The Killing Kind

35

Headlights drifted toward the shoulder in the darkness. The car’s front-left tire hit the rumble strip, and Hendricks jerked awake-fishtailing as he swerved back into his lane. Once he got the car back on the road, he rolled the window down, hoping the air would keep him alert.

He’d tossed and turned all night in the musty boat cabin. His injuries had nagged at him. The cuts on his hand and neck itched maddeningly. His bruises were hot and tender to the touch. His shoulder clicked when he moved it wrong, and felt like it was full of rusty nails. At dawn, Hendricks found the boat’s first aid kit and chewed four aspirin as he cleaned his wounds.

Hendricks had waited until he heard both cars in the driveway leave before he climbed out of his hiding place and retrieved his phone. Then he walked barefoot toward Peoria proper, his too-small stolen loafers in one hand.

In a Goodwill parking lot, Hendricks had jimmied open a donation box and started dumping bags at random. After a little digging, he’d grabbed a plain black T-shirt, a pair of Levi’s, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of paint-spattered black Chuck Taylors. He felt a little guilty stealing from a charity, but as bedraggled as he looked, walking into a store would’ve drawn too much unwanted attention-and anyway, he was a little short on cash. The way Hendricks saw it, a fugitive from justice twelve hundred miles from home with less than seven hundred dollars to his name was entitled to a little charity.

He’d cleaned up in a nearby Hardee’s restroom and put on his new clothes, burying his old ones beneath a layer of paper towels in the trash bin.

Not far from the Hardee’s was a Best Western. Hendricks strode into the lobby like he belonged there. The bored young woman playing a game on her cell phone behind the front desk didn’t even look his way. He helped himself to their continental breakfast, and then he pulled up Craigslist on the computer in their business center.

Three hours and a bunch of phone calls later, he was the proud owner of a ’93 Civic. The tires were bald, the backseat was all chewed up, and the cabin smelled like dog, but at three hundred bucks, the price was right- and deals for two other cars had fallen through already, so he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Hendricks offered the owner another hundred to bring the car to his hotel. Once he dropped the guy back at his house, Hendricks was on his way.

Stolen wheels are fine for short-term transportation, but when you’ve got twenty hours of driving ahead of you, it’s nice to know the cops aren’t looking for your ride.

Now, the lights of Cleveland beckoned to him in the distance. Hendricks figured he could find some food there, some Advil, and maybe even a shower and a proper bed- provided he could find a motel shady enough to accept cash no-questions-asked. He knew Cleveland well enough to assume that wouldn’t be a problem.

Hendricks turned on the radio, scanned the dial until he found a classic rock station playing the Stones. Cranked the volume and drummed along on the steering wheel.

For the first time since Purkhiser double-crossed him, things were looking up.

When Thompson’s phone played Garfield’s ringtone, she nearly jumped out of her chair trying to answer it. “Garfield, where the hell have you been? Are you okay?”

Thompson heard shuffling on his end of the line. She wondered for a moment if he’d dropped the phone. “Huh?” he said. “I mean, uh, yeah…I’m fine.”

“You sure?” she asked. “You sound distracted.”

Garfield barked with laughter. It sounded more desperate than amused. “Distracted? Nah. Rough night, is all.”

“Listen, your lead panned out-we got a hit on those prints. Some badass Special Forces type by the name of Michael Hendricks. And get this: he’s been presumed dead for years. We’re tracking down a known associate of his now-a soldier from his old unit.”

“That’s great,” Garfield replied flatly. “E-mail me the file, and I’ll take a look at it on the way in.”

“Sure,” she said. “It’s on its way. You picked a hell of a time to disappear, you know. The director is furious. I tried to cover for you-I told him you were sick-but he’s not an idiot. He knows damn well I was lying.”

“Thanks, Charlie. You didn’t have to do that. Not after…the way I’ve been to you.”

Thompson was taken aback. “Hey,” she said, “what are partners for?”

“Still,” Garfield said, his voice tinged with regret, “for what it’s worth, Charlie, I’m sorry.”