Even if it killed him, he had to know.
The road was an ochre-colored mire. Crawford stayed off it to avoid exposure and imprints of his boots, but slogging through the bog and underbrush was a workout that soon had his clothes drenched with sweat. It had stopped raining, but the low ceiling of gray clouds threatened to unleash a downpour into air already saturated with moisture. Beyond an occasional splash, a rustle, a desultory birdcall, the swamp was noiseless and oppressive. Yet it teemed with unseen and menacing life forms.
He had about reached the conclusion that he would have to go back and kill Smitty after all, when a rusty tin roof came into view. He crouched and waited, fearing that his progress might have been noticed and monitored, but after five minutes, he continued on, moving closer to get a better look.
Smitty had described the place as “nearly falling down.” Indeed the weather-beaten frame structure looked on the verge of toppling off its rotting pilings into the sluggish creek.
If it had collapsed, it would have taken Chuck Otterman with it.
He was sitting in a ladder-back chair on the porch beneath a deep overhang. The railing on which he’d propped his feet was listing, and only about half its spindles were upright, but he looked as arrogant as a king on a gilded throne, angled back, puffing smoke rings that held their perfect shape until they were absorbed by the thick air.
Crawford was close enough to smell the cigar.
The two men he recognized from Conrad’s video were occupying opposite corners of the dwelling. One was keeping an eye on the creek side as he pared his fingernails with a knife. The other was doing nothing except leaning against the exterior wall, idly picking at his sideburn while watching the road. Within his reach was a shotgun propped up against the wall.
Otterman finished his cigar, then lowered his feet from the railing and stood up. He stretched and spoke to the man watching the creek, although Crawford was too far away to catch what he said. He did hear the squeak of the screen door hinges when Otterman pulled it open and disappeared inside. It slapped closed behind him. His sentinels remained in place.
Crawford backed away, careful not to create any more of a stir than necessary.
He didn’t breathe easily until he’d covered at least a hundred yards. By the time he got back to Smitty’s car, he was dripping sweat.
But rather than feeling depleted, he was energized. Adrenaline was like rocket fuel pumping through him. The hell of it was, he had to keep that rush under control until dark. It was said that he was impulsive and reckless. That could be justifiably argued. But he wasn’t suicidal.
He thought about summoning Harry and Sessions. He knew they’d waste no time joining him, but he didn’t want to drag them into a showdown where jurisdiction was uncertain. He also wanted to know if the hunch that Sessions had been following had panned out, but if he called about that, they would pressure him to tell them where he was and what he planned.
Then, too, he dreaded hearing where Sessions’s hunch might have led.
He considered calling Neal to ask about the arrest warrant, but he was going to make his move on Otterman with or without it. If later he had to defend his actions, he could say truthfully that he’d acted on the assumption that a warrant had been issued, based on his last conversation with the lead investigator.
He considered changing his mind about speaking to Georgia. He longed to hear her voice. She would tell him she loved him, and he would know that she spoke the unqualified truth. There were no filters on or conditions to her love. He would like to hear the words from her again. But if he called, she might ask him for promises. He wouldn’t make promises to her he might be unable to keep.
He wished he could roll back the clock and relive those first few minutes when he woke up feeling Holly’s breath on his face, her body warm and soft against his. He would welcome a do-over of those brief moments of contentment. I wish I still had it to look forward to, she had said of their quickie couch sex. He wondered if she felt that way now.
God knew she shouldn’t. There were so many things to apologize for, he wouldn’t know where to start. If not for him, the shooting would never have happened. Her life would never have been endangered, her career would be on solid footing. Did the minutes of bliss they’d shared make up for the crap he’d left her to deal with? Only she could answer that, and he couldn’t possibly blame her if the answer was no.
Deciding against making any of those calls, he removed the battery from the burner phone and settled in to wait for darkness.