The Last Mile (Amos Decker 2)

Davenport asked, “Why did you choose the electric chair over lethal injection?”

Everyone looked at her.

Montgomery grinned. “Figure where I’m going I better get used to being hot. And why not go out with a bang?”

“What are your wife’s plans after you’re gone?” Decker asked.

“Start over somewhere else.”

“Right,” said Decker. “We’ll tell her you said hello when we see her.”

“I’m doing the right thing, right?” said Montgomery nervously.

“That’s not for me to answer,” replied Decker. “One more thing. Did you steal any money or property from the Marses?”

Montgomery stared up at him, a wary expression on his features. “No, did the cops say I did?”

“Did you commit any other crimes while you were in town?” asked Decker.

“No. I told you. I killed them and tore outta there.”

“So you didn’t stay around and do a day’s worth of labor or anything?”

Montgomery looked at him like Decker had lost his mind.

“After murdering two people?”

“So, no?”

“Hell no.”

“And how far did you drive after you left town?”

“I don’t know.”

“You remember a city?”

Montgomery thought for a moment. “Maybe Abilene. Yeah, that’s right. I jumped on Interstate 20 and just headed east. Ran smack into Abilene.”

“That was about, what, a hundred and eighty miles? Maybe a three-hour drive?”

“About that, I guess, yeah.”

“Okay, thanks.”

As they started to leave Montgomery called after them. “Can you tell Mr. Mars that I’m sorry?”

Decker looked back at him. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea.”

CHAPTER

19

THEY DROVE DIRECTLY to Regina Montgomery’s house, which, as Montgomery had said, was only about twenty minutes from the prison.

The skies were threatening rain, and, as the temperature dipped, perhaps even some snow, though it rarely fell in this part of Alabama.

Bogart drove and Decker rode next to him. Davenport was in the backseat writing up some notes on her electronic tablet. Milligan was next to her doing the same thing on his.

Jamison was to Milligan’s left. She said, “That was one scary man.”

“Well, at least the public won’t have to worry about him anymore,” said Bogart.

“Do you think his head injury made him do all those things?” asked Jamison.

“I don’t know,” replied Bogart. “In the eyes of the law it apparently didn’t matter if it did or not.”

“I guess not,” she said doubtfully.

“Lisa, what was your opinion of him?” asked Bogart as he glanced at her in the car’s rearview.

She looked up from her tablet. “My down and dirty is the guy is being truthful. He’s obviously cagey as hell, but he also seems genuinely remorseful. And if he is suffering from PTSD and that head wound affected critical areas of his brain, what he later did could make sense.”

She saw Decker staring out of the side window, obviously not paying attention to what she was saying.

“What did you think, Amos?” she said.

When he said nothing she reached forward and touched his shoulder. He jerked and glanced back at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was asking what you thought of Montgomery?”

“I think it’s more important what we think of Regina Montgomery,” he said.

“And why is that?” she asked, looking confused. “I remember you saying we needed to find out if Montgomery had family.”

“And I hope we’re just about to get some answers.”

Regina Montgomery lived in one of a line of old duplexes that looked about a few rusted nails and a few more termite bites from falling down. They parked out front. There was an old cream-colored Buick with a tattered faux leather top sitting out in a front yard that held not a single blade of grass. The entire area looked blighted. In the distance they could hear a freight train’s whistle.

A light rain started to fall as they walked up to the front door. It had a pyramid-shaped glass with a crack in it at about eye level.

Bogart knocked on the door.

Davenport said, “The place next door looks abandoned.”

“Half the places here look abandoned,” noted Bogart.

They heard approaching footsteps and the door was opened.

Regina Montgomery was of medium height, thin, and her hair was more white than brown. She was dressed in faded jeans, flats, and a sweater with some smears of dirt near the waist.

They identified themselves and were invited in.

The front room was small, with a few pieces of cheap and battered furniture. She led them into the kitchen, moved some boxes and stacks of paper off chairs, and motioned for them to sit down around the small table in the middle of the space. There were only four chairs, so Milligan and Davenport stood.

Regina looked nervously at each of them before settling her gaze on Bogart, who had produced his FBI shield at the front door.

“What do you want with me?” she asked bluntly.

“Just to ask some questions. We’ve spoken with your husband.”

“Just so you know, while it’s true we never got divorced, we haven’t lived together for a long time. He’s been in prison for years.”

“But legally he’s still your husband?”

“Yes.”

“When did you learn about his maybe having murdered Roy and Lucinda Mars?”

She leaned back in the chair and assumed a focused expression. “When I went to the prison to visit Chuck.”

“Do you remember the date?”

“No, not exactly. I go every week, though. Lemme think.” She picked up a pack of cigarettes off the table, lit one, blew smoke out her nostrils, and was silent for a few moments, then said, “Maybe a couple months or so. Maybe. I’m not really sure.”

“Were you surprised?” asked Bogart.

“What, that he’d killed people? Hell no. I knew he could be violent. He’d murdered other people. It’s why they’re going to execute him. He killed an Alabama state trooper. That’s gonna get you the damn death penalty every time.”

“He said he had you look up the Marses’ case online to make sure he was right?” prompted Bogart.

“Yeah, I went over to the library. I don’t have a computer. I printed out their pictures and some other information and brought