Purpose drove the man’s stride, his gaze never wavering from Dr. Jonah. James followed the man’s progress toward the front of the auditorium. Another man entered through the same door. The way this guy carried himself, the outline of his form, was familiar. Gill Garrison. What was he doing here?
“I smell him. Where is he?” The first man spoke in a shout and effortlessly leaped onto the stage. For only a split second, James caught a glimpse of the man’s face. Logic revolted against the message his eyes conveyed. Tension grabbed hold of his neck and started strangling.
Lathaniel Montgomery. Couldn’t be. And yet it was. Somehow, despite what Death had revealed to him, Lathaniel was alive.
And his story wouldn’t match the evidence at the scene—James had seen to that. Lathaniel would know someone else had been there. But he wouldn’t know who.
His father’s theatrical voice faltered. Stopped. He gaped at Lathaniel, backed away as if afraid. Not one person in the entire auditorium sneezed or coughed or cleared their throat. The silence was impressive.
“Where’s the Strategist? You’ve been in contact with him. I smell him on you.” Lathaniel’s volume wasn’t affected by his proximity to Dr. Jonah. He probably didn’t even know he was shouting.
The muscles in James’s neck fisted into a knot of certainty. It felt like time had slowed down, but James recognized that his brain was actually speeding up. This situation could play out in at least ten different ways that had nothing to do with fingers being pointed at him. But there was still a chance, and a chance was one chance too many.
James slipped out the door nearest him, then walked across the hallway and outside. He knew what he had to do. Escape.
The years of planning and preparing for this moment flooded into his mind, giving him clarity of thought, guiding his actions, and shutting off his emotions.
He strolled to his car, ensuring his gait was slow and smooth and not attracting attention.
If, by chance, no one pointed an accusatory finger at him, he needed to be able to explain his sudden absence. He dialed his father’s cell number, knowing the phone was turned off. When voice mail picked up, he forced weakness into his voice. “I had to leave early. Not feeling well.” He left the number for a car service, then hung up.
If they were on to him, they could track him via his cell. He pried the SIM card from his phone, snapped it in half, turned his phone off, and dropped them both in the bushes.
The professionals used many ways to classify killers, but James had his own system. Killers landed in either of two categories: the ones who thought themselves so invincible that they’d never be captured or the ones who were so chaotic in their kills that they didn’t worry about being caught. James had created a new category.
Each of his kills was designed around his escape route. First, he chose a subject by random means. Next, he planned primary and secondary escape routes. Finally, when all the pieces were in place, came the kill.
He approached his silver Toyota Camry. He could afford a better car, but the Camry figured in his escape. It blended in among the nearly three thousand other Camrys in the area. Eyewitnesses notoriously had a hard time distinguishing between gold, silver, and white.
The most important thing was maintaining invisibility. Act stupid, and everyone would notice him. Act innocent, and people looked right through him. He was familiar with invisible. He lived invisible. Odds were, somewhere nearby, someone in a Camry was acting stupid and getting noticed. That person’s behavior would buy him extra time.
He knelt next to the dent beside the license plate on the back bumper and ran his hand over and over the blemish. Anyone watching would see that action. With all the skill of a professional magician, he slid the magnetized license plate off and into his jacket. A fresh plate resided underneath. Something else to confound anyone looking for him.
Out on the road, he adapted to the flow of traffic.
He drove past suburbs full of cookie-cutter houses all trying to compete with one another for their worthiness in the neighborhood. He drove past country estates with miles of fencing showing off the prosperity of the owners. He drove until he reached the real country where people lived miles apart and had a silent understanding of enforced privacy.
Out here, the woods became thicker, the farmland sparse. He pulled down a one-lane gravel road bordered on both sides by forest. In the spring, the blooming redbud and dogwood created the sensation of driving through a bouquet. But now the leafless, lifeless woods held no wonder for him.
He followed the lane to the end where he turned into the driveway of a tidy little cottage. Behind the home was a garage.
On paper, Mr. Franks, the owner, was very much alive. His social security checks were deposited every month into his account. He paid all his utilities on time, and he even subscribed to AARP. But no one had actually seen Mr. Franks since the day James killed him years ago.
James parked in the garage. Next to the Camry was a gold Honda Accord. Mr. Franks’s car. A year from now, it’d be James’s getaway vehicle.
It was unlikely the FBI would ever find this place. Even more unlikely that they would ever link it to him. But he still switched the Camry’s vehicle identification number. He’d had the engine replaced so it wouldn’t match the VIN. Anyone who cared to examine the car would run into dead end after dead end trying to link it to any one person.
Behind the garage were acres and acres of forest. He forced himself to yawn twice to suck in oxygen, then ran. A full-on sprint.