Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

> FORT PESSEL, VIRGINIA

THURSDAY NIGHT

Victor drove with his lights off into the narrow alley beside Kougar’s Pharmacy, pulled up close to a dumpster he knew was always there, and turned off the engine. It was dark as a pit. One thing you could count on in Fort Pessel—when the sun went, most everything closed down. Even the single movie theater only opened its doors on Friday nights. Of course, the bars outside Fort Pessel were always alive with lights and music. Here in town, near midnight, there were only the streetlights on low wattage, hardly even a car.

He sat quietly for a few minutes, feeling the pervasive heat build inside the car with the AC off. He thought about what he would do now, with the FBI agents at the Smiley house. He had a feeling the bank robbery money could be somewhere near the old, long-unused well, about thirty feet south of the house. But he couldn’t be sure, and he couldn’t think of anyplace else to look. If only Lissy would simply tell him. It pissed him off she didn’t trust him enough, and look what he was doing for her. Stealing more drugs so she would feel better, and yes, finally stop complaining about the staples digging into her belly.

He’d been extra careful this time, even driven by Mrs. Kougar’s house on Nob Tree Hill to make sure she was home. Her lights were on, and her lame-butt ancient light blue Impala was in the driveway. Still, he’d waited until he’d seen her shadow moving around upstairs.

He was all set. Break in, fill a Ziploc bag with pills, drive out of the alley, a clean getaway. No worries about an alarm. Before he got out of the car, he said again, “Stay here and out of sight, Lissy. There’s no need for you to come in.” He prayed she’d listen. He didn’t want to have to deal with her craziness tonight, her endless criticism, her trying to give him orders.

She said nothing, which was very unlike her. He said immediately, “I know those staples are really hurting you, Lissy. I’ll be as fast as I can. Then you’ll feel real good again.”

She could have wished him luck, but she didn’t. She stayed quiet.

He turned off the interior light, got out of the Chrysler with a tire iron in his hand, and quietly closed the driver’s door behind him. He walked to the mouth of the alley and stared up and down the street. The frigging town was dead.

His sneakers made no noise as he walked to the back door. He eased his tire iron between the door and the frame and pushed down. Old Lady Kougar still didn’t have an alarm, but the door held. He bet she’d installed a dead bolt inside. He pulled out the tire iron, repositioned it for more leverage, and pushed down with all his weight. The wood splintered and the door flew open, then stopped again. She’d put a chain on the door. No problem, he was ready for that. He pulled out a metal cutter and snapped the chain. He picked up the tire iron and pulled out his flashlight. He stepped into the back storeroom, filled with unopened boxes of cough medicine, toilet paper, condoms, shampoo, hemorrhoid cream . . . everything the citizens of Fort Pessel could want or need.

He knew the prescription drugs were in locked glass cabinets behind the pharmacy counter, about twenty feet away from the back storage room. He clutched the tire iron in his right hand, his flashlight in his left, and made his way into the store. It wasn’t as dark out here as in the closed-in storeroom, what with the large windows across the entire front of the store and the streetlight on the corner. He turned off his flashlight and walked to the counter, paused a moment, listened. Nothing. If Old Lady Kougar hadn’t moved them around, he knew exactly where the pain meds were. He unlatched the small gate separating the customers from the pharmacy. His hand was on the gate when he heard a voice from his nightmares.

“It’s over, Victor. Lay the tire iron on the floor and put your hands on your head. Do it now.”

Savich. Victor couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. It was Lissy, mimicking Savich to make him nuts.

“Now, Victor. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”

It wasn’t Lissy. Victor jerked around and threw the tire iron where he thought Savich was standing. He heard it strike a shelf, sending merchandise flying to hit the linoleum floor and scatter.

“Victor, you took your shot, and now it’s over. Hands on top of your head. I won’t tell you again.”

Slowly, Victor lifted his arms and tried as best he could to lace his fingers on top of his head and keep hold of the flashlight. He whispered, his voice a croak, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. “How? How could you possibly know I was here?”

“After Lissy’s crazy attack on Cindy Wilcox in Winslow, how can you be surprised?” It was her voice, a voice he knew as well as Savich’s. It was Agent Sherlock. She’d shot him in the ankle, tried to cripple him. He thought of Cindy in Winslow and the mistakes he’d made, that Lissy had made—no, it was his fault. He’d been a fool. He’d let Lissy down by flirting with the little waitress, even following her home. Had he expected Lissy would let him have sex with her? He didn’t know now, hadn’t known then.

Sherlock walked from behind an aisle of hair care products, Savich from the cold medicine aisle. They were here together, the two people he hated and feared most in the world.

Victor, how can they be here? Sure, there was that fiasco in Winslow, but how did they know we’d be here tonight, in the pharmacy?

Lissy hadn’t stayed in the car. She was here, hiding behind him, whispering in his ear. Victor was terrified she’d be hurt. He willed her to keep quiet. He whispered out the side of his mouth, “I don’t know. You know they’re smart.”

Sherlock said, “What did you say, Victor? I told you, we went to Winslow and spoke to Cindy. She told us you yelled she’d kicked you in the staples. We knew it wasn’t you with the staples. She kicked Lissy. We knew you’d want pain meds for her. You needed them for yourself, too, didn’t you?”

A high, manic girl’s voice screamed out of Victor’s mouth, “Victor, you puking loser, you brought them here. You should have killed that little bitch, and we’d be safe.”

Savich said, “Victor didn’t want to kill her, Lissy, only you did. And you failed. Victor’s not the puking loser, you are. The little waitress won, Lissy.”

Victor looked ready to explode with rage. Or was it Lissy? Savich needed to get Victor back. “Victor, we know you came for the meds, but you also came back for the money, didn’t you? We know you have some money, but you don’t have all of it. Where did you get your stake?”

Victor answered him. “None of your business. Lissy still hasn’t told me where her mom hid the money, so I had to come find it. But I had enough to take care of your kid before I killed Ryan.” Victor stared at Sherlock. “And you, of course. How did you know I was in his room? I didn’t make a sound. How?”

Sherlock said, “We had a plan in place if the alarm system went down. My part was to go to Sean’s room, and there you were, standing over Sean with a gun and a knife. I wanted to shoot you in the head, Victor, but unfortunately I didn’t. If I had, Octavia Ryan would be alive. A huge error in judgment on my part.”

Savich said, “Someone paid you to murder Octavia Ryan, didn’t they? And here she was one of the few people in the world who cared about you and helped you. Was it Lissy who told you to take the money to kill her? Was it Lissy who told you what to do and you did it? Tell us yourself, Lissy, tell us why he did that.”

Lissy screamed, “That bitch called him weak, a psycho! That bitch called me a Lolita! Victor always wants to please me—well, usually—but I don’t control him. No, never. Yes, that cow saved us from prison, Victor knows that. He only did what he had to do to get us out in the world again.”

Sherlock said, “Lissy, we already know Victor didn’t hate Octavia Ryan. He killed her because he was paid a lot of cash to do it. Tell us who paid you.”