Scott Free, Page 5

  It was too much to get into.

  “Because I told you, this is how it’s getting done,” Hanlon said. “And that’s that.”

  He stared John down, waiting for the bigger man to protest, but John accepted it. Seemed he wanted to move along with the plan and saw no sense in stalling. That was good.

  “Going through the window feels a touch complicated,” Paul said.

  “It’s too risky to bring him out through the front,” Hanlon said. “If he yells, if he puts up a struggle, if someone comes out of their room, we’re going to have an issue. Has to be like this. I slip in, we get him out. Once you’ve got him safely in the van, I’m going to strip the room down, leave a little tip and a note on the counter, so when the maid comes through in the morning, it looks like he checked out in a rush. John and Kat, you go back to my car and wait for me. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “And this is going to work?” Paul asked. Clearly not believing it was going to work.

  Daisy pushed her body into him a little, an annoyed look on her face. John looked ready to say something, but Hanlon spoke first.

  “This is the best plan we’ve got,” said Hanlon. “Now, everyone take one of these and put your phone in.”

  He handed out small felt pouches that were rigid on the inside, and closed with a small flap and button. Susan took the stack and passed them out.

  “What are these?” Daisy asked.

  “It’ll block the signal on your phones. This way if any kind of suspicion falls on any of you, nobody can go back and track your movements.”

  “Why not get burners?” Paul asked. “Like in the movies.”

  “One, because we don’t have time,” Hanlon said. “Two, because burners come with their own risks.” He opened the passenger door of the van and pulled out a black messenger bag. “Now, all of them, in here.”

  The parents slowly followed the order, softly placing their phones in the bag. When it was Paul’s turn, he paused, seeming to think too long and too hard about it. Hanlon was about to say something when John got in front of him. For a second Hanlon thought John was going to hit Paul, but he just put his hands on Paul’s shoulders and looked him in the eye.

  “We need you on this,” he said, his voice earnest. Almost desperate. “Okay Paul? Can you do this? Please?”

  Paul nodded. Dropped his phone in the bag.

  They were ready to go. Hanlon climbed into the passenger seat as John got behind the wheel, doors slamming and the engine turning over.

  It was time.

  Chapter 13

  Susan Kennelly

  JOHN REACHED INTO the open driver-side window and took Susan’s hand.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too,” she said, offering a soft smile in return.

  “For John Junior,” he said, squeezing her hand. He leaned in and kissed her. His stubble raked her face like sandpaper and it hurt, but when he pulled away, she kept on smiling.

  She knew better than to disagree with John.

  She knew better than to make him angry.

  As John walked around the front of the car, Susan exhaled.

  She hated this. The very idea of killing someone made her physically sick. She’d thrown up twice already, when no one was looking. But the idea of saying no to John was a nonstarter. With the state he was in, thirsty for blood, she didn’t trust what he would do. So she’d be the good wife, follow along. Because it was easier.

  John took his spot by the window next to Kat, peering inside, but the curtain was closed. Paul was in the back, sitting on the floor of the van, his head in his hands, holding a bundle of zip ties. John had a handful of them, too.

  “Are you ready for this?” Daisy asked from the passenger seat.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Susan said, fake-smiling.

  “We have to do it,” Daisy said. “Knowing he had Jian’s picture, I won’t sleep. I’ll never sleep another night that he’s alive.”

  Susan wondered what it was like, having another child. The pain of losing one while still having to comfort and console the other. She wondered if it hurt more or less. She’d never know. John Junior was their first, and it was a difficult pregnancy. The doctor had told her having another child would be too risky, so they decided that their family was complete with the three of them.

  And now it wasn’t.

  With John Junior in the house, John had mellowed. Not that he’d been a violent man before—he’d never raised his hands against her—but sometimes Susan thought it was only a matter of time. Sometimes he would get so angry, his voice growing so loud, Susan was amazed no one ever called the police. She imagined the neighbors turning up the volume on the television, closing the windows, figuring it would be best just to ignore it.

  And it was over such little things, too. The dishes would sit in the sink for a little while, because she had errands to run or laundry to do, and suddenly John would erupt.

  Things weren’t perfect, but with John Junior they’d gotten notably better. Especially as John Junior got older, more engaged, understood more about what was happening around him. The boy had made her husband into a kinder, gentler man.

  And now the loss of her son would make John into a murderer.

  She closed her eyes, breathed in through her mouth, out through her nose, like she learned in yoga class, but it didn’t help. She didn’t feel any calmer. Watched as Daisy flipped down the visor and pressed her fingers to a picture held there by a rubber band. The twins, no doubt.

  Susan checked the clock on the dash. Nearly midnight.

  There was a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.

  The curtain pushed aside and the window opened.

  John and Kat took a few steps back. Susan twisted around in her seat and saw Scott climb out the window. His hair was wild, his t-shirt put on inside out. His pants were unbuttoned, showing off plaid boxers. That sick pervert.

  Just seeing him made her grip the wheel so tight her knuckles went white.

  Scott fell to the ground in a heap and quickly got up.

  Hanlon wasn’t behind him, though.

  And then Susan saw that Scott was holding something in his hand. She squinted.

  A gun.

  He pointed it at John’s chest.

  Chapter 14

  Thomas Scott

  WHEN THOMAS SAW Hanlon, he knew he was in trouble.

  After the knock, Thomas peeked out the window, and he saw the detective, hands behind his back, glancing around the parking lot.

  In that moment he knew there was no way he was making it out of the room alive.

  Not after the threat from the cops. Not after the way Hanlon had treated him in the interrogation room. Screaming at him, telling him it was only a matter of time before he cracked, pushing the pictures of those poor, dead children into Thomas’s face. All Thomas had wanted to do was not look at them. But Hanlon made him look anyway, and the images haunted him.

  Hanlon banged his fist against the door.

  “Police, open up,” he said.

  Thomas didn’t often get angry. But this made him angry. And it was just enough to kick his survival instinct into gear.

  After the way he’d been treated, he wasn’t going to roll over and play dead.

  So Thomas came up with a plan.

  It wasn’t a great one, but it was a plan.

  He just had to get the timing right.

  Thomas picked up his belt from the dresser, opened the door a crack, just enough so Hanlon would think he was being welcomed inside.

  The detective pushed his way in, looking around. He seemed confused to be facing an empty room. Thomas had backed out of his line of sight, into the jumble of curtains, his heart beating furiously in his chest.

  As soon as the door closed, Thomas whipped his belt around the detective and shoved him into the wall, pressing his body hard against him.

  Hanlon struggled, sputtering and yelling, but Thomas was stronger. He grabbed the two
ends of the belt and cinched them together, so Hanlon’s arms would be pressed to his side.

  “Get the hell off me, you sick bastard,” Hanlon yelled, throwing his body back, trying to gain the upper hand.

  Thomas used his foot to close the door and shoved the detective down onto the floor, so that he would be wedged between the bed and the wall. Then he grabbed one of his socks, and he felt a little bad because the sock was a day old now, but he had to work with what was on hand.

  “You have no idea what you’re…” Hanlon started.

  The rest of what Hanlon had to say was cut off as Thomas crammed the sock into his mouth. He took off Hanlon’s belt—the detective’s eyes went wide and he bucked harder, like some terrible sexual violation was about to happen, which made Thomas sick to his stomach—and he wrapped up Hanlon’s legs.

  Then he sat on the bed.

  Hanlon kicked and squirmed like a fish on the deck of a boat. Trying to free himself, screaming in the back of his throat. The sound wasn’t loud enough to penetrate the walls.

  Thomas’s mind went blank.

  Then he got up. Paced the room.

  Okay. He had a cop tied up in his motel room. A cop who was probably here to do very bad things to him. That had to be the case. Otherwise he would have shown up with more cops, right? For a second Thomas thought maybe he was here to apologize, but given how angry Hanlon looked, that he’d called Thomas a “sick bastard” right off the bat, that probably wasn’t the case.

  He checked the window again. There was no police car in the lot.

  A thought seized him: What if he had backup?

  What if he had someone to check in with?

  Thomas knelt down and went through Hanlon’s pockets while the detective screamed into the sock. Hanlon had nothing in his coat or pants, but Thomas found a small ankle holster holding a compact, silver six-shooter.

  Thomas pulled it out and lifted it up to the light. He’d never held a gun before.

  It was heavier than he thought it would be.

  And much, much scarier.

  He didn’t want to take it, but didn’t want to risk Hanlon getting free and shooting him as he climbed out the window. So, resolving to toss the gun as soon as he got outside, he pulled on his suit and shoes, minus one sock, as he crossed to the bathroom, not wanting to wait any longer.

  He pulled up the window and swung a leg out, the frame cutting into his stomach, then squirmed through and fell to the ground.

  When he got up, he saw John Junior’s father.

  And he looked ready for round two.

  Thomas was suddenly relieved to have the gun.

  Chapter 15

  John Kennelly

  IT WAS ALL John could do to keep himself from diving at Scott.

  Intellectually, he knew the man had a gun. And he knew the gun was pointed at his chest. But a big part of him simply did not care. His son’s killer was standing there—right there, in front of him, no more than a few yards away. Without even thinking about it, he tensed his calves and rolled his weight onto his toes, ready to propel forward.

  Luckily, sense prevailed.

  He took a deep breath. Tried to calm the adrenaline raging through his body like a river.

  “How about you put away the gun?” John asked through gritted teeth. “You owe me for what you did to my son. So let’s make this a fair fight. More fair than the chance you gave him.”

  Scott was panicked. Sweating, breathing fast, eyes darting between the parents assembled in the dark parking lot. He seemed unsure of what to do. John was a little surprised, and thankful, that Scott hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.

  And he knew he shouldn’t goad him, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Listen, just listen…” Scott said, his voice shaking. He sounded so much like a child, his voice contrasting starkly with his heavy brow and his rough appearance.

  Screw it. Scott didn’t seem all together anyway. The guy was definitely a few cards short of a full deck. Maybe he was too afraid to fire. John took a step forward, the asphalt crunching under his foot.

  Scott whipped the gun up and leaned forward, pointing the gun square between John’s eyes. John put his hands up and took a step back, hoping it would calm the man, but it didn’t seem to help. He glanced back to make sure no one else was in the line of fire. Susan and Daisy were still in the van with Paul, and Kat had moved a little behind the van, out of view.

  “I did not kill your children,” Scott said.

  That was enough to brush away the fear and bring the anger back to the forefront.

  “What?” John asked, a little surprised by the boldness of the claim.

  “I did not kill your children,” Scott said. He sounded so much surer of himself the second time.

  “You’re going to lie to my face?” John asked. “To all of us? The cops had you dead to rights.”

  “I did not kill them,” Scott said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “I would never kill them. They were nice, and sweet. They were kind, and, and beautiful—”

  “Listen to yourself,” John said, his voice booming. He didn’t care who heard him. “Grown men don’t talk like that! You know who talks like that? Freaks.”

  “I am not a freak,” Scott said, stabbing the gun forward in the air to punctuate each word. John’s heart skipped a few beats.

  This was getting out of hand. He needed to de-escalate. He looked around, and the rest of the parents were frozen. Paul hadn’t even left the van. He seemed to be watching through the window. The coward. Leaving him alone to deal with this madman.

  Stall. That’s what he would do. He would stall. He would talk as long as he could, keep Scott placated and confused, until he found his opening.

  And then he’d exploit it, in the bloodiest way possible.

  He’d do it right here. Forget the warehouse. He would gladly pay whatever the price was. If that meant spending the rest of his life in jail, so be it. He had no more children. There was only Susan, and she’d survive without him.

  Maybe she’d even be better off.

  It would be worth it, to see this man extinguished from the earth.

  “Where’s Hanlon?” John asked. “Is he hurt? Does he need help?”

  “He’s not hurt,” Scott said, glancing back to the window. “He’s just tied up. I don’t hurt people. I wouldn’t hurt him.”

  John believed Hanlon was probably okay. He hadn’t heard any gunshots. And if he wasn’t okay, then it wasn’t some great loss to the world. He was a mediocre cop who screwed up and put them all into this mess. They didn’t need him to finish it.

  “Okay, it’s good that he’s not hurt,” John said. “Listen, we can solve this. I’m willing to hear you out. But first, you have to put down the gun.”

  “As soon as I put down the gun, you’re going to come after me,” Scott said.

  “That’s not true.” John tried to sound convincing.

  “Yes, it is,” John said. “I see it. You’re lying. You’re just telling me what I want to hear.”

  Okay, so maybe this guy wasn’t a complete idiot.

  John wasn’t sure what to do. But Scott didn’t seem to know what to do, either.

  One thing was for sure: John didn’t know how much longer they could stand here like this, out in the open. Surely, someone would be by soon and stumble across this scene, a wild-looking man holding a gun on a bunch of people standing around a minivan.

  John tried to think of another way to stall, another question to ask, when Scott waved the gun like he was trying to bat away a fly. “Get away from the van.”

  “I can’t do that,” John said.

  Scott took a step forward, held the gun up. “Yes, you can. Get away from the van. All of you. Leave the keys.”

  John shook his head. “Now wait—”

  “Now!” Scott yelled, his voice again taking on the shrill tone of a child.

  John didn’t want to get shot today. Then he’d lose his chance for revenge.

  Lose the batt
le. Win the war.

  John put his hand up and waved at Kat to move away from her place behind the van. He turned to Susan and Daisy, and found them frozen in fright.

  And he got an idea.

  “Susan, Daisy, the two of you, get out of the car now,” he said, purposely leaving out Paul.

  He hoped Paul would be smart enough to get the message, and stay hidden in the back. He hoped Susan and Daisy were smart enough to get out of the car without saying anything, without alerting or pointing out Paul. It was their one last chance to maintain the upper hand.

  And it worked.

  Because when Susan and Daisy opened the doors, the interior lights popping on, Paul’s face had disappeared from the window. There wasn’t much space to hide in the back, with the seats taken out, but maybe there had been something he could throw over himself.

  Or maybe Scott was in too much of a panic to notice.

  Or maybe Scott would turn and shoot Paul, and that would give John the opening he needed.

  Any of those options worked. He honestly did not care. Whatever path put his hands around the throat of his son’s killer was an acceptable one.

  The women got behind John, and he put his arms up, like he could block Scott from getting to them. The group cut a wide circle around him, away from the van and toward the back wall of the motel. Still no movement from the van.

  Scott’s eyes seemed to soften now that things were going his way. He stepped toward the van and closed the sliding door, then walked around to the driver’s side, never taking his eyes off them for too long, never bringing the gun down.

  He stopped as he reached the door and looked at the assembly of parents.

  “I did not do it,” he said. “I did not kill them. I couldn’t have killed them. I would never—I would never—do something like that. I hope you find out who did. I’m sorry. But I’m leaving. I can’t be here anymore.”

  Scott climbed into the car. John considered rushing it, but saw that Scott didn’t take his hand off the gun. He just moved it to his left hand and placed it on the steering wheel as he turned the key in the ignition with his right hand.

  Then he backed the van toward the parking lot, whipped it around, and drove off, tires squealing and throwing up bits of loose asphalt. They watched in silence as it turned the corner and disappeared.