Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,93

was out! She had somehow gotten into his locked study. She had discovered the false top on the ottoman, what he kept within the ottoman, and she’d called the police on him.

Spencer’s mind raced, searching for excuses, but there were no excuses to be found, there was no way to explain the photographs, nor his collection of Satanic paraphernalia, which alone would link him to the massacre at Mary of Sorrows church.

“Lynnette?” he said, stepping into the living room, his eyes searching for a weapon. “What’s going on? What are these photographs? Why did you call these gentlemen?”

She didn’t answer.

“Mr. Pratt,” Humperdinck said. He and the deputy had stuck close behind him. “You need to come with us. Now.”

Spencer whirled on him. “Not until you tell me what the bloody hell is going on here, Sheriff! What are these purported capital crimes of which I have been accused?”

“Murder,” Humperdinck said coldly. He moved next to Spencer and pointed at the photographs on the coffee table. “These were discovered in your study.”

“My study?” he repeated, though he was thinking: A chair? No, too unwieldy. The bronze bookend on the bookshelf? But how did he reach it without drawing suspicion? “Impossible,” he added. “I’ve never seen these photos before in my life.”

Humperdinck gripped Spencer’s right biceps. “We’ll continue this discussion at the barracks.”

“Just a moment, Sheriff,” Spencer said, reaching into the inside pocket of his blazer. “I need my eyeglasses.”

“He doesn’t wear—” Lynette began.

Spencer’s fingers curled around the gold-plated ballpoint pen in the pocket. He plunged it into Humperdinck’s right eyeball, driving the shaft three inches deep, into the man’s brain. Humperdinck spasmed, almost as if he had been zapped by an electrical shock, then fell to the floor, where he continued to convulse.

Lynette screamed. The deputy cried out and faltered backward.

Already moving, Spencer tore open the buttoned clasp on Humperdinck’s leather holster and withdrew the .357 Magnum. He swung the service revolver toward the deputy, who was fumbling with his own holstered weapon. He squeezed the trigger. The kickback rocked Spencer onto his rear. The hollow-point slug blew straight through the deputy’s chest, punching him backward into the hallway. Spencer fired a second time. The bullet hit the already dying deputy in the gut. The kid slid to his ass, leaving two blood-splattered, plate-sized holes in the wall behind him.

Spencer leapt to his feet, shot Humperdinck in the chest to end his suffering, then aimed the gun at Lynette, who had turned white as a sheet.

“Spencer…” she whispered. “I’m your wife…”

“Not anymore,” he said.

He blew her brains out the back of her skull.

Spencer went to his bedroom on the second floor, tugged his suitcase off the top of his bureau, and tossed it onto the queen bed. He unzipped the main pocket and filled it with his clothes, not bothering to remove the wire hangers. He selected items mostly from his summer wardrobe, shorts and golf shirts, given that the Yucatán Peninsula enjoyed a year-round tropical climate. Next he went to the master bathroom, retrieved his leather travel case from the cupboard beneath the sink, and filled it with toiletries. Back in the bedroom he upended the contents of the studded oak box that sat on the dresser—cufflinks, watches, rings—onto the clothes he had hastily packed. Finally he zipped the bulging suitcase closed and lugged it downstairs. He left it by the front door while he went to the basement gym. He glanced about the room, at all the Life Fitness exercise equipment which he had used every day for much of the last decade. Today his workout would have been chest and triceps and quads.

No matter, he thought. He would choose a hotel when he reached Kentucky tomorrow, or even Tennessee, that featured an exercise room. Perhaps one with a swimming pool as well…and maybe a heated hot tub. Yes, why not? If you’re going to live life on the lam, you may as well do it as comfortably as you could.

Adjacent to the floor-to-ceiling mirror was a glass-and-steel fire ax case. Spencer depressed the two screw heads on the underside of it. The case with its false backing swung away from the wall on hidden hinges, revealing a safe. He swiveled the knob left and right, entering the correct number combination, then opened the thick door. He tugged a black duffel bag out. It dropped to the floor with the heavy thump of two hundred sixty-three thousand dollars.

Contingency plan two.

Spencer returned to the first floor. On the way to