His whole hand trembled as he gripped the pistol and gritted his teeth.
“Pull the trigger, Adam.”
“No, Adam. Put the gun down.”
He held his breath, closed his eyes, and his finger tightened on the trigger, his mind consumed by the inner battle. The power of his will against a trembling hand.
“The only way to find true peace is to put a bullet in your brain. You must pull the trigger, Adam.”
“No, Adam, no. There’s still hope.”
“It’s the only way out. Trust me, Adam. Pull the trigger.”
“No. Stop. Put the gun down.”
Adam dropped his head and wept, his pistol hand falling to his side, the weapon slipping to the floor. He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and stood, raised both fists above his head, and opened his mouth to scream. But no sound came out, and he collapsed to the floor, emotionally exhausted.
Soon, he stirred and opened his eyes. The weapon lay inches from his face, and he cursed his lack of inner strength and wished he’d never been born. He was a blight on society, not worthy of life, and too weak to do what needed to be done.
Reaching out wearily, he picked up the weapon and stood to his feet, tucking the gun behind his belt. There had to be an easier way. Some means to end it all without having to do it himself—he had no courage, no spine, and no guts to do the job.
Maybe if he made his way to the police station, he could barge in, his gun blazing, and let the cops fill him full of holes. That would surely be a way out, and it wouldn’t take a lot of willpower. But then, knowing his luck, something would go wrong, and he would live through it, probably spending the rest of his life in prison confined to a wheelchair—or worse, staring at the ceiling half-paralyzed.
No, that wasn’t the answer. If he found a way, it would have to be certain and final, with no margin of error.
He turned and looked through the front window toward the street. He longed to be out in the fresh air, on his own, but his home in the swamp had been discovered, and there was no other safe place he could go.
He took a sudden, sharp breath and ducked down. Jake Lincoln was coming up the sidewalk. Had he discovered him? Was he checking all the houses on the street?
Adam looked around desperately, then raced into the kitchen, dove to the side door, and spun the lock. He ran back to the living room and huddled in a corner, holding his breath.
In a few moments, a knocking sounded at the side door. He waited in fear, hardly daring to breathe. There was another knock, then an extended silence, and he breathed again.
He crept to the side door and looked out cautiously. He could see the big man’s back as he moved up the sidewalk, rounding the block, heading toward Steel Road. It was a closer call than he expected, and he was in danger because of Annie. But he couldn’t let her go yet. Not until he figured a way out of his dire situation—whether dead or alive, he didn’t care, as long as he wasn’t captured and imprisoned.
Emotionally drained, he went into the bathroom and doused his head with water. He stared at himself in the mirror, letting the cool water drip down his face. He’d lost a little weight, his face becoming gaunt, a dark shadowing under his eyes. He sighed and wiped his face on his sleeve. He didn’t even have a toothbrush, but at least he could take a shower. Living in the house would’ve been ideal, but it was no longer a viable option—just one more thing he’d messed up.
He wandered back to the living room and looked out the window. From outside, anyone passing by could see right into the room. He didn’t dare cover the window with a blanket or sheet. Someone in the area would be sure to notice a difference; the house had been vacant so long. He would have to be careful; he could’ve easily been seen by Jake Lincoln earlier.
He maneuvered the couch across the floor, away from its spot under the front window, and dropped down onto it. At least the electricity was still on; he didn’t expect it would be disconnected. The owners had to maintain some heat in the winter or the water in the pipes could freeze and, over a period of years, the floors might buckle. That was a good thing, but he would have to be careful not to use the power often or the owners would notice it on their invoice.
Annie was being strangely silent. She no longer knocked on the basement door or called his name. There were no windows in the basement, so there was no way out other than the door. Perhaps she assumed he was gone from the house and was waiting for him to return. She wasn’t in any danger down there, and he expected she knew that. He had made it clear he meant her no harm.
He would be sure to check on her later, maybe bring her some food and water. It was the least he could do. But in the meantime, he had some thinking to do. If he didn’t come up with a plan soon, he would be discovered and put in the place he dreaded the most—behind bars.
Chapter 38
Thursday, 12:15 p.m.
HANK HAD SPENT the morning tracking down the rest of the people who knew Adam Thorburn. It was a near success, with only three or four eluding his search. Hank warned each one he reached to be on their guard; however, no further information to aid him in his pursuit of the fugitive had been forthcoming.
Earlier, Captain Diego had notified Hank the press was itching for an official statement. Officers were busy fielding calls from a fearful public demanding the killer be stopped, and the mayor was leaning on the captain to bring an end to the situation immediately.
Diego had scheduled a news conference for 12:30, the press had been notified, and the pressure Hank felt was temporarily relieved. But inwardly, he took it hard. His heart ached for the families of the victims, and the increasing anger he always felt in situations like this was something he found impossible to overcome.
He slid a blank piece of paper in front of him, leaned in, and picked up a pen. He didn’t have a lot he could share at the moment, but he wrote down pointers to a half dozen things he would touch on, his chief concern being to alleviate the fears of the public. He tucked the notes into a file folder and went to Diego’s office. The captain was on the phone, and he hung up when Hank stepped inside.
“All ready, Captain.”
Diego nodded and pushed back from his desk. “Lead the way, Hank.”
Hank paused in front of the doors leading from the precinct. The press had gathered in full force, many of them arriving some time ago, all anticipating the latest news they could pass on to the public.
News vans and reporters’ vehicles lined the street, microphones and cameras were fine-tuned, and questions were devised and perfected. Several curious onlookers stood nearby wondering what the fuss was all about.
For much of the press, reporting the latest shocking news was about ratings, market share, or making a name for themselves. For Hank, it was personal. Not only was his professional future continually on the line, but it was his bound duty to bring a murderer to justice, a responsibility he took seriously.
Hank stepped aside and glanced at Diego. The captain nodded, straightened his tie, and pushed the door open. Hank followed him down the steps and approached the make-shift podium, covered with microphones. Diego stood to one side as Hank placed his folder on the stand, flipped it open, and cleared his throat.
“Thank you all for coming. I’ll make a brief statement and then take your questions.”
Hank’s eyes scanned the crowd. He recalled most of the faces, the most recognizable being Lisa Krunk, in her usual spot at the front of the group, Don at her side. She caught his eye and nodded at him as if there were some big secret between them. Lisa always considered herself leader of the pack, worthy of special recognition in some way Hank didn’t understand.
He continued, “As you’re almost certainly aware, this past Monday evening, a woman, Mrs. Nina White, was brutally murdered. The identity of a suspect immediately became apparent. He has thus far eluded us, and we believe he struck again on Tuesday evening when Mr. Raymond Ronson was murdered.”