scoonts.theminotaur-第38节
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He sipped on his drink and thought about how it would be。 The life he had always wanted was right there within his grasp； so close； within inches。 But he was going to have to be realistic about the monsters； going to have to keep trotting。 No urine…soaked pajamas。 No screaming fits。 Amen。
He paid the tab and left two quarters on the bar。 Outside he forced himself to pause and examine the headlines on the newspaper in the vending stand。 Same old crap。 The world was still turning； things were burning down； trains were still crashing。。。
He walked the two blocks home with his head up； breathing the spring air。 It seemed just yesterday that it was so cold and miserable。 Spring is here。 And I've got a fortune in the bank and no one knows but me。
His neighbor was washing his car in the driveway。 〃Hey； Terry； how's it going？〃
〃Pretty good。 And you？〃
〃Just fine。 Say； I've been meaning to ask you。 How's the spy business？〃
Terry Franklin froze。
The asshole tossed his sponge into a bucket and wiped his hands on his jeans。 He grinned as he reached for his cigarettes。 〃Lucy has been telling Melanie that you're a spy。 I laughed myself sick。 So。。。〃
Terry didn't hear any more。 He lurched for the front door。
〃Lucy！〃 He slammed the door behind him and charged for the kitchen。 〃Lucy；〃 he bellowed； 〃you stupid…〃
Lucy was sitting with her mother drinking coffee at the counter。
Both women stared； openmouthed…
〃What…what does Jared mean…about Melanie？ What did you tell Melanie？〃 He thought he was doing pretty welt under the circumstances； staying calm and keeping the legs going。 But it came out as a roar。
〃Now listen here； Terry…〃 Lucy's mom began。
〃Lucy； I need to talk to you。〃 He grabbed her arm and half lifted her from the stool。 〃Now； Lucy。〃
〃Let go of her； Terry！〃
〃Mom Southworth； please！ I need to talk to…〃
〃No！〃 The old lady had a voice like a drill instructor。
〃Lucy； what did you tell that moron Melanie？〃
〃I told her that…〃
〃Get your hands off her； Terry。 I know all about you。 You stupid； greedy…〃 The older woman was fat； with two chins。 Just now Terry Franklin thought her the ugliest woman he had ever laid eyes on。
〃Shut up； you nosy old bitch！ What the hell are you doing here anyway？ Lucy； I want to talk to you。〃 He grabbed her arm and dragged her from the stool toward the downstairs half…bath。 He pulled her inside and slammed the door。 〃What in the name of God have you been saying to Melanie？〃
Lucy was scared witless。 〃Noth…〃
〃Did you tell her I was a spy？〃
Terry didn't need an answer； it was written all over her face。 The mother…in…law was pounding on the door and shouting。 Something about calling the police。
〃You…you…〃 he whimpered as his legs turned to wood and the monster's fetid breath engulfed him。
Lucy opened the door and slid out as he sagged down onto the floor and covered his face with his hands。 His whole life was shattered； smashed to bits by that silly； simple twit！
It was 8：30 P。M。 when Luis Camacho parked in front of Mrs。 Jackson's house and locked his car。 It was a delightful spring evening； still a nip in the air； but almost no wind。 The foliage was budding。 Summer was ing and the earth was ready。
As he walked down the street Camacho glanced at the crack house。 Someone was peering though a curtain on the second floor； he saw it move。 No one on the sidewalk。 Mrs。 Jackson's gate was ajar； but not a light showed through the curtains。
He mounted the stoop and rapped on the door。 As he waited he glanced around。 Street still empty。 Such a beautiful evening。 He knocked some more。 Perhaps she had gone to the store； or to a neighbor's？
Suddenly he knew。 He tried the knob。 It turned。 He pushed the door open several inches and called into the darkness； 〃Mrs。 Jackson？ Mrs。 Jackson； are you here？〃 He gingerly pushed the door open wider and reached under his jacket for the butt of the 。357 magnum on his right hip。
All the lights were off。 Camacho closed the door behind him and stood in the darkness listening with the revolver in his hand。
Nothing。 Not a sound。 Not a squeak； not a creak； nothing。
He waited； flexing his fingers on the butt of the gun。 All he could hear was the thud of his own heart…
Slowly； carefully； he groped for the light switch on the wall。
She was lying near the kitchen door with her right leg twisted under her； staring fixedly at the ceiling。 In the center of her forehead was a small red circle。 No blood。 She had died instantly。
With the revolver ready he went from room to room； turning on lights and glancing into closets。 Everything was neat； clean； tidy。 Satisfied that the killer was gone； he came back to the living room and stood looking at Mrs。 Jackson。 He stooped and touched her cheek。 She had been dead for hours。 Around the bullet hole in her forehead was a black substance。 A powder burn。
The phone was in the kitchen。 Her purse sat beside it； the catch still latched。 Camacho wrapped his handkerchief loosely around the telephone receiver before he picked it up。 He dialed with a pen from his shirt pocket。 As he waited for the duty officer to answer； he idly noticed that the fire under the coffeepot had been turned off。 A professional hit。 With any luck the body would not have been discovered for days and the time of death would have been problematic。
〃This is Special Agent Camacho。〃 He gave them the address。 〃I've discovered a corpse。 Better send the forensic team and the D。C。 police liaison officer。 And call Dreyfus at home and ask him to e over。〃
Back in the living room he tried to avoid looking at Mrs。 Jackson。 Something shiny in a candy dish on the sideboard caught his eye。 He stepped carefully over the body and bent to look。 A spent 。22 caliber Long Rifle cartridge。 The killer hadn't bothered to retrieve the spent casing！ And why should he？ Twenty…two caliber fire ammunition was sold everywhere and was virtually untraceable。 But how had this shell got here？
He went back to the corpse and stood near it。 Then he stooped down and felt her head carefully。 Another bullet hole in the back of her head。 Okay； where is the second shell？
The FBI agent got down on his hands and knees and looked under everything。 He found it in a corner； half hidden by the edge of the carpet； bearing the Remington 〃U〃。 Camacho didn't touch it。
So Mrs。 Jackson had opened the door and admitted her killer。 Locks not forced or scratched up。 She had started back toward the kitchen； the killer behind； and he had shot her in the back of the head。 She had died on her feet and collapsed where she stood。 He had walked over to her and fired a second shot into her brain with the pistol held inches from her face。 That shell casing was ejected by the pistol into the candy dish。 The killer had then proceeded on through the house； checking for other people； turning off lights； turning off the stove； making sure nothing would cause a fire or call attention to the house。 Then he had left and closed the door carefully behind him。 He hadn't bothered to lock it。 Even that was smart。 No doubt the assassin had worn gloves； so he left no fingerprints。 If the local punks tried the knob and came in to see what they could steal； they would probably not be so sophisticated； and they would automatically bee the prime suspects in Mrs。 Jackson's murder。 All very slick。
The bastard！
Camacho was standing by the front window looking at the crack house when the lab van pulled up； followed immediately by a sedan with city plates and two sedans with U。S。 government tags。 Two hours later the forensic team and the other people departed with the body。 Dreyfus and a lieutenant from the D。C。 force remained with Luis Camacho。
〃When are you going to raid that crack house； shut it down？〃 Camacho asked the question of the plainclothes lieutenant as he jerked his head at the building across the street。
〃Who says it's a crack house？〃
〃What're you afraid of？ Think the mayor might be in there？〃
〃Listen； asshole！ If you've got any evidence that dwelling is being used for illegal purposes； I'd like to see it。 We'll do some affidavits； find a judge and get a warrant。 Then we'll raid the place。 Now are you all hot air or do you have some evidence？〃
〃We have a statement from a woman now dead。 We sent a copy over to you guys three days ago。〃
〃I saw that statement； then routed it to the narcs。 All it said was that there was suspicious activity over there。 A little old woman thought something nasty was going on in her neighborhood。 Big fucking deal！ No judge in this country would have called that probable cause and issued a warrant； even if that statement had been sworn； which it wasn't。 Now where's the goddamn evidence？〃
〃Whatever happened to 'usually reliable sources'？〃
The lieutenant didn't reply。
〃All you guys roust belong to the ACLU。〃 Camacho stood looking at the house； the peeling paint； the mortar missing from the brick joints； the trash in front of the place； the light leaking around drawn blinds。 Just then a large old Cadillac hardtop came around the corner and drifted slowly to a stop at the curb。 Four young black men got out。 One went up the steps toward the door of the house； which opened before he reached it and closed behind hi
