William Krueger - The Devil's bed

“I copy that,” the Op Center replied.

The locks on the back door took him only moments, and he was quickly inside the house, standing in the darkened kitchen. He knew that the agent on duty inside preferred the comfort of the living room, and he began to creep in that direction. He’d taken only a few steps when an old board beneath his foot sent a squeal into the quiet of the house. A moment later, a gray shadow touched the door frame. Nightmare knelt in a firing position. The agent stepped into the doorway and reached for the light switch. Nightmare fired twice at the silhouette, the silencer thumping as it spit out the rounds, the lead slugs thumping again as they slammed into flesh and bone. Nightmare put a new clip into the Beretta. He stepped over the downed agent and started up the stairs to the second floor. Slipping along the hallway, he passed the rooms he knew were occupied by Annie Jorgenson, Earl Jorgenson, and Nicole Greene, and he stood finally at the threshold of the First Lady’s bedroom. Light from inside filtered under the door. On the monitor in the van parked on the highway, he’d watched her prepare for bed, slide under the covers, and lift a book from the nightstand. He figured she must still be reading. The knob turned easily and silently in his grip. He edged the door open.

She sat propped up against a pillow. The book lay open on her lap. Her eyes were closed. Her chin rested on her chest. The headboard that framed her was walnut, an antique. A beautifully carved angel with spread wings hovered above each of her shoulders. Nightmare smiled grimly. A fat lot of good they would do her now.

Her eyelids fluttered open at the touch of the silencer against her forehead.

“Waking you with a kiss seemed so cliche,” he whispered.

She spoke not a word, but her eyes seemed to struggle for some kind of understanding as they stumbled between the barrel against her forehead and the face of her assailant. A small gasp escaped her lips. He put a finger to them, a warning against crying out.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head, barely more than a quiver against the silencer.

“You ruined my life and you don’t remember.”

“Who…” she began, but her voice failed her.

“David Moses,” he answered.

It took a moment to register, but he saw that it did, and that pleased him.

“No,” she pleaded softly. “Please, no.”

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “But not here. We’re going for a walk, you and me. We’re going to look at the moon together one last time.”

Bo pulled out of River Falls, heading southwest toward the bridge at Prescott. The moon was just about to set. The night was dark, and the sky was full of stars. He drove with the windows down. The wink of fireflies filled the fields along the road, and from the marshes came the bellow of bullfrogs. It would have been a lovely night if Bo hadn’t been so troubled by what he’d learned from the priest.

He’d been looking for a connection between Tom Jorgenson and David Moses, something powerful enough to be a motive for murder. He believed he’d found it-the confrontation long ago between the two that had brought an end to any hope Moses might have had for a normal life. Still, a lot of questions remained. If the motive was an old grudge held by a disturbed man, why act now? Why, after all these years, after a whole lifetime of opportunity, was Moses only just now making his move? And why all the complications-the hospital job, the charade of Max Ableman, the “accident” in the orchard? Why hadn’t he just killed Jorgenson and been done with it?

His cell phone chirped. It was Coyote.

“Where are you, Bo?”

“Crossing the river into Minnesota. I’m heading back to Wildwood.”

“I’ve got some interesting news.”

“Shoot.”

“Luther Gallagher’s credit cards show a lot of unusual activity in the last month. Expensive purchases of sophisticated electronics. We’re talking monitors, receivers, minidome cameras, pinhole cameras, audio transmitters, telephone transmitters.”

“Surveillance,” Bo said.

“Bingo.”

“Of whom? Jorgenson?”

“Well, so far he’s the only item on the menu.”

Bo thought a moment. Things began to click. “Stu, I’ve got to go.” Without waiting for an answer, he broke the connection and punched in the number of the Op Center at Wildwood.

“Agent Foster.”

“Adam, this is Bo Thorsen.”

“Evening, Bo. What’s up?”

“Let me speak with Jake Russell.”

“He’s out fixing a camera. Damn squirrel chewed through the line again.”

“Is Manning there?”

“Yeah. Want me to get him?”

“Thanks.”

It seemed to take Chris Manning forever to come on the line. “What is it, Thorsen?”

“David Moses. He’s got a possible motive for murder, and not just Tom Jorgenson. I think he may be after the First Lady as well.”

“What have you got?”

“Moses worked at Wildwood a long time ago. Some pretty hard shit went down, things that could easily have made Moses bitter against the Jorgensons, Kathleen as well as Tom. I’ve been wondering why he didn’t just kill Tom Jorgenson in the orchard. Maybe it’s because he wanted to use the father as bait to lure the daughter here.”

“Are you saying the First Lady has been his target all along?”

“He probably wants both of them dead. Look, Chris, he bought a lot of surveillance equipment in the last month. I think he may have bugged Wildwood.”

On his end of the line, Manning was quiet for a moment. “We never ran a sweep.”

“I recommend you put additional agents on the First Lady, and you do it now.”

Bo heard Manning talking to Adam Foster. “Thorsen, I’m staring at the perimeter screen, following the dots that are your agents patrolling out there. Everybody’s moving. We’ve had no indication of a breach. So we seem to be fine at the moment. I’m heading out to talk to Jake Russell right now. I’ll have him put additional people in the orchard. Then I’ll stand post in the main house myself.”

“All right, Chris. I’m on my way.”

Bo looked at his watch. Another five minutes and he’d be at Wildwood. He bore down on the accelerator.

Nightmare held the gun to her head as he guided the First Lady down the stairs. She hesitated and audibly caught her breath when she saw the agent lying on the floor inside the kitchen doorway.

“Step over the body.” Nightmare pushed her forward. “Mind the blood.”

He led her to the back door, opened it, and forced her outside.

“Oh, God,” she said, catching sight of the agent on the ground at the foot of the ladder.

“Don’t waste pity on the dead,” he advised.

“He had a family,” she shot back.

“Then he should have been an accountant. Into the orchard.”

They hadn’t taken a step when Nightmare heard the distant shutting of the door to the guesthouse. He shoved the First Lady against the wall, face first, muzzle of the silencer pressed hard against the back of her head. “Not a sound,” he whispered.

He peered around the corner of the house and watched the agent walking in the glare of the yard light. The agent was headed for the front door of the main house but saw the ladder and changed direction, coming straight toward the shadows where Nightmare waited. As soon as the agent spotted the body and reached for his weapon, Nightmare pulled the muzzle of the silencer away from its kiss of the First Lady. He dropped the agent with one shot in the chest.

“Please, God,” the First Lady whispered, “this can’t be happening.”

“It takes a while to adjust to hell,” he said, and he yanked her toward the orchard.

They moved rapidly. Nightmare saw clearly the sweep of the limbs that hung in their way, but the woman kept getting caught in the low branches, slowing them down. She tried to talk as they walked.