Chapter Twenty-six
Ten days after Gavin Rozwell left a crappy motel room to drive into the rain-soaked dark, Beck and Morrison worked in a less crappy motel room while rain pounded the night.
They’d pinned maps on the walls, marked trails they’d followed, trails local PDs and staties had followed. They’d highlighted confirmed sightings in red, possibles in yellow.
Along with the maps, they had photos and descriptions of stolen vehicles they’d traced to Rozwell, separated them into recovered and not recovered.
They had photos of the last motel room in Oregon, statements from the not-very-interested desk clerk, statements from the goggling-with-interest waitress who’d served him the fried chicken special in the rinky-dink diner squatting beside the motel.
They had the statement of the clerk at the Quick Mart—who’d smelled of pot and despair—where Rozwell had bought a six-pack of Coke Zero, a family-size bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, and half a dozen Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
They had the rattletrap Ford pickup, flat tire, no spare—with his prints all over it—abandoned on a back road outside of Fall City, Washington. And the description of a Dodge Ram reported stolen from a driveway less than half a mile from the Ford.
All leads pointed north.
“We tracked him back to the motel outside of Alpine in Oregon because of the mini-mart stop. Got him on camera there.”
Beck paced back and forth in front of their makeshift evidence board while Morrison worked on their nightly report.
Beck wore a sleeveless tee and drawstring cotton pants that served her for these late-night sessions and for sleeping.
In the past three weeks they’d had a scant forty-eight hours back in Baltimore in their home office, including two nights in their own beds.
In lieu of a desk, Morrison used a side table about the size of a manhole cover where he tapped away on his laptop. His reading glasses—picked up at a Walmart after he sat on his last pair—kept sliding down his nose.
“Why’d he go into the mini-mart?”
Morrison looked up, over the half rims. “Because he wanted sugar and carbs for the road.”
“It’s under ten miles from the motel. The motel has vending machines. But he doesn’t get his fix there, he goes into the mart, and he damn well knows they’ll have the camera on checkout.”
“Mostly luck we hit on that wit in the first place.”
“Can’t argue there, but it led us to the motel, and it gave us the truck he ditched in the parking lot in Molalla. Still Oregon but clearly heading north. Major airport in Salem, but he doesn’t ditch it there, so we find it pretty damn easy.”
Morrison rubbed his eyes, made the cheaters bounce. “Nothing about this is easy.”
“But look. North.” She began tapping the map. “Clear trail. Yeah, yeah, it winds a bit, but always north. Into Washington, and it sure as hell looks like he might be looking to slip over the border into Canada, or find a way to get to fricking Alaska.”
Morrison took the cheaters off, tapped them on the knee of his faded dad jeans as he studied the map. “We’re not digging up the bread crumbs. We’re just picking them up along the way.”
“That’s right. Has he gotten that sloppy, Quentin? Do we think he’s dropping clues like rose petals for us?”
“Could be. He’s rattled. We know he’s rattled. Staying in dumps, driving pieces of shit. Porking up, too, according to witness statements. He’s rattled and running. But…”
Now Beck nodded. “But.” She sat on the side of the bed, folding her legs under her. “I’ve had this feeling, and it’s getting stronger, he’s playing us. That truck we found yesterday? It’s like a goddamn neon sign pointing north.”
Morrison rose now, stretching his back till it cracked. Oh, how he missed his extra-firm mattress in Baltimore.
“After he missed with Morgan,” Morrison began, “he went essentially a year without a kill.”
“That we know of,” Beck qualified.
“That we know of. Going by what we do know, he hasn’t had a kill since Myrtle Beach. He’d picked up the pace there—Arizona, New Orleans, Myrtle Beach. Three kills inside six months.”
“He had to make up that lost time, that lost year.” She stepped to the big map, tapped Arizona. “He planned this one, took his time, getting back in the swing.”
“But Dressler in New Orleans. That was of the moment, impulse, a loss of control. That was release, so sloppy.”
“He had to follow up, get his rhythm back. He took some time, yes, with the victim in Myrtle Beach, bagged a solid payday. But still, Quentin, without his usual precision. Slipping up on the tracking in the Mercedes, back to sloppy. He lost that precision, what he thinks of as his elegance, with Nina Ramos.”
“And now he’s slowed down again. He lost most of his fancy tools, all the IDs he’d generated, and he’s been on the run since Missouri. So he’s rattled, out of his element, screwing up. But…”
Again, Beck nodded. “He’s also pissed off. And who’s to blame for all of it?”
“Morgan Albright—Nash,” Morrison corrected. “And us.”
“And us. He could get a little payback having us chase the wild goose.”
“Do you think he’s going after Nash?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, not when he knows we’re on his trail. He has to feel us behind him. Do you?”
“No. He is rattled, Tee, so he needs time to settle down, to plan it out. Somewhere in that sick brain of his he knows he’s made mistakes. She’s the big one.”
He picked up the bottle of ginger ale he’d set on the floor by the table, since he didn’t have room on it with his laptop and paperwork. Sipped, winced a little, as it had gone warm.
He sat again, turning the chair to face her. Her room smelled of the travel candle she always burned. They habitually worked in her room, as she claimed his smelled like a gym locker.
She wasn’t wrong.
So he sat, stretched out his legs, let the scent—peonies, he realized, like in his mother’s garden in May back home—quiet his brain.
Because she knew how he worked, Beck sat quiet, said nothing.
“We should contact Chief Dooley and the resort security just so they sharpen their eye.”
“Agreed.”
“But he’s not a subtle guy. It’s black-and-white with him. If he’s leading us north, and the more I think about it, the more I think you’ve got something—”
“He’s going south,” Beck finished.
“Yeah, hell. He’d planned on Mexico. We got that from his room in New Orleans. Maybe he’s finessed a passport. But that’s a long way to travel.”
“You’re thinking closer. So am I. Listen to that rain, Quentin. I swear I’d kill for some real sunshine, some heat. I’ll bet your left eye he would, too.”
“Left eye’s my weak one. South then. We’ve got enough coverage up here to follow your nose south. First light?”
She looked toward the curtained window, listened to the rain. “If there is any.”
“We’ll find some.”
“And we’ll find him. He’s not going to slip through, Quentin. And he’s not going to get to Morgan. But I’m worried he’ll get another before we get him.”
She shook her head, her shoulders. “Fuck it. You know what I’m going to do once we have that bastard?”
“What’s that?”
“After I kiss you on the mouth—deal with it—I’m going home to my long-suffering saint of a husband and making a baby.”
“Is that right?”
“Bet your left eye. One thing this case has taught me? Life is for living. Let’s catch this motherfucker and start living.”
“I can get behind that.” He closed his laptop, gathered his things. “I’ll finish this in my room. Let’s get some sleep.”
Gavin Rozwell, now aka Leo Nesser, soaked up the desert sun. He felt renewed, refreshed, rejuvenated. Even the lousy motel room didn’t harsh his buzz.
He’d trimmed his hair—still shaggy, but more careless than unkempt. He’d combed lightener through it, drawn it back in a stubby tail. He’d worked on the beard until it was mostly stubble with a little soul patch. A self-tanner had turned the pallor into a mild glow. He liked the look with green contacts and John Lennon glasses.
Sort of a vagabond artist type with the Birkenstock sandals and frayed jeans.
He’d gone up a full size in the jeans, but he’d soon take care of that.
His head told him a paunch—even a fake belly—would add to the disguise. But he wanted his body back.
He took long walks in the baking heat, carting a sketch pad and a camera.
Vegas called to him like a siren with its swank hotels and crazed nightlife. Even Reno whispered. But he stayed away, hiked sun-blazed canyons—he’d melt those pounds away—and amused himself picturing the feds slogging through the rain and gloom in the north.
He’d left a trail a blind man could follow before he’d pushed the stolen Fiat into a lake, watched it sink.
They’d find it eventually. But eventually would be too late.
At night, he researched. He needed a place, and the canyons and desert would provide.
Plenty of off-the-grids in this wide world, and plenty of asshole prepper types bullshitting online in chat groups. He only needed one.
He took his time. If he intended to spend a few weeks, maybe even months in some weirdo’s cabin, he had to make sure he found the right one.
Someone without friends or relatives who might check on him. Someone who took prepping seriously enough to have a good supply of food, water laid in. A decent roof overhead.
He joined conversations under the handle “nowhereman,” asked for advice, stayed out of arguments. Advice led him to other groups, and other groups to more local pickings.
He researched the pickings, took the hikes and drives to get closer looks when possible. He ate burritos, greasy fries and hacked. He ate chips—the road had given him a serious addiction to chips he couldn’t shake—and drove to another flop motel.
He invested in a drone, flew it in the canyons, and got some decent aerial videos of a couple of the off-the-grids.
When he had it down to two most likely, he dug up the occupants’ names and researched.
And decided no contest between the forty-seven-year-old retired marine gunny—who looked as if he could eat boulders for breakfast—and the fifty-three-year-old widow with ropey arms who went by the handle “Prep4Jesus.”
Jane Boot and her husband James had settled in the nowhere between Gabbs and Two Springs, Nevada, twelve years before. Apparently, four years ago, he’d died of cancer they couldn’t pray away. Jane lived on. She kept a goat for milk, some chickens, butchered her own pigs, and had a smokehouse for the meat.
She believed, fanatically, in the Rapture, in Commies who ran all branches of the government, and in inevitable war that humanity would wage against aliens—either terrestrial or extra.
She devoured posts on QAnon sites faster than he ate chips.
Jane, and the not-so-recently-departed James, stood as anti-vaxxers, anti-government, anti-gay, anti-everything that didn’t include God and guns.
A certified nutcase in Rozwell’s opinion, with no children, one sister who had long since disavowed her, and internet access.
She’d had a dog, but she’d buried him alongside her husband the year before.
Rozwell expected she’d be well armed and more than willing to shoot an intruder dead as Moses. But he’d figure it out.
He lost three pounds—fifteen more to go—and his confidence built as he hacked into her accounts as smooth as a knife through soft butter.
She had a truck, of course, and from the ledger she kept on her computer, took a bimonthly trip, either to Gabbs or Two Springs, to sell eggs and goat’s milk and trinkets she made from cheap beads and tanned pigskin.
Gross.
She didn’t use Amazon, UPS, or FedEx, and had an iron gate and lines of barbed wire with plenty of KEEP THE HELL OUT signage guarding her dirt road and five dusty acres.
But she had a cabin, a shed, a well and indoor plumbing, and solar for power—something her handy husband had seen to before he took his dirt nap. Otherwise, Rozwell would’ve risked the marine.
He flew his drone. He watched. He waited.
One day he watched her go to the shed, and this time she drove out in the truck.
At last!
He watched her, like a vulture overhead, haul jugs of milk, cartons of eggs out of the cabin and into the coolers in the bed of the truck. Then she hauled out a crate—probably the trinkets—and loaded that in.
She had a shotgun and what he thought was a rifle in the gun rack in the back, and a gun of some sort strapped to her side.
She shut the shed door, snapped it secure with a padlock before going back to the cabin, another padlock on that door.
In her dusty boots and jeans, she looked skinny as a snake, but he’d bet she had some strength in her.
With the drone, he followed her as she drove down the dirt road, spewing up more dust. But he called it back before she reached the gate.
Since her last ledger entry listed Gabbs, he guessed she’d head east to Two Springs. He got back in his truck and pulled out a map as if consulting it if she turned his way.
It took time for her to reach the gate, unlock it, open it, drive through. Then get out, shut it, lock it again.
Then she drove east, and Rozwell knew his luck had changed.
He waited ten long minutes before assuring himself she wouldn’t double back. He couldn’t just bolt cut the padlocks, or she’d know. But he’d spent some quality time in his motel with padlocks and lockpicks and wikiHow.
He didn’t find it easy, and by the time he’d finessed the first one, the sweat rolled. It took him nearly a half hour to open all three, but he opened the gate. He went back for the truck, drove through, then locked up again behind him.
He’d thought this part through in the hours keeping watch or sitting in that motel room. He needed to get his truck well out of sight. He drove around the house, had to all but shimmy it through the side and the lean-to where the goat stood in the shade. It scraped the paint some, but what did he care?
He drove it back to where she’d strung several lines of barbed wire, to where sagebrush huddled.
He’d figured the angles from the drone. She wouldn’t see it if she drove to the shed, not with the house and brush blocking it. If she crossed to the chickens, she would.
But he’d be on her if she did that.
She had a lean-to at the back of the house—over another padlocked door—and the three-legged stool she used when she milked the goat.
Every damn window had shades pulled down tight so he couldn’t get a peek inside.
He got one of his water bottles out of the truck, went to sit on the stool in the shade.
He’d hear her coming in that rattletrap truck. He might as well relax awhile.
He played with his phone, drank water. Wished for an air-conditioned suite at the Plaza. No, a water view. The cacti and sand, the sheer canyon walls made him yearn for the water.
The Casa Cipriani if he stuck with New York.
Or he could imagine the Pacific. Post Ranch Inn, Big Sur.
Or …
And here she came. Rattle, rattle, clunk, clunk.
About damn time.
He got up, used his ears first, since he couldn’t risk his eyes.
He heard the truck stop, and yes, there it was, the creak of the shed.
Now he waited for the truck to shut off, the door to creak shut.
He had to take her from behind, planned on coming up on her after she unlocked the cabin door. She’d have her hands full. She always bought fresh fruit, some vegetables on these trips.
He heard the door shut and the snap of the padlock. Heard her bootsteps approach the house, so he slipped around the shed side of the house and pinned to the wall, sidestepped down.
Then her bootsteps stopped.
He risked a peek.
Her back was to him, her arms holding the crate with cloth bags in it. A carrot top poked out of one.
She looked down.
And he saw it, too. His tire tracks, his footprints.
She dropped the crate, reached for the gun at her side. And he was running.
She’d pulled the gun, started to spin toward him when he barreled into her. Like hitting a bag of bones, he thought as the gun flew.
They landed hard, hard enough he heard her head crack against the side of the narrow front porch. But it didn’t slow her down as she jabbed an elbow into his gut.
He didn’t see the knife until it sliced down his arm. But the pain, the smell of his own blood brought on the rage. He gripped her knife hand, twisted. He felt her wrist snap like a dry branch underfoot. And he rode her high-pitched scream as he pounded his fist into her face.
“You cut me!” His voice was like her scream as he pounded again, again. “You bitch! You whore!”
Her screams turned to gurgling moans as he beat her head against the edge of the porch.
She stopped gurgling. She went silent, went still. Now she only stared at him as he shoved up and clamped a hand over his arm.
Blood slid down, dripped off his fingers, stained the dirt, as hers did. She’d opened him up six inches between shoulder and elbow.
“I’m going to have a fucking scar, thanks to you!”
Furious at the thought, he kicked her, kicked her, then stomped her.
“See how you like it, you stupid old cunt!”
He knew she couldn’t feel the pain he wanted to give her, knew she’d been dead since before the first kick, but he couldn’t stop. Not until the effort and heat combined to make him dizzy.
He picked up the keys she’d dropped along with the crate, and left her there as he walked up and unlocked the door.
She’d have medical supplies—any prepper would.
He crossed the living area with its swaybacked sofa, single chair, and into the kitchen. Double the size of the living area, it had long counters—butcher block, probably the work of the handy husband. Open shelves ran along the walls, packed with canned goods, jarred goods, dry goods in glass jugs.
An old cabinet, maybe handmade, had a first aid kit, boxes of gauze, bottles of peroxide, antiseptics, alcohol, pain pills, bandages, the works.
He cleaned the gash in the kitchen sink. It stung like fire, bled in streams of red. Then, gritting his teeth, he dumped on peroxide, and that stung like the fires of hell.
Tears coursed down his cheeks, but he kept at it, used butterfly bandages to close the gash, slathered it with antiseptic, wrapped it in gauze.
He drank cold water straight from the faucet.
She had Excedrin Extra Strength, and he downed three.
Then he walked out and stared down at her. He’d be damned if he’d bury her, but he couldn’t leave her there. She’d start to stink, plus he didn’t want to look at her. Or risk somebody else with a drone taking a look.
He dragged her around the house. She left a wide smear of blood in the dirt, but he didn’t give a damn.
When he got to the barbed wire, he went through her pockets. Disgusting, but necessary. He found a small wad of bills, more keys, an old pocket watch, and a penknife.
He got the bolt cutters out of his truck, cut the wire, and dragged her farther away across the brush, into it.
Vultures and crows, he thought, they’d take care of the rest of her.
He drove his truck back, unloaded it onto the porch. He’d never leave anything behind in a room again, so he had all he needed. He carried the bolt cutters to the shed, dealt with the lock.
A little gold mine, he thought. More provisions neatly shelved, tools, animal feed. No room for the second truck, but no worries.
Carrying the bolt cutters, he walked back to the house, sneering at the blood path. He hauled up the crate to take the groceries in.
Waste not, want not.
A glance at his throbbing arm showed he’d bled through, so he changed the gauze before snapping the bolt on the door in the kitchen.
He expected some sort of laundry space, but stood surprised and smiling at the locked room.
She may have lived like a hermit in a cave, but she had a lot of tech. Solid tech, and he’d make good use of it. In addition to the electronics, she had a banquet of solar tools. Fire starters; flashlights; chargers; water purifiers; some sort of mini, foldable solar oven. A spare solar generator.
Invasions, Commies, civil war, or Rapture, he thought, Prep4Jesus had it all.
Including what he thought was an AR-15, or whatever the hell those whacked-out mass shooters loved, hanging on the wall next to a picture of Jesus.
He wandered like a boy in a toy store. And spotted the safe.
“Isn’t that a nice surprise?”
He wanted a shower, wanted to change, unpack, settle in. But tossed all that aside and began to hunt for the combination.
He did find a laundry space—an ancient washer, no dryer. A bathroom that would have to do, the single bedroom.
More pictures of Jesus, a tattered DON’T TREAD ON ME flag pinned to the wall.
In the closet, in a metal box with yet another padlock, he found papers. Old letters, copies of birth certificates, marriage license, the deed to the land he stood on, and the combination for the safe.
He went back, and since they’d bolted the safe to the floor, sat on the rough wood, followed the combination.
Inside he found cash. Smiling to himself, he sat there on the floor and began to count.
“Thirty-six thousand, three hundred and sixty-two dollars.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Jane, you dead whore, thanks for the tip!”
He got his shower, then dealt with his wound again. Put on fresh clothes.
Her towels were sandpaper, and a glance at her sheets said the same.
He’d make a trip into Two Springs—it was closest and nearly twice as big as Gabbs—buy new, Egyptian cotton. Some decent soap. With her money.
He tossed her clothes into the crate, and damned if he didn’t find more cash. Just a couple hundred hidden here and there, but cash was king.
Since all the work stirred his appetite, he got a nice, fat plum from her recent shopping spree.
The goat was bleating, the chickens cackling, the pair of pigs snorting. He’d enjoy the fresh eggs, but damn if he’d milk a goat even if he knew how. And he didn’t know how the fuck to butcher a pig.
Still, if the stupid animals starved to death, he’d have to deal with it.
To ward that off, at least for now, he went back to the shed, dug up the feed for the goat. He even pumped out water for its pail.
“I’m a frigging ranch hand, so I guess I’d better rustle up some grub.”
He found eggs, and plenty of them, and in a chest freezer pig meat, chickens that would no longer lay eggs. Rounds of bread marked with the dates.
Bitch made her own bread, for God’s sake.
He didn’t know how to cook any of the meat, but that’s what Google was for. Right now, he’d settle for eggs.
A hunt through her supplies netted him plenty of canned goods, and a couple of bottles of good whiskey.
He scrambled up some eggs, a little singed, but they filled the hole, had them with what remained of his bag of chips and two fingers of good whiskey.
While he ate, he made a list on his phone of what he needed when he went to Two Springs. Sheets, towels, soap, some good wine, cheese, flatbread crackers, more chips. Maybe some dip to go with them.
After dinner, he sat on the porch and realized, despite the burning arm, he felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. Weeks and weeks.
Part of it came from the kill. He’d felt just a little of that tingle, even though he’d killed her too hard, too fast. Like the eggs, it filled the hole.
And the rest? Knowing he had a place, had the time. They’d never find him here. Why would they even look? He was sun; they were rain.
They’d still be chasing their tails when he was ready to finish with long-legged Morgan.
That time would come.
But now? He thought he’d pour another whiskey and play with the toys Dead Jane had left him.
After all, he was now home sweet home.