“I’m sure a broken nose is preferable to a bullet. I believe Chief Gleason would have been justified in firing his weapon when Justin lunged toward him with the knife.”
“I’m not going to argue. But if we could start this from the beginning. I’m going to record it so we get it all straight. I’ll be taking notes, too. All right with you?”
“Of course.”
“All righty, then.” Boyd switched on a tape recorder, read off the date, the time, the names of all involved. “Ms. Lowery, why don’t you just tell me what happened tonight?”
“At two-oh-seven a.m., my perimeter alarm signaled a breach.”
She spoke clearly, precisely.
“As Chief Gleason had indicated, Justin Blake most usually traveled with two individuals. I wanted to be certain there wasn’t indeed a third man who might have circled around. My alarms didn’t register, but I felt it best to be certain. After I spoke with Deputy Hyderman on the phone, I took my dog and went out the back of the house. My dog showed no sign of detecting anyone in that area, so I continued around to the front, where I saw Chief Gleason and the two trespassers. One, identified as Doyle Parsins, was already on the ground, and Justin Blake continued to crouch by the left-rear tire of Chief Gleason’s police cruiser.”
“Did you hear anybody say anything?”
“Oh, yes, quite clearly. It was a quiet night. Chief Gleason said to Justin, ‘You’re going to want to show me your hands.’ I should add that at this time, Chief Gleason’s weapon was secured in his holster. Justin responded, ‘You want to see my hands?’ and drove the knife he held in his right hand into the left-rear tire.”
She continued, giving Boyd a word-for-word, move-by-move statement. Boyd interrupted once or twice to clarify.
“That’s really detailed.”
“I have an eidetic memory—you might call it photographic,” she added, though it always irked her to explain with that inaccuracy.
“That’s really helpful, Ms. Lowery.”
“I hope so. He would have killed Brooks if he could have.”
Though he reached over to turn off the tape recorder, Boyd lifted his hand from it, sat back. “Ma’am?”
“Justin Blake. He would have stabbed Chief Gleason, and he would have killed him if he could have. His intent was very clear, as was his anger and, I think, his fear. It’s what he knows, you see? To hurt or eliminate what gets in his way, what interferes. There are people who simply believe their own wants and wishes are above everything and everyone else.”
She’d seen murder, she thought. The boy didn’t remind her of the cold, mechanical Korotkii. He lacked that efficiency and dispassion. But he’d made her think of Ilya, of the hot rage on Ilya’s face when he’d cursed and kicked his dead cousin.
“He might not have killed or caused serious physical harm before tonight. I think if he had, he wouldn’t have been so inept at this attempt. But if it hadn’t been this, tonight, it would have been someone else, another night, someone without Chief Gleason’s resources, reflexes and equanimity. There would have been more to clean up than a broken nose.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. It was upsetting. More than I realized. My opinion isn’t relevant. If that’s all you need, I’d like to go home.”
“I can get somebody to drive you.”
“No, I’m fine to drive. Thank you, Deputy, you’ve been very kind.”
She started for the door, paused when Brooks called her name. He crossed over, laid a hand on her arm. “Be a minute,” he told Boyd, then led her outside.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I told you.”
“And you just told Boyd it was more upsetting than you realized.”
“It was, but that doesn’t mean I’m not all right. I am tired, though. I think I’ll go home and get some more sleep.”
“Good. I’ll call or swing by later, just to see how you are.”
“You can’t worry about me. I don’t need it.” Didn’t want it, any more than she wanted Justin Blake to remind her of Ilya Volkov. “Did you soak your shirt, cold water and salt?”
“I trashed it. I’d see his blood on there whether it was there or not. I don’t much care for that shirt anymore.”
She thought of a pretty sweater, stained with blood. “I understand. You’re tired, too.” She let herself touch his face. “I hope you can get a little sleep.”
“I wouldn’t mind it. You drive safe, Abigail.” He kissed her forehead, then her lips, before stepping over to open her car door. “You were right, what you said in there. It was only a matter of time before he pulled a knife or a gun, picked up a bat, before he did somebody serious harm.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“Then I won’t.” Leading with emotion, she threw her arms around him, held tight. “I’m very glad you have good reflexes.”
She slid into the car and drove away.
20
Just past three that afternoon, Abigail watched on her monitor as a dark Mercedes sedan cruised toward her house. The look of it sent a quick tingle up her spine. She didn’t recognize the car, the driver—late thirties, early forties, broad shoulders, short, dark hair—or the passenger—fiftyish, dark gray hair, wide face.
She keyed the license plate into her system, reminding herself she was prepared—for anything. Her quick search through DMV records popped Lincoln Blake as the owner, and her shoulders relaxed.
An annoying interruption but not a threat.
Blake looked prosperous, she noted, when he got out of the passenger side. It struck her that he looked deliberately prosperous in his perfectly cut suit and city shoes. The second man also wore a suit, and carried a briefcase.
She believed she saw a slight bulge on his right hip that disturbed the line of his jacket. He carried a weapon.
Well, she thought, so did she.
She considered ignoring the knock on her door. She wasn’t under any obligation to answer, to speak with the father of the boy who’d tried to kill Brooks. But she also considered the fact that a man like Blake, from everything she’d heard and intuited about him, wouldn’t simply walk away. In any case, she was a little curious.
With Bert at her side, she opened the front door.
“Miss Lowery.” Blake offered a wide smile and his hand. “Forgive the intrusion. I’m Lincoln Blake, one of your neighbors.”
“Your home is several miles away, in fact, on the other side of Bickford. Therefore, you don’t live close enough to my property to be considered a neighbor.”
“We’re all neighbors here,” Blake said jovially. “This is my personal assistant, Mark. I’d like to apologize for my son’s inadvertent trespass on your property last night. May we come in, discuss this situation?”
“No.”
It always puzzled her why people looked so surprised, even annoyed, when they asked a question and the response was negative.
“Now, Miss Lowery, I came out here to offer my apologies, as I understand my son caused you some inconvenience, and to sort this all out. It’ll be helpful if we could be comfortable while we talk this out.”
“I’m comfortable. Thank you for your apology, Mr. Blake, though it hardly applies, as it was your son who came on my property without permission in the middle of the night, and who attempted to stab Chief Gleason. I believe the police are sorting all this out, and we really don’t have anything to discuss at this point.”
“Now, that’s just why I came by. I dislike trying to have a conversation through a doorway.”
“I dislike having strangers in my house. I’d like you to go now. You can discuss this with the police.”
“I’m not finished.” He jabbed out a finger. “I understand you’re friendly with Brooks Gleason, and that—”
“Yes, we are friendly. He wouldn’t have been here at two in the morning when your son and your son’s friend came illegally onto my property with the intent to deface Chief Gleason’s police cruiser if we weren’t friendly. However, my relationship with Chief Gleason doesn’t alter the facts.”