“You going to wait for them before you check out the opening?” Marge asked.
“No. If Luerchen’s there, he’ll need help. Tell everyone I’m in the trees so don’t shoot me.”
“Understood, Marty. Please be careful.”
“Will do. I’ll call when I know more.”
No sense assuming a jacked-up cop wouldn’t take a shot at a heavily armed man prowling the woods, so he popped his trunk and slipped on his body armor. Sheriff glowed atomic yellow from both sides. He cinched the straps tight, then pulled out the M-4 combat assault rifle he kept for emergency firepower.
He jacked in a round of .223, tucked the butt into his shoulder, and walked into the woods, feeling a little bad about the heart-attack joke.
Emily divided the lobby into three-foot squares. She tucked her gloved hands behind her back and searched each square in order.
She stopped, cocking her head.
“What?” Branch asked.
“There’s two burnt matches. Behind the door.”
“¿Que?”
Emily squatted, wincing at the ripple in her calf. They were wood. Eighth-inch square, two inches long. Kitchen matches - Ohio Blue Tip or a clone. Available anywhere in the world.
She closed her eyes and visualized scraping one against the sandpapery strip glued to the cardboard box. The bulb head flared bright orange, then steadied. The flame crawled down the stick. When it ran out of wood - or hit a finger - it died.
She opened her eyes, compared visualization to reality.
Pretty close. The bulb heads were charcoaled. But the burns ended right away - the sticks were untouched. Suggesting the matches were lit and immediately extinguished.
She relayed the information, and Branch pointed to the mood candles.
“I’ve visited this spa enough,” Emily said, shaking her head, “to know they light their candles with butane torches.”
“That’s not it, then. Do they allow smoking?”
She pointed to the large slash-in-a-circle over the water cooler. “They called nine-one-one once when a guy wouldn’t put out his cigarette. And he was out on the sidewalk.”
“Smoke Nazis,” Branch grumped, shifting his grip on the cane. “Interesting where you found those matches.”
“Behind a door, and nowhere close to a desk or chair,” she said. “I think it’s a clue.”
“Almost certainly.”
“But what on earth could it mean?”
“Hey, you’re the detective,” Branch said. “Find out.”
Marty hissed when he saw what hung from the bumper. He took a close look, hissed again.
Backed slowly out of the crime scene.
1:54 p.m.
The kid at the window snatched the Executioner’s twenty. Mumbled into the headset. Played the register like a Steinway. Made change. A few minutes later, he handed over a bag with an oil stain so translucent the burger wrappers showed.
The Executioner drove to the parking area.
He unwrapped his food, ate quickly. He loved that first hot spurt of beef juice. How it so nicely coated his tongue and ran down his throat. Marvelous. Good thing he ordered three. Even with the bologna sandwiches at home, he was starving.
Killing did that.
He finished the second burger, bit into the last-
Froze.
A Naperville black-and-white was nosing into the lot. The burly cop behind the wheel wasn’t heading for the drive-through.
The Executioner’s thighs went numb.
Thirty minutes earlier he’d crept past the mud spa, gawking at the circus like a hundred other drivers. He looked for Windshield Emily. She wasn’t there. He looked harder, becoming so distracted he drifted into oncoming traffic.
He was saved by the screech of the oncoming car.
The Executioner waved, then ducked his head in what would look like shame but was really to hide his unbearded face. The other driver kept going, apparently accepting his “apology.”
Now this.
The cop crept up one aisle of parked vehicles, down the next. Stopped to bring a radio mike to his lips. Hopped out of the cruiser to peer into a car.
The burgers congealed in his belly. His extremity numbness spread. His thin lips parted to suck extra oxygen, and his field of vision narrowed. He recognized the feeling - adrenaline dump. Telling his body to fight or flee.
He untucked his shirt, wrapped his fingers around the Sig. The checkered grips bit into his gloved, finely scarred palm.
The cop crept closer.
He gripped tighter.
Closer.
Tighter.
He flicked the window button. The electric purr sounded like a chainsaw, so acute were his senses. August humidity swirled through the Land Rover. It mixed with the frigid AC and shot dew all over his windshield.
The cop pulled even.
Looked up at him.
The Executioner prepared to fire . . .