Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [65]
“What are you watching for?” He handed Lowell a pair of binoculars, and Lowell slipped the strap over his head.
“I need to know who is up there. How many people are at the house. And see if I can figure out what he—Mr. Landry—does all day. If he comes out at any special time each day.”
“And you think you’re going to remember this because . . . ?”
“I can remember. Sure.” Lowell’s head bobbed up and down. “No problem.”
Burt handed him a small notebook and a blue pen.
“Excuse me for seeing a problem, but I don’t want you getting things mixed up. You’re going to be watching this guy for the next couple of days. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell you’re going to remember what time the mailman comes, what time Landry takes a walk if he takes a walk. Write it all down, then you won’t have to worry about remembering anything. You’re looking for patterns here.”
Lowell scowled but tucked the notebook and pen in his jacket pocket.
“Now get out,” Burt directed, and Lowell opened the passenger-side door.
“But you promise you’re coming back for me, right?” Lowell whined.
Burt reached over and slammed the door.
“Walk,” he commanded.
Lowell sighed heavily and walked past the back of the truck toward the woods. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and wished he was wearing that nice down jacket his mother had bought him. It was so much warmer than this wool thing he was wearing. Buffalo checks, his mother had called the red-and-black plaid, though Archer couldn’t figure out why. He’d been meaning to ask. Now he wondered if he’d ever get the chance. If he’d ever see his mother again . . .
Shit. Don’t go thinking like that, he berated himself. Just gonna get upset.
Like he wasn’t already upset. Here he was, going to spy on some man so he’d know when would be the best time of day to go back and kill him. He’d already killed one man, and every night since he’d had nightmares of that old body facedown on the floor of the movie theater, shaking and jerking around, the blood pooling on the floor beside that gray head like syrup from a bottle. It had been just awful.
And now he was going to have to do it again.
He hunched inside his jacket and kept walking straight ahead on the shoulder of the two-lane country road. The woods were nearer now, and in minutes he’d be walking right through them. He wondered how long it would take him to get through them and out the other side to the fields. Of course, he wouldn’t walk in the fields. Especially in this red jacket. Someone might see him and call the police.
And would that be the worst thing that could happen to him, he wondered.
What would be the worst that could happen to him?
He didn’t even want to think about that. Burt scared the shit out of him. He still didn’t know what the man’s full name was, though he had tried to get a peek at the registration for the truck when they stopped for gas, thinking that Burt would get out and pump. But the attendant had pumped the gas—not like back in Pennsylvania, where you could pump your own—and he’d lost the opportunity to take a quick look through the glove box.
He stopped at the edge of the woods and looked past the trees. It was dark in there, spooky, even.
It’s almost Halloween, he reminded himself, and hoped there were no unfriendly spirits about in the woods.
Shut up. Would ya just listen to yourself ?
He shook his head in disgust and walked a little slower as a car passed. When the car was out of sight over a rise in the road, he slipped into the woods. Off to his right something crunched softly, and he stopped in his tracks, then slid behind the trunk of a maple tree, his heart pounding. After a few minutes, he peered out from behind the tree. Seeing nothing, he resumed his walk.
A sign they’d passed down the road claimed that the woods and fields surrounding the town had seen bloodshed during the Revolutionary War, when a lost platoon of redcoats had been ambushed by a handful of farmers. Archer looked over his shoulder from time to time as he