe that though, do you?’ Jameson had jammed his thumbs into his belt. I could imagine a pair of six guns holstered on his hips.
He was right. I’d just been trying to allay some of Herb’s fears. ‘If he has survived, I’m going to be waiting for him.’
It was apparent that Jameson and Herb had spent some time together in the last few days, and the subject of my legend had come up during their discussions. Jameson must have spoken well of me because Herb looked reassured by my promise. Still, I was only one man and couldn’t be there twenty-four hours a day.
‘If necessary I can call in more help.’
‘Hopefully things won’t come to that,’ Jameson said.
After our telephone discussion yesterday, I had caught a bus back to Holbrook, but on my return to my room at the motel I’d called Rink again to organise where I should collect my weapons. He’d already had one of his employees send them overnight to a nearby Fed-Ex depot.
‘You’re expecting trouble, don’t deny it. Just give the word and I’ll be there,’ Rink had offered.
‘We’ve fought psychos before. But this one’s different: I don’t think that Samuel will come here.’
‘I think it’s a given. You attract the frog-giggers like you’re some kinda magnet to nut-jobs.’
‘That doesn’t say much for you.’
‘Opposites attract, brother.’
If there was a sliding scale for measuring this kind of thing, then Samuel Logan and I would be at opposite ends.
Jameson and Herb went inside to check on their daughters. There would be more hugging and tears, so I elected to keep out of the way. I bought vending-machine coffee from the lobby and again stood outside with the smokers, craving something as acutely as they did nicotine. I spied to the north, fading out the nearby structures as though I could see through them all the way back to the Logans’ ranch.
Jameson Walker was a very wealthy man now, but things hadn’t always been that way. It was only in the past few years that his business had boomed, and that the dollars began rolling in. It explained why Jay hadn’t attended any of the Ivy League universities but the state-run Pennsylvania State University. Due to her enrolment at Penn State the family had found an affinity with Pennsylvania, but since their wealth had grown, Jameson had purchased further properties down the Eastern seaboard, and amongst others he owned a penthouse on Park Avenue with a view of the Empire State Building. The apartment in the heart of Manhattan could be easily defended but there was too big a risk of collateral damage in the heart of the city. Once the police were finished with us and the women free to leave I’d requested that the family go to one of their other properties and Jameson had suggested a beach house at Ellisville on Cape Cod. For the purpose of protecting both the women, Herb had agreed that Nicole could stay over with Jay for as long as she liked.
It was a dilemma. The remote house had its obvious problems, notwithstanding the fact that if Samuel took me out first, then help for the girls could be long in coming. But I was thinking more of the advantages. If I chose to fight Samuel in New York City, or any of the other major conurbations where Jameson had property, then I’d be on a timeline of minutes before the police came down on us like a ton of bricks. Out on that wooded coastline, where the nearest neighbour was over a half-mile away, I’d have the time needed to put Logan down without any outside interference.
When I was with the Special Forces the message had been drummed into me over and over: preparation is the key. Some of the lads called it the Six Ps. Proper planning prevents a piss-poor performance. Although plans are something I often frown at, because speed and the ability to think on the move beat anything static, it does make sense to plan some things in advance. When thinking of the situation: protecting the girls at all costs — and the objective: killing Samuel — and achieving both within a short time frame, then it was imperative to choose your battleground wisely. The house at Cape Cod was surrounded by woodland and shallow inlets of salt water, with only one road in and out. Ordinarily it would be a trap, but this time it would provide the ideal location in which to ambush a killer.
Yet I wondered now if this was another wasted plan.
I had a hunch that our final battle would not play out in Massachusetts, but here in this desert where it had begun.
Still staring into the distance, I hoped that I was right and the bastard was coming. Like my nearby smoking friends who were dragging hard on their cigarettes, it was the only way I could feed my addiction.
‘Where are you Samuel, you sick son of a bitch?’
I wasn’t conscious of having spoken out loud, but I received a dirty look from an elderly woman tugging a wheeled suitcase behind her.
‘Uh, excuse me, ma’am,’ I said.
She pursed her lips, shaking her head, like she was sucking on a sour grape. Then she flagged a cab pulling into the hotel’s forecourt. She looked back at me as the cab pulled away, shook her head again. I don’t know if her disapproval was for my bad language or the look of murder on my face.
32
After beating Doug Stodghill to death and jamming him inside a locker in the office at the rear of his auto shop, Samuel had taken the keys to a vehicle that the mechanic had just finished fixing. The car he stole gave him a head start, but he knew that would only last for so long. Soon, the car would be on the police BOLO system — an all points bulletin otherwise known as ‘be on the look out’. Samuel had driven the car via desert roads that he was familiar with, going beyond the border and into New Mexico. He’d dumped the car in a weed-choked lot behind a taco stall and hot-wired another car a little further up the road. It was an ancient Oldsmobile and the suspension creaked ominously but it carried him to Gallup. There he spent a night in a ‘no questions asked’ flophouse where he used some peroxide purchased from a drugstore to both lighten his dark hair and clean out his injuries. Most people would have screamed as the chemical invaded the raw wounds; Samuel barely felt an itch. The wound in his shoulder was knitting together nicely, but the one in his side was more troublesome. It felt mushy where the bullet had struck his ribs, and he guessed that the bone would take much longer to heal than did his flesh. The thought was troubling.
He didn’t feel pain but that meant nothing if his body failed him without warning. He had a mission to fulfil, and it couldn’t be put off for fear that his wounds had become infected. He’d just have to speed up the process and find Jay Walker as quickly as possible. This wasn’t about gaining revenge for his slain kin, because he felt as little for them as he had for his younger sister. The only reason he tolerated them was because both Carson and Brent had shared his sadistic tendencies. They’d been a good team but he wasn’t going to grow sentimental over them — even if he could. No, the reason he wanted his time with Jay Walker was solely for his own gratification. The bitch had given him the slip, thwarted him when he was about to beat her saviour to death and had spoiled the good times he had planned for her. It was only just that he balanced everything in his favour again.
He would have liked to finish what he’d started with the Englishman. From what he’d heard on the street, Stodghill had told him that the man was a private dick called Joe Hunter, and that he’d returned to Florida. Maybe another occasion would present itself; right now he desired quality time with Jay Walker. He’d wondered about Carson and Brent, and their fixation on women who resembled Carla. Women were simply women to him. Now though he understood his kin in a way he hadn’t before, because there was only one woman who was going to satisfy him.