Eddie slithered out of the bushes and around a tree. The kid was tracking him. Hunting him. He pulled the knife out, unwrapping the sharp blade and stuffing the towel in his pocket again. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could still see the angel. It looked like she had wings. He clinched his teeth and pain shot through his head. Averting his eyes, he raised the knife and inched his way back around the trunk of the tree.
Eddie couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The kid had slipped into the grove of rhododendrons just as he had. He was sipping his drink and staring at the angel through the window. Eddie lifted the scarf over his mouth and quieted his breath. He was standing less than six feet away, pretending to be a tree. He could see the kid’s face. The gusto had been painted over with a heavy brush. Only sadness remained.
FIFTY-SIX
Teddy caught a glimpse of the metallic flash from the corner of his eye. The knife was moving toward him in a arcing motion from just behind his right shoulder. He let go of his drink and locked both hands around the man’s boney wrist. It was a gut shot, coming at him hard. Instead of pushing the blade away, he concentrated on steering the knife wayward.
The tip tore through his jacket, then plunged into something soft and stayed there. Blood splattered all over the snow, and he tumbled onto the ground. In a split second he assessed the damage. He felt no pain and knew that he hadn’t been stabbed. When he looked at the man squirming beneath him, he saw the blade of the knife stuck deep into his right thigh. Maybe even all the way through. He caught the rotten teeth and heard the man cackling. Saw the madness smoldering in his eyes like coals glowing at the end of a house fire. It was him, and Teddy did a double take.
It was the face Holmes had described in his dreams.
Not a woman or a man, but a pale and lifeless ghost. Chasing him and laughing at him. Pushing his hands and face into Darlene Lewis’s body to leave fingerprints and lip prints and a trail of evidence the police could find.
Teddy threw a shaky punch, aiming at those teeth. When he missed, he threw another and hit the mark.
Trisco’s eyes lit up and he groaned. He wrenched the knife out of his leg and kicked his feet in the air. For some reason he was wearing socks over his shoes, and Teddy stared at them half a moment too long. He took a hard shot to the head, paused as he heard the barn door opening, and watched Trisco flee across the yard.
He jumped to his feet, shouting at his mother as he raced toward the house. “Get back inside and lock the door.”
Trisco vanished around the corner, heading for the driveway. Teddy ripped open the back door and bolted upstairs. His father’s shotgun was hanging on his bedroom wall. He grabbed the rifle, switched off the safety, leaped down the front stairs. As he rushed onto the front porch, he spotted Trisco legging his way down Waterloo Road.
Teddy sprinted across the driveway into the neighbor’s yard, vaulting over the fence and tearing through the bushes. He could see Trisco on the other side of the trees, hobbling toward a black BMW. He could feel his heart beating as he gripped the gun and dug in his heels. He hit the trees and burst onto the street. The driver’s side door slammed shut and the engine turned over.
Teddy raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger.
The gun rocked back into his shoulder and the muzzle flashed, waking up the dead of night with the sound of burning gunpowder. Teddy’s eyes skipped through the flash to the rear window, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. Shards of glass sprayed through the car all over the front seat and dash, and he heard Trisco groan.
The BMW whined back at him like a wounded animal, its wheels churning up snow as it strained to pull forward and escape. Teddy fired a second blast from twenty-five yards off. He heard the sound of buckshot piercing sheet metal, but the car hurtled down the road at high speed. Trisco switched on his headlights. A quarter mile down, the lights blinked on and off in the darkness. When they blinked a second time, Teddy wondered if it wasn’t a message from Trisco that he was okay.
There wasn’t enough time to come forward and explain to the local police that he’d just been attacked by a mad-dog serial killer. He’d seen the neighbor’s windows light up as he ran back toward the house. He guessed they were calling 911.
Because the shots had come from Sanctuary Road, the cops would focus their attention on the pine forest and the last open field across the street. Deer roamed freely here. Over the past few years, the herd had become quite large. Poachers were known to hunt in state parks at night. It wasn’t too big of a stretch to think someone had taken an illegal shot at a buck and raced off. The whining sound of Trisco’s BMW stealing into the night might even help sell the story if the cops bothered to stop by and ask. Teddy didn’t think they would.
He tapped on the barn door. When it opened, he saw the look on his mother’s face and knew nothing would fly but the truth. Her eyes were roving over his body and torn jacket, instinctively checking his arms and legs and counting the number of fingers on his hands.
“I’m in trouble,” he said. “The man we’re looking for has found me.”
“Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. “But it isn’t safe here. You need to pack a bag and go over to Quint’s. I need to get downtown.”
She looked at the shotgun, but didn’t say anything. She’d heard her son fire the weapon. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.
“We need to hurry,” he said.
She gave him a nervous look but understood. “I’ll call Quint right away.”
He stepped back from the door to let her pass, then followed her down the path to the house. He could see her wheels turning. He could tell she was dredging up the past and trying to make sense out of what happened tonight without enough details to fill it all in. As they reached the kitchen door, he grabbed the handle and opened it for her.
“When Dad went to prison,” he said, “how did you know he didn’t do it?”
She turned back, confused. “Why would you ask that now?”
“Could you see it in his face, Mom? His eyes?”
“No,” she said in a quiet voice. “Your father couldn’t hide his emotions very well. He looked guilty because he felt guilty. That was the problem.”
“You mean the police found out how much cash the company had and assumed he did it.”
She nodded. “Your father thought he should’ve seen it coming and blamed himself for the murder.”
“If he looked guilty, then how did you know he wasn’t?”
She thought it over. “I just did,” she said after a moment. “When he died and his accountant came forward admitting what he’d done, I wasn’t surprised. Your father and I thought it was him all along.”
“What about the prosecutor? Did you tell him?”
“He was young and wouldn’t listen. He was trying to make a name for himself. Your father was a trophy.”
Her gaze fell away and she stepped inside. When she went upstairs to pack, Teddy checked the lock on the front door, peering through the glass to the street. He didn’t see any sign of the cops, and didn’t think Trisco would be back until he could deal with his wound. Heading up to his room, he returned the shotgun to its rack and grabbed a flashlight. Then he hurried down the hall, looking in on his mother before he went downstairs. She was sitting on the bed, speaking with Quint on the phone. Thank God for Quint.
“I’ll be in the backyard,” he whispered.
She nodded. She was upset, worried about him, unable to hide it.
Teddy checked the flashlight for power as he rushed down the steps to the kitchen and grabbed a handful of plastic bags from the drawer. Once outside, he crossed the yard to the fence and panned the light across the ground. Trisco had been wearing socks over his shoes. It seemed so strange at first. But as Teddy examined the footprints in the snow, he knew why. The indentations were soft and round without any definition. There was something diabolically ingenious about it. Teddy shook his head, following the tracks toward the barn until he reached the grove of rhododendrons by the window.