Iris Johansen: Quicksand

The eighth book in the Eve Duncan series, 2008

SOMEONE WAS WATCHING HIM.

Henry Kistle's hand tightened on the curtain as he looked down, careful to stay hidden from view. There, in the shadow of the elm a short distance down the street, was a tall, thin man. He was talking on a cell phone. Who was he talking to? Who had managed to track him down this time?

Don't be nervous, he told himself. It didn't matter if one of them had found him. He had occasionally been found before and managed to survive. It was only a matter of removing the immediate threat and then running. But he saw to it that those bastards who made him run were always punished for it when he was safe again.

And the immediate threat was standing down there waiting for him to make a mistake. A surge of anger tore through him. It wasn't fair. He had a right to live and take whatever pleasure he could find in this crap yard of a world.

Who was it? A father, a brother, a cop? Which one?

It didn't matter. He'd find out. But he had to be ready to go. Grab a few clothes. Pack his guns, his precious memory box, and have everything in the car.

He turned away from the window.

Damn him. He didn't want to have to run now. He hadn't had his fill yet of this small, sleepy town. Cities were safer, but pitting his wits against these yokels was exciting. They felt so safe that he could walk into their lives and take whatever he pleased.

Oh, well, there would be another time.

Another town.

Another child…

Yes, another child…

"HE WENT INTO THE HOUSEat seven this evening and hasn't come out," Jedroth said into his cell phone. "The lights are still on. It's only eight-forty. They went out at eleven last night."

"And you're sure he didn't leave the place all night, Sheriff?" Joe Quinn asked.

"I may not be a big-city cop, but I know my business," Jedroth said sourly. "I wouldn't let a scumbag like that out of my sight."

"And surveillance during the day?"

"I have a deputy keeping an eye on him. But we can't keep spending the taxpayers' money without evidence. One more night and that's it."

"I don't have evidence. I just located Kistle late yesterday. I need more time."

"Look, I didn't set up this surveillance without checking you out. I have an idea why you're so hot to get your hands on this bastard. I'm going along with you because Kistle may be a threat to my town. But I've got to have more than your say-so."

"I understand. I'll be up there by eight tomorrow morning to take over. If you need to contact me again, don't use this number. The cell phone number I gave you will reach me."

"Get here as quick as you can." The sheriff paused. "But we're not going to quibble about a few hours. Kistle isn't going anywhere. I have a few questions to ask him. We had a little boy go missing three weeks ago. Bobby Joe's tennis shoes and shirt were found on the bank of the river and he was presumed drowned."

"No body recovery?"

"Not yet. It's a fast-moving river and there are branches on the bottom carried down from flooding up north. It would be easy for a swimmer to get trapped."

"It could happen."

"That's what I thought until you called me yesterday and asked me to order surveillance on Kistle. I hate child molesters. We know how to treat them in my town."

"I'm sure you do. Call me if he makes a move."

"If he makes a move on any of the kids in this town, he won't make another one." Jedroth hung up his cell phone, his gaze on the lights beaming from the second floor of the house across the street. The glow of a TV set was flickering against the wall now. What kind of programs did sick sons of bitches like Kistle watch? Old classic movies of Shirley Temple? Or maybe Cold Case Files or CSI to keep himself from making mistakes. When Jedroth was working in Chicago when he was a younger man, he'd run across a killer who'd studied all of those kinds of shows for that very reason.

And the system had let him learn and go free. Jedroth had seen it happen time after time. It wouldn't happen in his town. That's why he'd come back to Bloomburg after ten years. He could make a difference here.

Quinn was an Atlanta detective and dealt with red tape every day, but Jedroth had an idea that he'd understood and condoned his attitude toward Kistle. He'd gotten the impression Joe Quinn would slice through red tape with the force of a machete.

Machete. Hell, yes, that's what he'd like to use on that prick in that upstairs bedroom. Cut off his dick and then slice him to pieces.

Make your move, you slimeball. Give me a chance to bury you.

Lake Cottage

Atlanta

"YOU'RE LEAVING?" JANE MACGUIREstood in the doorway of Joe's bedroom, watching him throw clothes into a suitcase. "Hey, I just got here yesterday. Is it something I said?"

"I have business in Illinois." He smiled over his shoulder at her. "With any luck I should be back in a few days. Don't act as if either you or Eve will miss me. The two of you will be too busy catching up. She hasn't seen you in four months."

"We'll miss you." Jane frowned. "What business?"

"I have to interview a suspect." He changed the subject. "Will you drive me to the airport? I have to leave right away and I want Eve to have the Jeep."

"You're leaving without telling Eve good-bye?"

"She's at her mother's apartment for the day. It will be okay. I'll call her when I get to Bloomburg."

"Bullshit. What's happening, Joe?"

He should have known Jane wouldn't be deceived. His adopted daughter had grown up on the streets and she was very shrewd. Jane had been with them since she was ten years old and could read both him and Eve like the proverbial book. She'd recently graduated from college and was making a name for herself in the art world. Yet that artistic streak was balanced by toughness. "Okay, it will be easier if I don't have to talk to her. I don't want her asking questions."

"Why not?" She stiffened. "You've found Kistle?"

"I think so. I've found a Henry Kistle. I tracked him to Bloomburg, Illinois."

"He's the man who might have killed Bonnie?" she whispered.

"So Eve's been told. Montalvo's investigators unearthed three possible suspects. Kistle is one of them and the only one we were able to trace." He fastened his duffel bag. "It could all be a bunch of crap. I don't want Eve's hopes raised until I investigate Kistle."

"I don't think she thought it was crap. She trusted Montalvo."

"That she did," he said curtly. "He played her like a song."

"No one plays Eve," Jane said. "You should know that, Joe." She studied his expression. "What the hell happened down in Colombia?"

"Eve told you when she got back."

"She told me she was on a forensic sculpting job for Montalvo and that you were shot and almost killed." She paused. "She didn't tell me you hated his guts. Even though he was once a weapons dealer, she doesn't feel that way."

"We have an entirely different take on Montalvo." He started toward the door. "And we agree to disagree."

"You don't generally disagree on many things."

"Then this is the exception that proves the rule. Are you taking me to the airport?"

"Of course I am." She stood aside so that he could pass. "I need some more answers before you get on that plane."

"You won't get them."

"I can but try." She grinned. "I've been out of the loop too long because I've been closeted finishing those paintings for the last show. I should never have accepted Eve's story at face value. I had a hunch that there was something brewing…"