Move to Strike (61 page)

‘And this realtor can track Logan down?'

‘McKay is working on it,' he said.

Carmichael nodded.

‘Cavanaugh has gone after him,' she said after a pause, and Joe could have sworn he detected a hint of trepidation in her eyes.

‘Yes.'

‘Is he armed?'

‘He stole my gun.'

She nodded once again. ‘Good,' she said, before releasing his arm and stepping back so that Joe might do his job. ‘Good.'

David was on a family vacation at Sandy Hook when he first heard it, that paradoxical echo of peace and power. His father had put it to his ear. It was one of those large spiral conch shells that were all rough and barnacled on the outside but smooth and shiny within.

He heard that same sound now – the whoosh of the waves rolling onto
the shore – but this time it was caused by the licking of the sea beyond the empty residence. Logan had left the door unlocked, as if he had been expecting visitors – which in effect, he had.

The cottage was a neatly arranged two-bedroom bungalow, tastefully decorated in what could only be described as Cape Cod chic. The beds were made and the kitchen clean but the fresh, nutty scent of coffee hung warm and inviting in the air. The shutters were closed as was the door that led to the garage, a high-security double lock making it impossible for David to seek out Katherine's car.

With Joe's .40 Glock by his side, David moved towards the back of the living room, to the whitewashed bi-fold doors now covered with canvas roman blinds. He pulled on the cords, lifting the blinds to their extremities, revealing the white sandy beach, and every now and again, glimpses of the silver water, flat and heavy as if compressed by the low-lying cloud above it.

He continued out onto the deck – one of those distressed white oak numbers bordered by frameless glass. And that was when he looked left, back down the beach towards the Chatham Bars Inn, and saw the lone figure standing just beyond a blue and white striped beach canopy.

And despite the mist he knew that the man was looking directly at him. An assumption then confirmed as the man raised his right hand and waved.

‘No Logan,' said the realtor, an elderly gentleman by the name of Boyce. ‘And there is no Golan or Nagol either.'

‘
Shit
,' said Joe, now cursing into his cell. He had been praying the realtor might find evidence of Logan having leased or purchased a property in Chatham in the same year as the postmark on Deidre McCall's envelope.

‘Okay, Mr Boyce,' recovered Joe, now lifting his hands for quiet as the local cops rallied around him. ‘I need you to think a little out of the box here. To play some with those letters – L.O.G.A.N. – like working out an anagram, do you see? If the letter was sent out in the year we discussed, it may have been giving some sort of confirmation of purchase or rental agreement in another name. Do you see?'

‘Yes, I see,' said Boyce, who was obviously anxious to help. And Joe waited while the realtor flipped through what must have been some very
old property documents, the rustling of paper now crackling clear and crisp down the line.

‘Wait!' said Boyce after a moment. ‘No, that won't work.'

‘What won't work?' asked Joe, his heart skipping a beat.

‘Well, there is something here, but the name has an apostrophe and that might not be what you are after.'

‘What is it?' asked Joe, stealing a glance at Frank.

‘There is lovely seaside cottage on Shore Road. It was bought during the year in question at a very good price. These days those waterfront properties go for a small fortune, but back then you could pick one up for . . .'

‘What's the name of the owner, Mr Boyce?' interrupted Joe.

‘A Mr O'Glan,' said Boyce. ‘But as I said, it has an apostrophe and . . .'

‘And did this Mr O'Glan give a first name, Mr Boyce? And if he did, does it by any chance happen to start with the letter “J”?'

‘Why yes, it does. The Christian name given here is Jeremy. Does that make any difference, Lieutenant?'

Joe allowed himself the slightest of smiles.

‘I believe it does, Mr Boyce,' he said, knowing that at last they had found him.

‘I suppose this is where I should ask,
what took you so long
?'

Jeffrey Logan was standing in the middle of the beach, his right hand holding a small silver pistol, his left cradling one of the most high-tech rifles David had ever seen.

David approached from his right, knowing that, despite the fog, the emptiness of this stretch of sand in August was no coincidence. Joe must be securing a perimeter, in the hope of finding Logan, and preventing his escape.

‘You've been expecting me,' said David, lifting his own weapon – a gesture which resulted in Logan's face breaking into a smile.

‘Seriously, David.' He laughed. ‘You don't really think that pathetic piece of tin is any match for these two superior pieces of weaponry.' He lifted both his hands. ‘Not that you could tell the difference. From what I know of you, my friend, you don't even have the balls to wear a wedding ring, let alone brandish a gun.'

David felt his finger slide slowly towards the trigger.

‘Has Sara dropped that baby yet, by the way? Goodness me, the last time I saw her she really did look ready to pop. And you have been working her so hard, you slave driver! I mean, if there is anything wrong with that poor child when it finally sees the light of day . . .'

But David knew exactly what Logan was doing. ‘Listen to you,' he said, ‘preaching the gospel according to Jeffrey Logan as if I gave a fuck. Do you actually believe the crap that comes out of your mouth, Nagol?' he asked, and Jeffrey Logan flinched, just a little . . . ‘Or is the endless flow of drivel simply a symptom of your Goddamned screwed-up psychosis.'

‘
Drivel?
' said Logan, now starting to tense. ‘That so-called
drivel
has influenced an entire generation of Americans.'

‘Bullshit. You just repeated the obvious with an ingratiating smile on your face. You call yourself a relationship guru but the truth is, Golan –' David was mixing it up, ‘– you are just a social misfit incapable of connecting with anyone. You're a genetic mutant, Jeffrey, a biological mistake who should never have been born.'

There was silence, as Logan took a breath. ‘Ah . . .' he said, nodding in feigned congratulation. ‘I see now what you are trying to do. This is your way of drawing me out, of forcing me to act and end this thing once and for all. Is that what you want, Cavanaugh? Do you want me to shoot you, right here, right now – because if so, I am more than happy to oblige?'

‘It's my way of telling you that you have finally met your match, Jeffrey – that my head is off limits, no matter what you say.'

‘No, my friend,' Logan countered. ‘I am afraid that you will never be off limits because you have no concept of how
not
to take things personally – just like Stephanie who . . .'

‘Stephanie was ten times the human being you will ever be.'

‘Stephanie was a whore,' replied Logan, his right arm raising slightly, his pistol cocked and ready to explode. ‘I gave her everything and she did nothing but spit in my face.'

‘You beat her until she was dead, you asshole. You tortured her and her two children every minute of every Goddamned day, and even
then
they still had the courage to stand up to you. You are nothing but a bully, Logan, and your wife, your children, she was . . . they
are
. . .'

And then David saw it – the tick above Jeffrey Logan's left eye. The man was beginning to flounder, David's ‘truths' now hitting where it hurt.

‘You want to know how many I have killed?' asked Logan, perhaps the only way he knew to recover. ‘I mean, you have put so much work into trying to destroy me, I feel it is only fair that I pay you your due before I put a bullet through your head.'

‘How many?' asked David, needing to draw him out.

‘Six and a half,' he said. ‘Counting the two homeless people and the small boy I picked off in the woods when I was barely a teenager myself. The little tike was on a hunting trip with his pappy who wrongly assumed it was he who accidentally popped his grandson and so . . . someone else took the credit for that.

‘And then there was my father who I nabbed by slicing his tyre from a good hundred yards away – and my father-in-law who provided the perfect target for my new Heckler & Koch. And there was Katherine – well, you already knew about her; and my mother who, in all fairness to me, David, given the effort I have put into her, should in the very least count as a half.'

‘You forgot to mention your wife,' said David, the mist now swelling around them, the air slick and cool and wet.

‘See now,' he shook his head. ‘That is the biggest irony of all, my friend, because in this case at least, you give me too much credit.'

‘You think you deserve admiration for murdering your wife?'

‘
No
– and that is my point exactly, because as much as I wanted to end her pathetic excuse for an existence . . . somebody beat me to it.'

‘This is ridiculous,' said Sara, rising from the edge of the bed in the still missing Deirdre McCall's room. ‘There has to be some way we can help.'

‘No, Sara,' said Nora. ‘Joe was right. The best place for us right now is here in the safety of this room.'

Despite Sara's protests, a determined Joe had ordered Sara and Nora to retreat to Deirdre McCall's hotel suite. Arthur had been designated the role of helping Amanda Carmichael coordinate with the inn staff to round up the guests and send them to their allocated rooms as well, while Joe and his fellow cops had secured as much of the nearby coastline as possible, which was no easy task considering the growing thickness of the fog.

‘God, it's hot in here,' Sara said, before walking to the bathroom to splash water on her face. ‘I need some air, Nora,' she added, moving towards the balcony beyond.

‘All right, dear,' said Nora, pushing back the door so that the two of them might move out onto the small patio.

‘He's out there,' said Sara, her hands forming fists around the white-painted balustrade, the mist so dense it was like looking out the window of an aeroplane passing through thick cloud. ‘He's out there alone with that psychopath and there is nothing I can do about it.'

‘David's a smart man, Sara. He will work this out.'

‘David is an idiot who thinks he can single-handedly save the world.'

‘Which is why you fell in love with him in the first place,' Nora offered.

Sara nodded, the tears now falling freely down her face. ‘I know, Nora. I know.'

‘
Police!
' yelled Joe as he and his heavily armed team broke through Jeffrey Logan's front door. Their guns were up and their bulletproof vests heavy, their weapons sweeping from side to side, scanning every inch of the cottage for movement.

‘
Clear!
' yelled an officer who had moved quickly into the bedrooms.

‘
Clear!
' called a second who had taken the bathroom on the right.

The kitchen and living spaces were open, leaving no one anywhere to hide, so Joe lifted up two fingers, indicating he wanted the team to split, the first following Frank towards the door that led directly into the garage, while the second moved further into the house.

Frank smashed the lock with his gun barrel before moving quickly into the dark rectangular space – lifting his right pointer finger and twirling it clockwise so that the three officers accompanying him would surround the car. Frank tried the front passenger side first, his weapon at the ready, before the other uniforms tried the other three doors – a quick search revealing nothing but a woman's yellow cardigan and a matching floral umbrella.

Team two followed Joe into the living room proper and towards the open back patio doors, the strong smell of salt hitting their faces as the wind whipped briskly around them.

‘We have Katherine's car,' said Frank, as he joined his boss near the terrace.

Joe nodded. ‘Listen up, gentlemen, we need to pull this place apart. There is a gun cellar in here somewhere, and we won't be leaving 'till we find it.'

And then he and Frank moved out onto the deck.

‘It's like pea soup out here,' said Frank.

But Joe was already lifting his hand, a gesture that started as a signal for Frank to stop, before transforming into a direction to turn his head to the right and look towards where he was pointing.

‘What's that, Frank?' asked Joe, squinting into the light.

‘What's what?' said Frank, the mist now moving in sheets.

‘That,' said Joe, extending his arm a little further. ‘There, a few hundred yards down the beach. It looks like . . . ?'

‘Two men,' said Frank, the images floating in and out of view like a TV screen with faulty reception. ‘Jesus, Chief.'

‘Molis!' called Joe, now moving into action. ‘Officer Molis!'

‘Yes, sir,' said the rookie who was now mere feet behind him.

Joe grabbed him by the shoulders, pivoting him around so that he might look in the direction of the people they
thought
they saw. And then he leaned in close as if willing the fog to move so that the sharpshooting Molis could see them too.

‘There!' said Joe. ‘Just then,
did you see them
?'

‘I saw them,' said Molis, already shouldering his rifle. ‘You want me to take out the TV guy?'

‘I want you to be a hundred per cent sure you don't hit the wrong fucking target.'

But Molis was already moving towards the glass, and lifting his rifle to fire.

‘You're lying,' said David, taking another step forward.

‘Well,' said Logan, his pistol still pointing squarely at David. ‘I can understand why you would think that, given I have been known to spin a tale or two. But in this case, sadly, I speak nothing but the truth. I wanted to kill Stephanie but, as I have already explained, my two savvy offspring beat me to it.'