“This is no time to get religion, partner. Think of your family.”
Tom did. And he understood why Walt was so ready to sacrifice Sonny Thornfield. Along with his fellow Double Eagles, this man had hurt and killed more innocent people than they knew. If Sonny died here (his death staged by Walt’s expert hands), and Tom left the syringe and vials behind, they could remove the threat of prosecution for Viola’s murder and probably get off the hook for the dead trooper’s death as well. With so much pain hanging in the balance for his family (and for Walt, who wouldn’t even be in this mess if he hadn’t driven hundreds of miles to help Tom), how much of a crime would that be? Was the life of a rapist and killer too high a price to pay for life and freedom? For a chance to make amends to those people he had failed so miserably?
Tom had given up on religion decades ago, but looking down at Thornfield’s cyanotic fingernails, he felt his soul in peril. How different was this from finding Frank Knox dying on the floor of his surgery at Viola’s feet? Maybe not much. But something deep within him rebelled at the prospect of letting Thornfield die. Maybe he had been carrying so much guilt for so long that he couldn’t stand adding another death to his account. Not even the death of a killer.
Tom looked anxiously up at Walt, who was not a man to be easily swayed. “No matter how you stage this, they’re going to know someone else was involved. The second you destroyed that hard drive, you proved it.”
The Ranger’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Not if I leave the fragments behind. We’ll just have to chance them piecing it back together. They’ll never do it without FBI help. Besides, being on Eagle business, he probably found a way to switch off the camera.”
“What about our footprints? All that forensic crap?”
Walt set his jaw in frustration. “Goddamn it, Tom. Quit searching for excuses. There’s nothing pretty about this, but if we don’t do it, we won’t get out alive. Guys who kill state cops wind up cornered in barns somewhere. And when the meat wagon finally gets there, they have about thirty holes apiece in them. It’s time to buy ourselves some insurance.”
Tom slowly straightened up to his full height. He had three inches on Walt, and the new perspective reinforced his sense of moral advantage. “I know you just saved my life. But we can’t kill this man. This isn’t like the ambulance. This is cold-blooded murder.”
Walt looked down at the gray man on the floor. As the barrel of the shotgun drifted toward Sonny’s face, Sonny twisted up off the carpet and vomited on himself.
“For God’s sake!” Tom pressed. “Let’s move!”
With a wild grimace, Garrity carried the shotgun to the front of the van and settled into the driver’s seat. For a few seconds he sat in silence, still fighting his instincts. But to Tom’s relief, he finally started the Roadtrek and revved the motor in preparation for climbing back up the levee.
“Shut off his goddamn cell phone!” Walt shouted. “We don’t want his whole outfit coming down on us!”
As Tom moved to obey, the pain of his shoulder wound stabbed him, stealing his breath. He found the cell phone in Thornfield’s pocket, its LCD screen glowing blue. As he shut it off, he wondered if more state cops were already homing in on its periodic pings for a tower.
With a lurch, the van began to roll.
“Help me, Doc,” Sonny gasped, gripping his arm and imploring him with glassy eyes. “I’ll do anything you say.”
“Don’t talk.”
“Don’t let him kill me. I got a family.”
Cursing silently, Tom stepped over Thornfield and moved carefully to the end of the aisle, as though walking in a speedboat. Through one of the van’s rear windows, he saw the dead trooper growing smaller in the fading red glow of their taillights. But that vanishing figure was an illusion.
They would never leave that corpse behind them.
CHAPTER 52
IN MY HOUSE on Washington Street, Mom is helping Annie pack a bag upstairs while I sit in our front room, jotting down the most likely explanations for my father jumping bail. It’s remarkable how easy this is, now that my faith in his honesty has been stripped away.
If Dad is innocent of Viola’s murder, then four explanations seem possible: one, he’s trying to solve the murder himself, which would involve proving someone else killed her; two, he’s avoiding a DNA paternity test; three, he’s trying to avenge Viola’s death; or four, he’s trying to stop all further investigation by making himself look guilty by flight. This last possibility seems doubtful, since Shad and Sheriff Byrd have already settled on Dad as the killer and are unlikely to pursue any other suspects.
If my father did kill Viola, then the possible explanations become simpler—yet far more difficult to believe. One, he might be fleeing the country, which would mean setting up a new life somewhere for himself, and presumably for my mother as well. This seems patently absurd, since Dad would consider being separated from Annie for the rest of his life a fate worse than death. On the other hand, he might prefer that to having Annie watch him be sent to prison. I suppose he might rather vanish than have certain secrets revealed, but if so, those secrets must be truly horrific. I can’t imagine that being the father of Lincoln Turner would be sufficient to drive him away from his family.
The sound of an engine on Washington Street draws my attention long enough for me to wait for it to pass. But it doesn’t. Someone has parked outside my house, their engine idling.