The Good Killer Read online

  Other things too: cheese and crackers, apple slices, honey-glazed almonds. As if they’re old friends getting together.

  Molly appreciates the kindness. Sean seems uneasy, perching on the edge of the sofa when Howard Frazier invites them to sit. Theresa offers wine. Molly asks for water instead. Frazier wants to start with the shootings at the mall in Houston, and soon Sean is telling the story—Frazier interrupting him occasionally to ask for details, writing notes on a yellow pad.

  As the story goes on, Sean seems to relax, leaning back into the cushions. Theresa excuses herself; she has another batch of cookies to check on. Molly follows her and asks if there’s a bathroom she can use. Theresa points her down a hall.

  It’s a modest powder room, hardly bigger than a closet, but there are little homey touches that remind Molly of the Webbers’ farm: lace curtains on the window, a clamshell bowl of scented soaps. Hard to believe she was there only this morning.

  Afterward she looks in on Sean and Howard Frazier, still talking, and wanders into the kitchen. Theresa has a tray of cookies cooling on the counter. She’s pouring herself a glass of red wine.

  “You look lost,” she says to Molly. “No. Lost is the wrong word. You look like you’re not sure you should be here.”

  “Do I?”

  Theresa nods. “For one thing, you haven’t taken off your coat.”

  It’s true. Molly smiles sheepishly. But she doesn’t make a move to take it off.

  “You can relax,” Theresa says. She gestures at the wine bottle. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?”

  Molly’s right hand moves reflexively to her stomach. “I can’t.”

  Theresa looks her over, understanding. “For heaven’s sake,” she says.

  Then she’s asking how far along Molly is. All Molly has is a guess: two months, she thinks. Theresa wants to know if there’s anything she needs, how long she was on the road today, if she’d like to lie down.

  “I don’t want to put you out,” Molly says.

  “You silly girl,” Theresa says. “I’ve already fixed a room for you.”

  Tom Clinton and Lincoln Reed

  Clinton looks out through the windshield of the Explorer and it’s as if everything’s frozen: the house and the garage and the white truck in the driveway. Four people in the house, at least, and he can imagine them frozen too. But they’re in there, doing something, and time is ticking away.

  “I’m waiting.” Reed says.

  Clinton keeps his eyes on the house. “For what?”

  “For you to come up with a big idea.”

  Clinton has one, but it’s far from big. “Open the glove box,” he says.

  “What’s in the glove box?” Reed asks.

  “What I brought along, instead of ski masks.”

  It’s a GPS tracker. Reed takes it out and weighs it on his palm.

  “What are we doing with this?” he says.

  “It’s linked to my phone,” Clinton tells him. “We put it in the truck and we’ll know where they go when they leave here.”

  “That’s smart,” Reed says. “Or it would be, if there was any reason to think they’re gonna leave in the truck.”

  “They might.”

  “If you’re in trouble and you go to a lawyer,” Reed says, “that generally means you’re ready to turn yourself in. So my money’s not on them leaving in the truck. When they go, they’ll go with Frazier or in the back of a cruiser.”

  Clinton knows it’s probably true. But the tracker is the best chance they have. Their other option is to call Adam Khadduri and admit defeat.

  “Go on,” Clinton says. “Put it in the bed of the truck or in the cab behind one of the seats.”

  “Seriously?” says Reed. “Why do I have to do it?”

  Molly Winter

  “I’ve already fixed a room for you,” Theresa Frazier says. “Howard will want to go over everything three times at least, and your young man seems very intense. They’ll be up half the night, I’m sure. But you don’t need to be. My advice is to have a bath and go to bed.”

  Molly doesn’t know if she’ll be able to sleep, but the prospect of a bath is tempting. She decides to give in.

  “I need to bring some things in from the truck,” she says.

  There’s a side door off the kitchen. Theresa unlocks it for her. “I’ll help you,” she offers.

  “No, no,” Molly says. “I can do it myself.”

  Jimmy Harper

  It’s an act of discipline, staying in the car.

  Jimmy wants to get closer. Wants to creep up to a window of the Frazier house and see what’s going on inside. But he bides his time. His chance will come, he thinks.

  He doesn’t know how, but not knowing is part of it. He has to be patient.

  Clinton and Reed seem to have the same idea. The black Ford Explorer sits on the street, in the shadows under a tree.

  Jimmy doesn’t see the Explorer’s passenger door open. He doesn’t realize anything’s happening until he sees a tall figure walking along the sidewalk.

  It’s Lincoln Reed. Jimmy recognizes him when he turns to follow the curve of the Fraziers’ driveway. A bold move, nothing furtive about it. Reed steps to the back of the pickup truck as if it belongs to him. He lifts a corner of the bed cover and reaches into his pocket.

  Then his head snaps toward the house, as if he’s heard something. Whatever’s in his pocket stays there. Three quick strides take him to the front of the Fraziers’ garage. He stands with his back pressed against the garage door.

  And Molly comes out from around the side of the house.

  Lincoln Reed

  The girl comes right to him and there’s no time for planning or finesse.

  Reed rushes her as soon as she steps into view, maneuvers to get behind her, one arm around her waist, one hand clapped over her mouth.

  She bites him.

  He pulls his hand away and punches the side of her neck, but it’s a weak blow. She’s squirming. He realizes at the last moment that she’s reaching for something in the pocket of her coat. He grabs her wrist and yanks it out. Sees the gun, a little silver lady pistol.

  He jerks her arm so that when she fires, the gun is aiming at the ground.

  Just one shot and then he spins her around and slams her gun hand against the corner of the garage. The pistol flies from her grip and into the grass.

  Jimmy Harper

  Jimmy watches things unfold from across the street. The gunshot, when it comes, makes him flinch. It’s followed shortly after by a revving engine: the Ford Explorer rushing up the street and into the Fraziers’ driveway.

  It brakes to a stop behind the pickup, and Lincoln Reed lifts Molly onto his shoulder and scrambles into the back with her.

  Frazier’s wife is the first one out of the house. She’s just in time to see the Ford Explorer reverse out of the driveway and tear off southward.

  Then Sean charges from the front door, with Frazier trailing behind him.

  Sean Tennant

  The gunshot makes him fear the worst.

  He expects to see Molly lying on the ground, but she’s not there and there’s no blood. There’s only Theresa Frazier, apologizing. Shouldn’t have let her come out here alone.

  A black SUV, she says. I didn’t get the license plate. I’m sorry. It went so fast.

  She’s pointing south down the street. That way.

  Howard Frazier has his cell phone out, calling 911.

  Sean runs to the pickup truck, Frazier shouting after him to wait.

  Jimmy Harper

  Jimmy has a moment of indecision.

  As soon as he sees Sean, he gets out of the car. His Ruger pistol in his right hand.

  Sean is maybe thirty yards away. It’s a shot Jimmy could make. But he doesn’t raise the gun.

  If he kills Sean now, will he need to kill the lawyer, too, and the lawyer’s wife?

  It’s too much to process, and things are happening too quickly. Jimmy watches Sean climb into
the pickup, and there’s a second when Sean is pulling the truck’s door shut and he stops.

  Sean sees him.

  They’re locked together.

  Jimmy can see Sean waver.

  Then the door closes, and the pickup truck is on the move. It swings along the curve of the driveway and speeds off down the street after the Ford Explorer.

  Sean Tennant

  “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

  Sean doesn’t know how many times he hears the words before he realizes he’s the one saying them.

  He’s talking to himself out loud, the way he used to do when he was a child.

  He makes himself stop and focus on the road ahead. He’s driving too fast and not fast enough. There’s no black SUV in sight.

  He comes to the southern end of Wesley Road and has to make a decision. It’s a T junction with Kingston Pike. He has to go east or west. He chooses west.

  After a little more than a mile, there are signs for Interstate 40. He follows them and takes the ramp: I-40 westbound.

  “You’re guessing,” a voice says. Not his own this time.

  Cole’s.

  Sean glides into the passing lane. Gets his speed up to eighty.

  “Brilliant,” Cole says. “Don’t know where you’re going, but you’re making really good time.”

  Sean ignores him, scanning ahead for a black SUV.

  “So many questions,” Cole says. “Like, how did Jimmy find you? That one’s easy. Somebody at the restaurant squealed about the lawyer. You thought all those people were on your side.”

  Sean passes a little red Mazda, a semitruck, a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. No SUVs.

  “Another question,” Cole says. “Why didn’t you shoot Jimmy back there? That’s a puzzler. Maybe you didn’t want to do it in front of your lawyer.”

  “He’s not my lawyer,” Sean says.

  “No. Not now, I guess. But you never really wanted a lawyer. You were doing it for her. That’s ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What do you think they’ll do to her? There’s a question. And who are they? Who took her?”

  “People working for Jimmy,” Sean says.

  “Maybe.”

  “Or for Khadduri.”

  “There you go. If it’s Khadduri, maybe you can get her back. You’ve got something he wants. Forty-four somethings.”

  Sean spots a dark SUV, though it looks more blue than black. He accelerates to draw up alongside it. There’s a white-haired woman driving.

  “She looks sinister,” Cole says. “But I wouldn’t peg her as a kidnapper.”

  There’s a U-Haul van up ahead. Sean slides into the right lane to pass it. He hopes he’ll find what he’s looking for on the other side, but there’s nothing but gray highway stretching out ahead of him. He wonders if he should exit and go back. Maybe the SUV drove east.

  He lets a minute pass, and another. He looks in the rearview mirror and sees a set of headlights, close.

  “He’s back there,” Cole says. “You knew that, right? He’s been following you. What are you gonna do about him?”

  Jimmy Harper

  Jimmy doesn’t know which way Clinton and Reed went, and it seems clear to him now that Sean doesn’t either.

  He glances at his fuel gauge: his tank is three-quarters full. He can drive a fair distance without stopping. He wonders if Sean can do the same.

  It’s tempting to try to make something happen: to speed up and tap the bumper of the pickup, to flash his high beams. He doesn’t do either.

  There’s an exit coming up. Sean zips across the right lane and onto the ramp. Jimmy does the same, slipping between a VW Beetle and a semi.

  At the light at the end of the exit ramp, Sean turns south. Onto Campbell Station Road, heading into a city called Farragut.

  Less than a mile later, there’s another traffic light. Jimmy watches it turn yellow. Sean’s brake lights flare, as if he’s going to stop. But at the last instant he races ahead and makes a left turn through the intersection.

  Jimmy has to stop to let a tow truck pass, but when it’s through he runs the red light and follows Sean.

  He doesn’t need to go far. Up ahead there’s a sign: FARRAGUT HIGH SCHOOL. Jimmy sees a long, single-story building. Brick and steel and glass.

  The white pickup is there, in front of the building.

  Jimmy stops behind it, a dozen feet back. Cuts his engine, takes the key. Outside, the night is quiet.

  The windows of the building are dark, but there are security lights up high on the corners.

  Jimmy approaches the pickup with his gun held down at his side. He reaches the tailgate and moves cautiously to the driver’s door. The cab is empty.

  “We don’t have to do this, Jimmy.”

  Sean’s voice, coming from a distance. From the northern end of the building. Around a corner. Out of sight.

  “Act like a man,” Jimmy says. “Don’t hide from me. Come out.”

  He walks to the corner of the building. Waits for a few seconds. Listening. Then rounds the corner suddenly with his gun raised, his finger on the trigger.

  No one there. Just a length of brick wall.

  Sean’s voice comes to him across the distance, from around the next corner.

  “Who took her, Jimmy? I need to know. Was it your people?”

  “It was Khadduri’s,” Jimmy says.

  “Are you working with them? Can you get her back?”

  “Khadduri and I want different things,” Jimmy says, moving slowly along the brick wall. “You know what he wants. He wants what you took from him.”

  “I still have the cylinder seals,” Sean says. “He can have them. But I need her back.”

  “Don’t talk to me about it,” Jimmy says. “You know I don’t give a damn about those stones.”

  He listens for a reply as he comes to the next corner of the building.

  Nothing.

  He stops with his back against the brick wall.

  “You still with me?” he says.

  When there’s no answer, he spins around the corner.

  No Sean. Just more wall. This time the brick surface is broken up by windows. Black squares of glass leading to a covered alcove in the distance: one of the entrances to the school. There’s more brick and glass on the other side of the entrance, leading away to the building’s south end.

  Jimmy makes his way toward the alcove. He moves slowly with his gun up. Sean could be there, hiding by the entry doors. From this angle, Jimmy wouldn’t see him.

  “I’ll make a bargain with you,” Jimmy says. “You tell me where the seals are, and I’ll take them to Khadduri myself. I’ll make sure Molly goes free. You have my word. All you have to do is come out.”

  Jimmy listens for an answer, but there’s nothing. Just nighttime sounds: the low buzz of the security lights, the hum of crickets somewhere far away. He’s coming up to the alcove and he believes that Sean is there, waiting.

  Jimmy has been keeping close to the wall, but now he angles away from the building, taking the last few steps at a jog and aiming his gun at the entryway. He sees movement and he almost fires, but it’s not Sean. It’s his own rough reflection in the glass of one of the entry doors.

  The alcove is empty.

  Which means Sean went on to the south end of the building.

  Jimmy spins that way just as Sean emerges from around the corner. Jimmy has time to bring his gun around for one wild shot. Then the first slug hits him square in the chest and drives all the air from his lungs.

  Sean Tennant

  Sean hears a shattering of glass, but he doesn’t let it distract him. He fires his Glock three times and watches Jimmy drop to the pavement at the entryway to the school.

  Afterward, a few remaining shards of glass come loose from their frame and fall away. Sean looks left and sees the broken window. The result of Jimmy’s stray bullet.

  At that point, Jimmy is still moving.

  He’s
lying on his back and his gun is on the ground nearby. His right arm stretches out away from his body. His fingers walk over the surface of the pavement, searching for the gun. But it’s out of reach.

  Sean steps closer to him. Not too close.

  He doesn’t want to be too close.

  “I told you we didn’t have to,” Sean says. “This is not what I wanted.”

  He stands in the dull yellow glow of the security lights. He knows he can’t stay, though he thinks he should. He’s not quite looking, not directly, but he sees when Jimmy’s fingers go still.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  29

  Sean Tennant

  “How do you feel?” Cole asks.

  He wasn’t there at the school. But now as Sean drives away, he’s back.

  “You did it,” Cole says. “I know how you are. You had it all built up in your head. The big bad wolf. But he hit the dirt just like anybody else. Three to the chest—”

  “Shut up,” Sean says.

  “You’re making too much of it is all I’m trying to say.”

  Sean sees the sign for I-40. He steers the truck up the ramp and gets on. Eastbound.

  “I don’t blame you,” Cole says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Jimmy Harper

  Jimmy hears sirens.

  He’s sitting up. He has his jacket unzipped and he’s working on the buttons of his shirt.

  He wants to take the vest off. As if that’s the thing that’s hurting him.

  A long time ago he used to play baseball. Center field. Once, the star hitter on the other team slammed a high fly ball his way. Jimmy got under it but didn’t bring his glove up in time. The ball bounced off his chest.

  This is maybe a thousand times worse. Like being hit by a train.

  Focus.

  The sirens are faint, but he can’t ignore them.