Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane 3)

The last photograph was an eight-by-ten shot of Morgan’s face. Instead of red Xs, bullet holes riddled the picture, as if it had been used for target practice. On the bottom of the page was a message written in blocky print.

PAYBACK IS A BITCH.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The little house stood alone on a quiet section of country road. There were no other houses, no other vehicles in sight.

No one close enough to hear a scream.

He doubled-checked the address. 212 County Line Road, residence of the next person on his list.

He parked his car down the street and watched the house. Except for one room at the front of the house, the rest of the windows were dark. What would two old people do on a weekday evening? They’d sit in the living room and watch TV.

When nothing moved for ten minutes, he moved his car farther away and parked it behind a stand of trees. Then he stepped out of the vehicle and tugged on a ski mask and a pair of gloves. His black sweatpants and hoodie would blend into the dark. Slinging a black pillowcase over one shoulder, he walked through the side yard, past a vegetable garden tilled for the winter.

Cloud cover kept the yard dark. He couldn’t risk being seen until the last moment. With two of them inside, this needed to be a surprise. A light shone in the first window. He ducked under it and moved to the next. Rising onto his toes, he cupped his hand over his eyes and peered through the dark glass at the empty kitchen. Light spilled from a doorway that led into the living room.

Then he waited, listening.

The sound of a television blared through the house. P. J. and his wife must be stone-deaf. He circled around the back and opposite side of the house, giving each window a cautious look and getting a general layout of the interior. In addition to the main living area in the front of the house, he noted a kitchen and three bedrooms. The second bedroom had been converted into an office. Children’s furniture and toys decorated the third. Grandchildren?

The rear door had nine panes of glass in the top half. He could see straight through into the living room. Two gray heads were visible over the back of a sofa. An old man would not be able to put up much of a fight. An elderly woman didn’t pose much of a threat either.

He eyed the flashlight in his hand. It would be just as easy to bash them both over the head. But impulsive behavior is what got him into this mess. He couldn’t take the chance that one of them would have time to call for help. With two targets, he had to be quick. Besides, there was no one around to hear a gunshot.

He put a gloved hand on the doorknob. It turned. Clearly, P. J. and his wife didn’t think there was a need to keep their doors locked in the middle of the country. Normally, they’d be right. Just not tonight.

Pushing the door open, he stepped over the threshold and crept down the short hallway, past a laundry room and half bath. In the next doorway, he peered around the molding. Neither gray head had moved, and the television would cover any sound of his footsteps. He walked closer, pulling his gun from his pocket, easing each foot forward, his steps silent on the carpet. The woman was bent over a crossword puzzle. P. J. aimed the remote at the screen and surfed channels until he came to a news station.

The old man’s hand shook. Could he even stand up? His pale-blue shirt and jeans bagged on his skinny frame. His flesh sunk into his cheeks, as if he was already halfway to being a corpse. The old woman was equally frail. She couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds. P. J.’s wife suddenly froze and turned her head. He hadn’t made any noise. She must have sensed him. She jumped to her feet, opened her mouth, and screamed.

P. J. stumbled to his feet and pointed one arthritic, shaky finger at him. “Stop right there!”

The old man squinted at him. “I know you.”

Most people hesitated before killing another human being. But not him. He didn’t hesitate for a millisecond.

He aimed at the old man and pulled the trigger. A red spot bloomed across the pale-blue shirt. The old man dropped to his knees.

“No!” the old woman shrieked. She lunged to her husband’s side. Sobbing, she pressed her hands over the bullet wound. Disbelief wiped her face clean of expression as she looked up at him, blinking, crying, not comprehending what had happened.

She wasn’t on his list, but he could hardly let her go.

Before she could get over her initial shock, he pulled the trigger again and shot her in the face. Blood and brains sprayed across the carpet. She slumped sideways over the body of her husband.

He walked closer, checking the man’s pulse first, then the woman’s. Both were good and dead. He crossed more names off his mental list.

Now to finish setting the scene.

The diamond on the woman’s engagement ring was a decent size. He pried it off her finger and dropped it in the pillowcase. Then he stepped over the bodies and went into the bedroom. On the dresser, he lifted a jewelry box and dumped it into his bag. Moving faster now, he went to the nightstand and emptied the old man’s wallet, leaving the leather billfold empty and open.

He returned to the living room, turned out the contents of a desk, and found a small stack of cash. Leaving the drawer upside down on the carpet, he shoved the money into the pillowcase. He passed on an iPad and laptop. He wanted no part of anything that was GPS-equipped. He opened more drawers, leaving them hanging open with their contents draping over the edges. Then he moved on to the kitchen.

The sound of a car door slamming stopped him cold.

Someone was outside.

He set down the pillowcase by the back door and crept to the living room window, peering around the frame.

A shadow walked up the front path.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sharp parked in front of P. J. Hoolihan’s little house in Grey’s Hollow. After his stroke three years before, P. J. Hoolihan and his wife had moved to this compact rancher. According to his son, P. J. needed one floor, but the Hoolihans were country people. A senior community just would not do. They needed the calm and quiet of having their own land around them.

He disconnected his phone from the car charger. The battery had barely charged. He stuffed it in his pocket. Maybe the connection had been loose.

Sharp went up the walk and knocked on the front door. No one answered. Sharp turned and scanned the front yard. A small sedan sat in the driveway. The hairs on the back of Sharp’s neck quivered.

Cupping his hand over his eyes, he peered through the narrow window next to the door.

In between the sofa and TV, two bodies were sprawled. Dark spots arced away from the bodies on the carpet.

No!

Pulling out his phone, he called 911. Cognizant of the crime scene, Sharp pulled gloves out of his pocket and tugged them onto his hands. He tried the doorknob and nearly fell inside when the door opened.

He’d been a cop for twenty-five years, but he flinched when he got an up-close-and-personal look at the living room.

P. J. stared up at the ceiling. He’d been shot dead center in the chest. But his wife . . .

She was lying across her husband’s belly. Half her face was gone. Bits of bone and blood had been sprayed across the pale carpet. Bloody matter spattered across the television screen. Sharp crouched next to the bodies. Pulling off a glove, he pressed his fingertips to P. J.’s neck, then checked his wife for a pulse. Both were dead, but just barely. Their hearts weren’t pumping blood from their wounds, but gravity was still at work. Blood oozed from Mrs. Hoolihan’s face. P. J. must have died quickly. His chest wound hadn’t bled much.

Was the shooter still close by?