Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30) - John Sandford Page 0,23

figured he’d screwed up. They needed to go, and he’d been unable to do it. He had to harden his heart, he thought. Had to harden his heart.

* * *

—

HE THOUGHT ABOUT that the entire next day; and he hardened his heart as he worked, laying out the subdivision that was being carved out of the red dirt of a former farm. He sometimes used an independent surveyor, but on this job, did the surveying himself, working with a rodman and two assistants. They were all taciturn men who’d worked together on other projects and moved quickly and efficiently with almost no chatter; they even ate lunch separately.

At the end of the workday, he drove around the subdivision until he spotted Stokes, leaning on his shovel at the end of a new culvert. He got out of his truck and walked over to Stokes and said, “Listen, what time are you getting home?”

“Couple beers, probably about seven. Why?”

“I found some old color aerial photographs at my house. I thought I might drop them off for your sister to look at. There are some interesting quilt ideas in there.”

Stokes shrugged. “Sure. You could drop them off anytime, though.”

Dunn shook his head: “I think it’d be better if you were there. I mean, she doesn’t really know me. Semi-strange man, and all.”

“Okay. Come by at seven-thirty. I’ll be there. I think Rachel kind of liked your looks, if you know what I mean.”

“She seemed like a real nice girl,” Dunn said.

“She is a nice girl,” Stokes said.

* * *

—

BETWEEN THE END OF THE WORKDAY and seven o’clock, Dunn did nothing but shut down all of his softer thoughts about Randy and Rachel Stokes. They had to go. They knew about him—as they were sitting around the kitchen table the night before, Rachel had asked about the weird website he’d sent her brother to, and he’d managed to laugh it off. “Something a guy told me about, and the way Randy talks, I figured it was up his alley.”

She’d bought that. Maybe. And maybe not. If a question ever came up, they’d remember.

* * *

—

RANDY STOKES GOT to Rachel’s house just as Dunn was leaving home. Randy said to Rachel, “Dunn’s coming over. Mostly to see you, I guess. He said he found some aerial pictures you’d like for your quilts. Or maybe he just wanted to talk to you some more.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Randy, he’s your friend. He’s just being nice.”

“He was never that nice to me in the past,” Stokes said. “I kinda had the idea that he thought I was a dumb shit.”

“Whatever,” Rachel said. “By the way, the mortgage payment is up. You were supposed to give me a few dollars while you’re living here . . .”

They talked about that for a while, and Randy put her off and then went to heat up a frozen beef pot pie in the microwave. With Randy otherwise occupied, Rachel took a moment to wash her face, check herself in the mirror, add just a hint of makeup and a touch of lipstick. A hint of perfume, but only a hint, she didn’t want to come off like a floozy. Her blouse was all right, she thought, she wished her jeans weren’t quite so tight, she really had to get back on her diet . . .

* * *

—

DUNN THOUGHT: SHOOT RACHEL FIRST, she’d never suffer. She’d never even see it coming, if he shot her from behind; she’d go from everything to nothing in a split second. Then Randy Stokes. More dangerous that way, shooting Rachel first, Stokes had that muscle from his shovel work, he could be in your face in a hurry. But he didn’t want Rachel to suffer.

Dunn got to Rachel Stokes’s house a few minutes early, saw Randy’s car parked in the side yard, a light in the back, where the kitchen was. He took a few long breaths, got out of the car, touched the pistol tucked in his belt, the sight pressing against his coccyx like the devil’s pitchfork. He reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed a four-foot-long plastic tube, the kind used to protect building plans or artwork, and walked up to the door.

Rachel met him there, smiling, backed into the front room, said, “Hi, El, come on in. Randy said you had some photos?”

Dunn said, “Uh, yeah,” lifted the tube with his left hand while his right went under his shirt, grabbed the pistol, clicked the safety off .