The Killing Hour

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Landry’s cell phone goes off it pulls him out of a dream that involved getting his cancer news from a hot-looking nurse in a tight outfit that made the news not seem so bad. He wasn’t even aware he had fallen asleep. His chin is covered in drool and his neck is stiff and he’s slumped down somewhat in the car. And it’s hot in here. He grabs his phone. It’s Schroder. He presses the answer button.

“We found nothing useful in Douglas Person’s house,” Schroder says, “aside from a bedroom he’s turned into a hothouse to grow maybe twenty grand’s worth of cannabis. We’re still looking for the guy, but I’m guessing he’s gotten wind we’re looking for him so is lying low. How are you feeling?”

“Not the best,” Landry says, which is going to sum up every day between now and the end of days. At least the end of days for him. He feels bad about not saving Schroder some time by telling him Person is not their guy. Still, Schroder will look back at this in the future and thank Landry for saving him some problems by taking care of the trash.

“You should take tomorrow off,” Schroder says, not sounding like he means it.

“I’ll be there,” Landry says. “I forgot to ask, but how’d you get on this morning with Benson Barlow?”

“There are so many theories floating around and the problem is most of them are sticking. The way he killed them. . hell, I told Barlow about the scenes, he said he wouldn’t even know where to begin. I’m about to talk to the second victim’s husband,” he says. Luciana is the first victim and Kathy is the second victim. They know that not because of time of death, which is too close to really tell them apart, but from the blood transfer between the scenes. “Everybody keeps thinking it’s some kind of ritual, and I think-”

“I have to go,” Landry says, “I’ll call you back.”

“Bill-”

“I’ll call you back,” he says. He hangs up the phone. Fifty yards away somebody is jogging toward him. But not toward him, toward the house. That figure goes under a streetlamp and slows down, tilts his wrist to look at his watch, and Landry gets a good view of him. It’s Charlie Feldman. He recognizes him from the photographs inside the house. Landry can’t tell what it is Feldman is holding in his right hand, but it looks like some kind of weapon. If Schroder hadn’t called. .

But he did call. That’s all that matters.

Charlie goes through the gate. Lights come on inside the house. Landry rubs his hands at his eyes. He’s never fallen asleep on a stakeout before. Never. Then again he’s never been on heavy medication before either. Jesus, the day turned warm and he got sleepy. What sort of detective is he? The worst, and one who’s tiring easily because he’s dying.

He scrapes tiny pieces of wet gunk from the corners of his eyes. He starts the engine and slowly lets out the clutch, allowing the car to drift up the street. He stops outside the house. His anger is pulsing like a beacon in his mind as he walks over the grass verge to the sidewalk. He tucks his keys into his pocket. He can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins and it worries him because he can’t afford to lose control of his emotions. He looks up and down the street. There are lights on in most of the houses, but nobody around. People have settled in for the evening. They’re watching TV and drinking coffee and the realities they face every day are different from his.

He pauses outside the house and sucks in a deep breath, then another and another. He needs to stay calm. He can’t afford to make a mess of things. He straightens his tie and pats down his shirt, then wonders what in the hell he’s doing. He isn’t here to sell this man a jail sentence.

He clenches his fists, takes in another deep breath, then walks up the narrow sidewalk to the front door. When he reaches out to knock he notices for the first time that his hand is shaking. Excitement? Or nerves? He hopes it’s one of those and not the alternative, because the alternative comes with nausea and vomiting. He turns his hands over and watches his fingers as he makes a fist then loosens it off. Something deep inside him feels different from the other times he’s come to arrest people. Something he can’t quite recognize. He suspects it arrived last week in his doctor’s office as he watched the minute hand of the clock on the wall shift six degrees closer to the end of his life.

He reaches up and gets ready to knock.