minutes passed and the drummer and the bass player both left. Shortly afterward, Scott emerged from the rear entrance of the building, but he wasn’t alone. There was a girl with him, and although she was dressed differently—a tight dress that could have been a T-shirt—it was clear that she was the waitress from the Owl’s Head. Matthew wasn’t surprised she was there, but he was disappointed. Scott slung his guitar case into the backseat of his car, then they both got in. The engine started, and the Dart reversed swiftly along the tarmac, then stopped just as swiftly. Scott jumped out of the car, examined his back tire. Matthew heard an audible “fuuuck” float his way, then the sound of another door slamming shut. The waitress was out of the car as well, now crouched beside Scott. He could hear their voices—his exasperated, hers querulous—but not the words. Scott opened his trunk and pulled out a spare, plus what was probably the jack. He crouched by the car again while the waitress stood two feet away, her arms across her middle. Even from a distance, Matthew could tell she was shivering. Scott, wearing a fleece-lined jean jacket, had begun to jack up the car.
The waitress said something—the words were still unclear—and Scott, still focused on his task, responded without turning his head. The waitress went back to the heavy double doors and banged on them. Five seconds passed, and the doors opened, the waitress sliding inside.
Matthew felt a surge of adrenaline. He realized that, until this moment, he hadn’t really believed he’d get his chance. But here it was.
He stood, pulled his cap farther down his forehead and around his ears, and surveyed the parking lot. There were still a few cars, but no one was visible. He whipped the telescoping baton so that it snapped to its full length, twenty-one inches of solid steel. With the baton down by his leg and the stun gun, just a precaution, in his other hand, Matthew walked purposefully, but not too rapidly, toward the Dart, then came around it to stand behind Scott. The car was jacked up, and Scott was trying to twist the lug nut wrench. He hadn’t noticed or heard Matthew, who was right behind him. For five seconds, Matthew just stood there, the steel in his hand, savoring the immense power he had over the insect crouched in front of him. Then he reared back and swung, bringing the baton down with as much force as possible across the top of Scott’s head. Scott made a guttural sound in his throat, then dropped onto his side, unconscious.
Matthew knelt on one knee, lifted the baton again, and brought it down as hard as he could on the same spot he’d hit before. Instead of a solid thud, this time the sound was more like a splintering crack. Matthew stood quickly, prepared to jump back in case there was blood. He very much wished he had brought a plastic bag with him and his duct tape, although he didn’t think he’d have time. Besides, Scott was most likely dead. That in itself was enough satisfaction. He wondered if he should hit him again, just to make sure, but was worried about overdoing it, about his baton sinking into brain matter. He would never be able to stomach that.
He did crouch one more time, collapsing the baton by pushing its tip against the pavement. He studied the body for any signs of life, telling himself if he heard the double doors open behind him to just bolt back down onto the river walk.
Satisfied that Scott was dead—felled by two powerful strokes—Matthew stood. About twenty feet away, a woman in a knitted hat stood in the middle of the parking lot and stared back at him. Their eyes briefly met.
Chapter 17
Hen opened her mouth to say something to Matthew Dolamore, but no words came out. He looked right at her—she thought there was recognition in his eyes—then he turned and walked swiftly away. She lost him almost immediately in the dark shadows of the Rusty Scupper.
“Hey,” she managed to yell, her voice sounding strange and helpless to her own ears, then she jogged toward the Dodge Dart and around the back. Scott Doyle lay on the pavement, curled as though he were asleep. She shook his shoulder, knowing he wasn’t going to respond, but he rolled over, his eyes open and staring. He managed a few garbled words, sounding as though