Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [36]
A shuffling sound from the front of the room stopped Archer in his tracks. Cautiously, he peered over the rows of seats. A frail little man with a broom under his arm was dragging a large shop vacuum cleaner into the pit area in front of the first row of seats.
Archer made his way to the far end of the front row, still on his hands and knees, and watched the old man clean under the seats with the broom. When he’d accumulated a hefty pile of debris, he turned on the large shop vac and began to suck up the trash.
This was it. This was the moment.
As soon as Unger turned his back, Archer forced himself to his feet. Still crouching, as if he’d be struck dead if he stood up, Archer rounded the corner and approached Unger from behind. He took the small handgun from his pocket and, with it in his right hand, walked up behind Unger. Raising the gun and aiming straight at the back of the man’s head, Archer fired one bullet.
The vacuum handle fell from Unger’s hand and hit the ground. Slowly, the body crumpled, falling where it had stood. Archer opened his eyes and saw Al Unger’s head hit the floor, facedown. Backing away, Archer stuck the gun back into his jacket pocket. Refusing to think about what he had just done, he walked halfway up the side aisle and through the closest exit into the deserted parking lot.
His breathing coming harder, faster, he went around the building and, pausing to get his bearings, leaned flat against the hard brick wall. Tears streamed down his face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the night. “I’m sorry . . .”
A rustle from the dark, a soft scurry among the discarded chip bags and candy wrappers had Archer scurrying off as well. He wiped his face on his sleeve, swatted the popcorn off his pant legs, then walked to the end of the alley and crossed the street to the bus stop. Grabbing onto the sign, he held on for dear life and prayed his legs would not give out on him.
He’d just killed a man. God, he’d really done it.
He stood at the corner—staring straight ahead and trying to keep from crying—until the next bus arrived. He hopped aboard, took a seat near the back, and shook like a man who’d just come in from the cold. Once the bus reached the terminal in Cincinnati, he sat quietly while he waited for morning and the bus that would take him on to his designated stop, the refrain running over and over through his brain:
I killed a man. I put a bullet in the back of his head, and he fell down and died. I didn’t even know him, and I killed him.
He’d boarded the bus he’d been told to take, once again huddled in the back, his head in his hands, the sound of his heart pounding loud in his ears. Crying silent tears, he begged forgiveness from a God he’d never really believed in, and from the old man whose life he’d taken that night.
And he knew that if he didn’t come up with something fast, he’d be forced to do it again. And again . . .
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Will Fletcher tossed the newspaper onto the recycling pile in the corner of his kitchen, noting that the pile had grown considerably over the past few days. He made a mental note to bundle up the papers and get them outside in time for the next scheduled end-of-the-week pickup. He’d missed the past few weeks, once because he’d gone into the office early to check up on something regarding a case, and once because he’d simply forgotten until it was too late. This week he’d make the pickup. He found a ball of string to wrap the papers in and set it on the counter. The doorbell rang before he could begin his hunt for the scissors.
Miranda stood on his front porch, her color pale and her eyes vague and distant.
“Hey, Cahill. This is a pleasant—”
“We fucked up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He did it. The son of a bitch did it.”
“Who . . . ? You don’t mean Lowell . . . ?”
“Yes. I do mean Lowell. Unger is dead. So much for the combined smarts of that all-star FBI panel that convened last week.”
“What happened?”
“I got a call this morning from the Telford police.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket