Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 47

FUNNY HOW YOU COULD go almost five years avoiding the cops, and then when the one who tracks you down finally leaves, you miss him. Life will have its little ironies, won’t it?

Fred pulled back the tattered drapes and peered out the window. It was not quite half an hour since Lieutenant Morelli had left the fishing cabin. He’d gotten a message from headquarters on his cell phone telling him there’d been another murder, so he went to the local PD to see what he could find out about it. Don’t worry, he’d said—if the killer’s in Oklahoma, then he isn’t here.

He had warned Fred not to try to flee, but it wasn’t much of a warning. He knew Fred wasn’t going anywhere. The jig was up. They knew he had the merchandise, and he couldn’t run forever. No matter where he went, they would eventually find him. Assuming his murderous friend didn’t find him first, which, all things considered, Fred thought the more likely result. Which was all the more reason to stay exactly where he was. And hope the cop returned. Soon.

Maybe this would be a good time to fix a sandwich, he told himself. He had brought a few provisions. A tall, multimeat Dagwood sandwich—that might be just the thing right now.

He strolled through the living area into the kitchen nook—which in this cabin took all of three steps. He opened the ice chest and started hauling out supplies and—

He froze. What was that?

He’d heard something, somewhere behind the cabin. Hadn’t he? He was almost certain. Something was moving out in the bushes and trees.

He ran to the back window and peered out. Could be anything, he rationalized to himself, even assuming he really had heard something moving. Could be a raccoon or possum. Maybe a badger. Could be a hunter or fisherman. Could be two lovers out for a moonlight stroll.

Except he didn’t see any moon. Or anything else, for that matter.

Would a raccoon hide? Would a badger?

He felt beads of sweat trickling down his neck. He had come so far. So far. He could live with losing the merchandise, maybe even doing some prison time. But he really really didn’t want to die. Especially not at the hands of the homicidal maniac who used to bait his hook for him.

Fred’s palms were wet. Get a grip, he told himself. Don’t blow it in the final inning.

He heard something else, some movement. There was no doubt about it now. He not only heard it—he saw it. Something was moving.

Someone. It had to be someone.

And it wouldn’t be Lieutenant Morelli. He was in a car. Only one person would try to sneak up without being heard.…

Panicked, Fred ran back to the front door and slid the bolt into place. An instant later, he flicked off all the lights. And sat quietly. In the dark.

Was this better? It seemed worse. Now he heard creaks in every corner, saw movement in every flicker of light.

There wasn’t even a decent hiding place in this miserable cabin. The furniture was all thin and fragile—no tables or dressers he could use to block the door. Not that any of that would stop the killer for long.

He ran from one end of the tiny shack to the other, unable to decide where to stay put. No place seemed safe. No place was safe.

He pressed his hands together, but they were so wet they slid off one another. His whole body was like that; he felt as if he’d been standing out in the rain. Except that his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might explode at any moment. And his brain was so fried he couldn’t figure out what to do next.

He heard it again—the unmistakable sound of movement behind the shack. Damn this dark, anyway! He flicked the switch, illuminating the cabin. At least now they’d both be able to see one another. They’d be on equal ground. Except of course that his friend was already a multiple murderer. And he was …

Fred the Feeb?

No, goddamnit. Never again. He would get a grip on himself. He would take control.

He drank in several deep breaths, calming himself. Forcing himself to take deliberate, even, slow steps, he returned to the back window.

He heard it again, saw the leaves and bushes move. But this time, he observed that they all moved at once, in unison. And a whistling sound accompanied the movement.…

It was the wind. All this time—it was just the goddamn wind!

His hands pressed against his face, wiping the sweat away. You see what happens, he told himself. See the result of letting your imagination get the best of you, letting fear take control? You end up running in a blind panic. Like a fool. Like Fred the Feeb.

He grabbed a towel and dried off the rest of his sweat-soaked body. Jesus Christ, what an idiot he’d been. He was never cut out for this cloak-and-dagger crap. He might not be Fred the Feeb, but he wasn’t James Bond, either. Leave the action-adventure stuff to someone else.

He laughed quietly. As he did, he heard a car pulling up outside. Thank goodness. Nothing was going to happen to him while the cop was here, that much was certain. Prison time might be a small price to pay for peace of mind, at this point. No wonder Tony had a heart attack. If Fred’d been alone much longer, he probably would’ve worried himself into an early grave, too.

He ran, not walked, to the front door and opened it.

It was not Lieutenant Morelli standing on the other side of the door.

“Hiya, Fred,” his old fishing buddy said, grinning. “Miss me?”