Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [16]
He thought about Vince’s last victims. Two of the three had connections to Archer. And the last intended victim, Amanda Crosby, well, okay, Archer had served time for stalking her.
But what does that prove? Maybe Vince saw her and maybe he sorta flipped for her, too. She’s pretty hot, isn’t she? Who wouldn’t want her?
And Curtis, well, he’s stone dead, isn’t he? He ain’t talking to no one.
It was then that Archer realized he’d started to sweat.
Hey, come on. No big deal. They got nothing on me, and I ain’t killed no one.
“And guess what, Vince?” he said aloud as he went back into the kitchen for a beer. “I ain’t going to kill no one.”
He paused, contemplating the irony of having Miranda Cahill show up at his door. He’d thought he was hallucinating when he first read the name on the identification she’d held up. The old spider and fly thing crossed his mind, but he pushed right past that. For one thing, it didn’t matter who she was, since he wasn’t gonna do nothing to no one. For another, there was that big guy with her.
“But hey, Vince, you and Curt, you did your thing, I respect that. But I am out, and I am staying out. Ain’t no one knows about the game, and as far as I’m concerned, this game is over. Curt is dead, and you are never going to see the light of day, old buddy. There ain’t no reason for me to kill nobody. Ain’t no one who cares whether I do or not. Except maybe you, Vince. And we both know where you are, don’t we?”
He tipped his beer in the general direction of the county prison where Vince Giordano sat in his little cell, laughed, and took a sip. He thought about the three people who had made his life so miserable. The three people who were responsible for his spending these past months behind bars. The three people Vince Giordano had agreed to take out for him.
Two of the three were now dead, thanks to good old Vince.
That the third was still out there, well, two out of three ain’t bad. He could live with that. Archer’s anger was gone now, his life was going to move ahead, and he was never, ever going to look back. Not on Amanda Crosby, not on Vince Giordano or Curtis Alan Channing. Not on the game he himself had proposed that cold February morning.
“Game over.” He raised the bottle in a toast to his absent companions. “I win.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
“So, what do you think?” Will asked as he looked around the dimly lit bar where he and Miranda had just finished dinner.
“What do I think about what?” Miranda frowned. “The three pieces of greasy fried chicken I just ate? I think I’m going to be sick.”
“I don’t recall anyone force-feeding you. And I don’t recall you ever turning your nose up at fried food in the past.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’ve gotten a little more discriminating.”
He laughed, and she made a face at him.
“What time do you suppose he’ll show up?” she asked. “If this is, in fact, his watering hole.”
“This is it, all right.” Will glanced around. “Close to home—critical when a guy has no wheels—and there’s a fair share of single ladies. All regulars, judging from the conversations I overheard around the bar while I was waiting for our beer. This is the neighborhood hangout. This would be his place.”
“So the next question would be, is this his night?”
“Every night is his night.” Will looked over to the door as two laughing couples entered and went straight to the far end of the bar. “He has nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. You think he’s sitting home with his mother every night? Nah. This is home base for him. Trust me.”
“Been there, done that,” she muttered.
He was about to respond when the door opened and Archer Lowell walked in. He peeled off his red-and-black-plaid jacket and tossed it in the direction of the coat hooks that lined one wall. He missed his mark and had to stoop to pick it up. Red-faced, he hung it on the hook. Passing the pool tables, he called something to a dark-haired girl who was just about to take a shot, but she turned her back on him as if she hadn’t heard. Shaking off the rebuke, Lowell proceeded