30
If he was anything, RJ Fordham mused, he was sensitive to the emotional state of people with whom he was interacting. Case in point: Kat Stedman. A few years earlier when he had arrived in Colville and discovered she now lived here, too, he’d been worried. She was the mother of one of his high school ‘friends’ and had obviously been aware of the accusations floating around about him in the death of his girlfriend. Although the police had lost interest in him as a suspect in the case following the discovery of the evidence incriminating Steven, RJ knew that staying in Rumford was thereafter out of the question. Too many people felt they knew what had really taken place and they avoided him like the plague. Moving to Colville allowed him to start over without the stigma of a dubious history. Having Kat around, however, meant the past could rear its ugly head again at any time and it left him ill at ease, no doubt about it. So he got into the habit of, every once in awhile, stopping by the diner just to let her know he was watching her. He never said a word about Rumford – he didn’t have to. All he needed to do was look at her with that stare of his, the one he had refined to an art. She could never hold his gaze. Her fear was palpable. And that was exactly how he wanted her to remain – scared shitless of him. After Charlene disappeared he could almost smell the fear coming off her in waves whenever their eyes met. It was obvious what was in her mind. In hindsight, of course, it had been foolish of him to take a local woman. But he had since dealt with that well enough. Last week up in Canada, though, he had very nearly been caught in the act by some good Samaritan. He’d been careless and he knew he could not afford to allow himself that luxury again.
Of immediate concern, however, was the fact that something in Kat had changed. There was a new element to her nervousness now. In the past her fear had been a contained thing; his intuition told him that was no longer the case. Something had to be done about her. The problem, of course, was that if she turned up missing like Charlene Lamont even that idiot, Jessup, would have to question whether Croop had really been responsible for Charlene’s disappearance. Downloading his pictures of Charlene to the flash drive he had scooped from Croop’s place and then planted in his garage had been damning all right but, in and of itself, wasn’t conclusive evidence of his guilt. That Croop had developed an obsession with the Parmenter woman and then gotten himself killed had surely been a most fortuitous and accommodating turn of events. What had really clinched things against Croop, though, had been the discovery of Charlene’s hair strands out at the place on Beaver Lake Road. A baffling development that was, but RJ was not going to spend a lot of time worrying about things that were going his way. He had more immediate concerns, such as how to deal with Kat.
Maybe she needed to have an accident. A serious one.
With Kat foremost in his mind RJ decided to pay a little visit to the diner. Get a feel for how things were shaking, do a little reconnoitering. It was early afternoon, a quiet time for her. He pulled to a stop, parking beside a pickup that looked vaguely familiar.
When he walked into the diner he saw Kat in deep conversation with Jack Parmenter. They were sitting across from one another in the corner booth, hunched over like they were sharing deep dark secrets. Their exchange came to an immediate halt when they registered RJ’s presence. Kat slid out of the booth and came around the counter to stand in front of RJ.
“Hello, Kat,” he said cheerfully, masking his disappointment at finding she wasn’t alone.
“RJ,” she said ashen-faced. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Make it to go.”
She was trembling as she filled a Styrofoam cup and handed it to him. “No charge,” she said.
“Why thank you, Kat. Much obliged.” He turned, nodded at Parmenter, and left the diner.
Once outside he got a look at the front of that pickup he had parked beside. In a sudden, gut-squeezing moment of revelation, he knew why it looked familiar.
He’d seen it last week in Canada while beating a fast path out of the woods.
RJ drove away from the diner slowly, but his mind was racing. What possible explanation was there for the presence of that pickup here? RJ didn’t believe in coincidences and especially not ones like this.
The pickup was parked in front of the diner and Parmenter was the only one in the place. It stood to reason he was the owner but, to make sure, RJ drove down the block and parked where he had an unobstructed view of things.
He didn’t have to wait long. Within five minutes Parmenter emerged from the diner, climbed into the pickup, and drove off.
RJ fought down the urge to panic. He had to keep a clear head. What did this all mean? Kat had been suspicious of him from the start, he knew that. And lately she had been showing signs of even greater nervousness around him. Now he finds her in deep conversation with the guy who very nearly caught him with that girl he had grabbed last week in Canada. Parmenter had to have been following him. No other explanation was feasible. So Kat had told Parmenter what she suspected and he had taken it upon himself to play detective. Which meant Parmenter knew about the house in Sherbrooke. And that could lead directly to Kristov. Which in turn meant RJ’s life wasn’t worth shit. But why wouldn’t Parmenter have reported what he’d seen in Canada? Surely that girl would have told him what had happened. This wasn’t making sense. For some reason he couldn’t figure out Kat and Parmenter were keeping what they knew to themselves. Now why would they do that?
The pounding in RJ’s heart began to subside. Maybe things weren’t so bad. It was possible he could still save his ass. If Kat and Parmenter were keeping quiet about what they knew there had to be a good reason for it. And if that was the case then in all likelihood they hadn’t shared that knowledge with anybody else.
Well, he had already planned to deal with Kat; now he’d just have to invite Parmenter along to the party, too.
31
Seeing Fordham walk into the diner while we were in an animated discussion about him was eerie in the extreme. The look he gave us was hard to read. Disappointment? Surprise? Maybe both. I wondered what the real purpose of his visit had been and what he’d have done if I hadn’t happened to be there at that moment. Whatever the case, it was clear that he’d had a powerful effect on Kat.
“I think he knows we’re up to something,” she said in a shaky voice when he left.
“Maybe. It’s possible he remembers my truck from our near collision in the woods up in Canada. He tore by me pretty fast but it’s not impossible that he got a good enough look at the pickup to be able to recognize it. If he did he’s got to be wondering what the hell is going on.”
“Whatever you’ve got in mind, Jack, it had better be done soon. I’m afraid of him. I ---”
“I hear you, Kat. But I’ve got to come up with a plan that will get the job done without landing me back in the slammer. I’ve spent all the time in a cage I need to in this lifetime.”
My declaration did nothing to ease Kat’s anxiety. She leaned in close to me and spoke in a hushed, unwavering voice. “You’ve begged me to keep quiet about RJ so Callie gets a ‘get out of jail’ card. Okay, I get that. But this is my life we’re talking about here, Jack. Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to give up my life for
anybody
.”
I nodded my understanding. She was absolutely right. This guy was a destroyer of lives and if I didn’t get the job done, and fast, Kat could very likely be his next victim. And I might be right behind her.
I left Kat and walked out to my truck.
Without making it obvious I had a good look around. Not far away I caught a glimpse of a Colville police cruiser with a figure slumped down behind the wheel. I couldn’t say for sure it was Fordham but I harbored little doubt that it was.
A little shiver rippled through me. It occurred to me that I needed to get myself a weapon.
Being an ex-con meant I couldn’t just walk into a gun store and buy myself a shooter. And even if I could have it wouldn’t have been an option. I needed something that couldn’t be traced back to me. The only person I knew in town who might have such an item was Miles. Being an ex-cop himself he had likely acquired a number of guns over the years. But I couldn’t very well ask him to borrow one so I could kill somebody, could I?
He had phoned me yesterday to tell me the house he had checked into for Callie and me
was
available for rent. If we were interested we could move in any time. I hadn’t seen the property but Callie knew it and said it would suit us well. She was very excited about us getting a place of our own and I had promised her we’d have a look at it together today.
As I drove to the Wilson place to pick Callie up I tried to get my thoughts in order. I hated the idea of Kat spending even one more night on her own. If anything happened to her before I was able to deal with RJ I would never be able to live with myself.
* *
The house was a typical farm structure, built about fifty years ago with clapboard siding, smallish windows, and overgrown vegetation. It was no palace but it offered privacy, serene views, and lots of quiet. It would take some work to fix it up to Callie’s standards but she was thrilled with the idea of us living together again in our own home. We went in to town after our inspection and met with the owner’s lawyer to sign a rental agreement.
When we walked out to our truck Callie stopped me and wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so happy, Jack. It’ll be just like it used to be.”
I smiled tolerantly.
If only that were true
. “We’ll need to get some furniture.”
“There’s a used furniture store in town where we can get some stuff. And what we can’t get there we can get in Lewiston.”
“I’ll have to do some repairs and painting before we get much.”
“I’ll help.” She oozed enthusiasm and it was wonderful to see those beautiful eyes so animated.
We went back to the Wilsons to get Bix and gathered up what items of furniture Callie had accumulated over the past seven years and loaded up the pickup. Beyond some bedroom furniture, her clothes, and her personal items there wasn’t a whole lot. Two trips is all it would take to transfer all our worldly goods.
Before leaving I took Miles aside. I had decided to take the direct approach. “You happen to have a weapon of some description I could borrow? I don’t like the idea of living out in the country without some form of protection.”
“Oh, sure,” he replied.
I gave him a sheepish look. “With my record I can’t get one of my own, Miles, but I’d prefer a pistol; ideally one without a registration attached to it.”
He nodded knowingly. “Follow me.”
He took me down to his basement and into a locked room that contained an impressive array of weaponry. “I picked up most of these over the years at gun shows and private sales,” he said.
I sighted in on a 9mm Glock, that looked like a newer version but similar to the one I had carried as an FBI agent. “What’s the story on this one?” I asked, pointing.
He handed me the pistol. “This one ain’t legal, Jack. It’s a Glock 18, fully automatic.” He pointed at a lever. “Goes from semi to full auto by pressing down on this.”
“It’s not registered?”
“That’s right. Bought it from a guy I know in Minnesota. Ex-cop. I think it came into his possession durin’ a drug bust.”
“You mind if I take it?”
He looked a little uncertain. “You really think ya want somethin’ that destructive just for protection?”
“I’m more impressed by the fact that it’s not registered, Miles. If I ever had to use it, at least it’s not going to get traced back to you.”
“Okay.” He handed me two clips and a box of cartridges. “That oughta hold ya,” he said.
“Thanks, Miles. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
He shrugged off my display of gratitude. “Don’t give it a thought.”
We spent the day fixing the place up as best we could with what little we had. It was a wonderful day in many ways and, if I concentrated hard enough, I could almost fool myself into thinking things had really gone back to the way they once had been.
There was no way, however, I could lose sight of the coming storm. Kat’s welfare was paramount in my thoughts and the threat hanging over her sat heavy on my mind.
Jerry Reed – that country crooner from the seventies – had once sung: “We’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there.” I could identify with the sentiment. In my case, though, it was a little different: I had a tough job to do, and not much time to do it.