Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [85]
“There’s time.” John nodded. “I’m still not sure where the reunion is going to take place. I’m leaving that up to Annie. She may be the girl’s aunt, but she also has a background in psychology. I’m sure she’ll know what’s best under the circumstances. You go ahead and talk to Giordano. And let me know what he has to say. I’m as curious as you are. . . .”
“So, Archie, you sure you don’t want none of this?” Burt sat at the desk in the small motel room, the open pizza box in front of him.
“No. You eat it.” The thought of food made Archer want to hurl. Everything about this entire day, from the minute he’d opened his eyes till now, seeing the pizza in front of him, had made him want to hurl.
“Put the television back on,” Burt told him. “The news oughta be coming on again soon.”
“I don’t wanna see it again,” Archer all but moaned. “I saw it twice already.”
“Put it on anyway.”
Archer found the remote and turned on the television. The tape taken from a helicopter that hovered over Landry’s barn and fields was on again. The same tape the networks had been running over and over all afternoon.
“. . . though police are still not giving any information as to motive,” the anchor’s voice spoke above the sound of the helicopter’s blades.
A shot from a handheld camera on ground level showed numerous law enforcement agencies on the scene.
“Hey, look at that, Archie. You got ’em all running around like chickens with their heads cut off, damned if you don’t.” Burt’s laugh was raw and loud. “This was one important dude you wasted, man. I had no idea he was such a big shot.”
“Yeah. He was famous.” Sicker still, Archer went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Burt took the slice of pizza he was chewing and moved to the end of the bed closest to the TV. He turned the sound up, clearly enjoying the play-by-play. The police think the killer waited in the barn, yada yada yada.
He moved back slightly on the bed and, in doing so, knocked Archer’s jacket to the floor. He glanced down and saw the cell phone he’d loaned Lowell the week before slide out from the pocket. When he leaned over to pick it up, he noticed it was turned on. He held the phone in his hand for a long minute, thinking.
Then he hit the scroll button, looking for the last number dialed.
Cahill, M. 410-555-1143.
Burt stared at the phone.
Cahill, M.
As in Cahill, Miranda. Special agent, FBI.
What the fuck . . . ?
He continued to stare, thinking carefully.
Behind the closed bathroom door, the toilet flushed. Burt heard the sound of running water. He slid the phone back into Archer’s jacket pocket and took another bite of pizza, chewing slowing, still thinking.
What had Archer told her?
The son of a bitch had called her. He had called the FBI, for chrissake. What the hell kind of moron had he gotten mixed up with?
Archer had called the fucking FBI.
The bathroom door opened, and a white-faced Archer stepped in the room, then all but fell upon his bed. An attack of conscience, or anxiety because he was waiting for something to happen? Had he told her where they were?
Archer lay quietly on the bed, his head on the pillow. Burt watched him until the soft rise and fall of his chest assured him that Archer slept. Burt dug into the pocket for the cell phone and pulled up the last call. The call had been connected for less than thirty seconds. Long enough to leave a very short message. Or not.
Maybe that’s all that had happened. Maybe there was just a brief message.
Yeah, real brief, like we’re in the Park Motel on Route 1 outside of New Brunswick.
Burt tossed the phone from one open palm to the other, then tossed it onto the room’s other bed. He piled the pillows up against the headboard and sat back against them, watching the news coverage of the murder of Joshua Landry and considering his next move.
If Archer had told Cahill where they were holed up, the FBI would have been there already, wouldn’t they? So Burt felt he could reasonably assume that no one knew where they were. At least, not