Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [28]
She glanced at her watch. There was still plenty of time to stop in Lyndon on her way home and check in with Lowell’s probation officer. Since she and Will arrived in separate cars, she’d just make a quick stop at the inn to pick up her bags, check out, and be on her way by noon.
“Archer? Archer Lowell?”
The voice on the phone was low, but forceful all the same.
“Who is this?” Archer rubbed his eyes and turned over to look at the clock. It was ten in the morning.
“A friend of a friend.”
“What friend?” Archer sat up.
“A friend at High Meadow.”
Archer’s jaw moved, but no sound came from his mouth.
“You there, Archie?”
“I don’t have no friends at High Meadow. And I don’t like to be called Archie.”
“Oh. Right.” Even in agreement, there was menace in the tone.
“Who are you? Why are you calling me?”
“Your old buddy Vince asked me to.”
“Vince who?”
“Don’t even try to play me, Archie. It pisses me off no end when people try to play me. And you do not want to piss me off. Understand?”
“Yeah . . . yes.” Archer wrapped the blanket around himself. All of a sudden, he felt very cold.
“Okay, then.” A long drag off a cigarette, a long exhale. “I want to know what your plan is, Archie.”
“My plan?”
“Your plan to carry out your part of the deal. The deal you made with Vince and that other friend of yours, the one who died. I want to know what you’re going to do.”
“I . . . ah . . .” Archer slammed down the receiver.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Holy shit . . .”
He went into the tiny bathroom and relieved himself, then splashed cool water onto his face with hands shaking so badly they barely held water.
Calm down. You don’t know who that was. Coulda been anyone.
Anyone who knew about the game . . .
Then it had to have been Vince. Yeah, that’s it. It was Vince. Calling from High Meadow. Pretending to be someone else.
Why would Vince pretend to be someone else?
To scare me. Yeah, just to scare me into thinking it was someone on the outside.
Had the caller said he was on the outside? He couldn’t remember.
But it had to be Vince. It had to be.
No one else knows, right?
Right?
Could even have been the FBI. Yeah, it coulda been them.
He tried to remember if he’d said anything that could incriminate him. He didn’t think he had.
He pulled on the jeans he’d worn the day before and a flannel shirt from the pile of laundry in his room. Grabbing his jacket, he left the trailer, then paused out front. He avoided the road and walked along behind the other trailers until he reached the end of the mobile home village. He looked around and, seeing no cars, no strangers, he exhaled deeply.
Still, he felt jumpy. As if he were being watched.
He debated with himself, then set out across the field that lay between the trailers and the back of the Well. A short walk and he’d be at the bar, a cold beer in his hand. He’d taken that route on several occasions when he couldn’t beg a ride home from anyone. It was dark and a little creepy late at night, but this was broad daylight.
It was with great relief that he rounded the corner of the building and pushed open the door. He went straight to the bar and ordered a shot and a beer, then another. His nerves mildly anesthetized, he finally relaxed, entered into some mindless chatter with the bartender, who was obviously bored. There was only one other person drinking at that hour of the morning, a regular from town who never spoke to anyone.
By noon, Archer was buzzed. By three in the afternoon, he was sleeping in a chair in the back room. Later that night, he was back at the bar with his friends. At midnight, the morning’s fear forgotten, he left the bar by the back door, intending to return home the same way he’d arrived.
The door was barely closed before a large hand grabbed him by both lapels, dragged him around the corner, and shoved him back against the back wall of the bar.
“Who . . . ?”
“I hate it when someone hangs up on me before I’ve said what I had to say.”
The figure was large,