Darkness Follows Page 20

  He went over it in his mind again. It should be an easy task.

  “Easy as puttin’ peanut butter on bread.” That’s what his mother used to say. Funny he should remember that. She also used to say, “Two heads are better than one, even if one’s a cabbage-head,” and though that had nothing to do with this mission, it was eminently important because it meant at one time he was someone. His mother’s son.

  Laying his head on the headrest, Symon shut his eyes and tried to clear his mind. But he couldn’t. The faces were there, the faces of those he’d killed …

  The Moellers—minding their own business that morning, with her cooking breakfast and him getting ready for another boring day. Thad Lewis—that hippie all alone in his trailer, just him and his books. Officer Ned Coleman—the dutiful civil servant, upholding the law, too young and cocky for his own good. The widowed sisters—living in a mansion with more than they needed, yet having nothing but each other.

  Still, he felt void of sympathy, void of guilt or regret. And still it bothered him. He should feel something, shouldn’t he? He’d murdered six people and was about to chalk up two more, but he felt no remorse, no disgust, no pity, no joy. If he felt joy over the killings, it would be sick, yes, and the world would be appalled, but at least he’d feel something.

  The clock on the dash told him it was time. Symon pulled onto the road, using the Intrepid to block one lane and half of the other. He killed the engine, got out, and popped the hood. The rain felt cool on his head and face.

  Exactly one minute later a pair of headlights appeared, coming over the rise. As the Volvo approached, he started waving his arms. It stopped beside his car, and the driver’s side window lowered.

  A woman was driving. And two girls were in the backseat.

  One was the target.

  “Looks like you’re in some trouble,” the woman said.

  She looked just as the voice said she would—dark, curly hair, neatly applied makeup, small nose and eyes. He glanced back at the Intrepid, then at the woman. “Yeah, deer ran out in front of me, and I think I hit it. It happened so fast. You know how they are.”

  “I do. I had one hit me a couple years ago. Almost totaled the car. Is your car working?”

  “No. I swerved off the road, hit something, maybe the deer, yanked it back, and it stalled. You wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone I could use real quick, would you? Just want to call my mechanic and get a tow.”

  The woman glanced at her watch, then at the Intrepid. “Um, sure. Quickly, though. I have to get the girls to school.” She retrieved the phone from her purse and handed it to Symon.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll be quick.” He punched in some numbers, nothing in particular. “I’ve held out on getting one of these things. Hate technology, you know? But times like this I could shoot myself for not … Hello?”

  There was no one on the other end, of course, but Symon put on a real Oscar-worthy performance, detailing what’d happened and what his vehicle looked like. While he talked, another car appeared over the rise, a Honda SUV. It slowed, but Symon gave the driver a thumbs-up and waved him on. Young guy. Looked full of himself.

  The woman seemed to be getting impatient. She glanced in the rearview mirror and said something to the girls. Symon folded the phone, handed it to her. “Thank you. And hey, this is really asking a lot, but would you mind giving me a ride into town?”

  Her smile was as fake as he’d ever seen. He had an impulse to slap her across the face and erase the stupid, patronizing grin.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Then could you at least help me push this thing to the side of the road? It’s kinda blocking traffic here.”

  She glanced at her watch again. “I really need to get going. We’re already going to be late for school. I’m sure someone else will be along soon enough to help you, someone with more muscles than I can offer.”

  “Oh, but—” Symon pulled the Beretta from his coat. His left hand reached through the open window and grabbed her by the collar while his right shoved the pistol against her head. “I really wanted you to help.”

  The woman let out a weak little scream, and the girls in the back yelped. The woman twisted her face, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, and the car lurched forward. Symon had a good grip on her jacket, but the momentum threw him off balance, and he nearly went down. The Volvo veered left and ran into the rear of the Intrepid. The woman screamed again as her car kept going forward, pushing his vehicle off the road. The moan of twisting metal grated against his ears.

  Symon cocked back his hand and smashed the butt of the pistol into the woman’s forehead. She slumped in the seat, and the Volvo rolled to a stop. Her head lolled to one side, oozing blood from a gash the size of a paper clip.

  The girls whimpered. One of them screamed, “Leave my mommy alone!”

  Symon said nothing.

  He felt the woman’s neck for a pulse and found it. He should have shot her right then and been done with her, but the look of the two girls in the back seat deterred him. He had a daughter of his own about their age.

  Wait.

  Symon took a step back, his peripheral vision going black. He had a daughter of his own? Yes, he remembered her. The girl in the park, pulling him toward the woods. She was his daughter.

  He shook his head, tapped the Beretta against his skull. He didn’t have time for memories now. Another car could appear any moment. In the driver’s seat the woman moaned and rolled her head back and forth.

  He tore open the door and put the pistol to her temple. “Move over.”

  She moaned again, a pitiful sound really, and lifted her hand to the gash.

  Symon looked up and down the road. Still no other cars. But that wouldn’t last long. They had to move. He nudged the barrel against the woman’s head. “Now. Move it, or I’ll give someone an awful mess to clean up.”

  Slowly—too slowly—she inched herself into the passenger seat. She tried to say something, but her words came out slurred and jumbled. Blood tricked down her cheek, and a line of saliva ran from the corner of her mouth to her chin. Her eyes were glazed, as empty as the windows of an abandoned house.

  When she had cleared enough of the seat, Symon pushed himself in and shoved her the rest of the way over. He put the car in reverse, backed away from the Intrepid, shifted to drive, and put the pedal down. A short distance later he turned right onto a windy, tar-and-chip lane even less traveled than Pumping Station. Beside him the woman let out a low mewl, then turned to the girls in the backseat, but said nothing.

  Symon glanced at them in the rearview mirror. They sat silently, holding hands. “How about a day off from school, girls?”

  He thought of his own daughter then. More was coming back to him. She had his fair complexion and dark-brown hair, cut to the shoulders with bangs. Brown eyes too, like morsels of milk chocolate. And freckles. That’s it; that’s all he could pull from memory at the moment. Just a still shot of her face, smiling … no, laughing. She was laughing at something.

  Around a bend they came to a shallow creek. A gravel lane ran parallel to it, then disappeared around a clump of locust trees. Symon turned onto it and stopped a half mile later near a fast-moving section of the water. He cut the engine, walked around to the passenger side, ordered the woman out. When she resisted, still bleary-eyed and dazed, he found that the barrel of a Beretta placed strategically along the side of the skull could be very persuasive. The girls in the back remained locked in by their seat belts, holding hands. They said nothing.

  With the woman standing beside the car, Symon opened the back door and pointed the gun at her daughter. The girl did not move. The woman whimpered and made an awkward move toward Symon.

  “Don’t,” he said, holding up a hand. “If you want your daughter to see her next birthday, don’t.” Then he turned to the girl. “You. Get out here and stand with your mother.” And to the target, “And you stay put, or these two get it.” />
  The first girl unhooked her seat belt and scooted out of the car. She was taller than Symon expected a second-grader to be. His own daughter was short for her age. Upon exiting, she ran to her mother, and they both hugged. The woman was crying now, tears leaving faint streaks of mascara down her cheeks.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “What do you want with us?”

  “Have you ever seen me before?” Symon asked.

  The woman gobbled like a turkey, stuttered, then swallowed hard. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Are you certain of that? I don’t look at all familiar to you? Think way back.”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “No. I promise. I’ve never seen you before. Please, let the girls go.”

  Ignoring her request, Symon said, “Then I guess I don’t want anything with you.”

  He pointed the gun at her with every intention of squeezing off three rounds and dumping her body in the creek. But he couldn’t do it, not with her daughter so close. Not with the target watching. He would feel no remorse over shooting the woman, he knew that; but he would forever regret doing it in front of the girls. He wouldn’t want his own daughter, whoever she may be, wherever she may be, to witness such an act.

  Instead he took three large steps—three, to maintain some order—and in one quick motion whipped the Beretta against the side of her head before she had time to flinch. It made a sickening thud, snapped her head to the left, and she crumpled to the ground on paper legs. Her daughter screamed and dropped next to her. The side of the woman’s head lay open, bleeding freely.

  Symon lowered the gun. “I could have killed her,” he told the sobbing girl.

  She neither looked at him nor acknowledged his presence in any way. His declaration of mercy inspired no gratitude.

  Taking the woman by the wrist, he dragged her limp body down to the creek bank. The effort brought out a sweat on his brow. As she lay motionless on the moist dirt, he saw her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. She’d have a crusher of a headache when she came to, and most certainly a concussion, but she’d live. The tall second-grader would not lose her mother.

  The girl, who had followed close behind, stumbled and slid down the embankment, then rushed to her mother and knelt beside her. The creek babbled and gurgled playfully, a strange backdrop to the mother-daughter scene on its bank.

  “Stay with her,” Symon told the girl. “You don’t want Mommy to die, do you?”

  She looked at him, open-mouthed. He could see the wheels turning, calculating. She would stay put.

  Symon returned to the Volvo and checked the backseat. The target was still there, wearing her seat belt. Her eyes were wide, her mouth tight, but there was only a trace of fear on her face. She was trying to be brave.

  “Hi, Eva,” he said. “You and I are going to take a little ride. I have business to conduct with your daddy.”

  The look on her face said she already knew.

  Fifty-Six

  8:30 a.m.

  SYMON LED THE TARGET INTO THE GRECO REVIVAL MANSION. The two widowed sisters were now locked from view in a heap at the bottom of the basement steps. He’d tidied the sunroom before leaving to get his target. Rearranged the furniture, cleaned the blood from the floor. Fortunately it was minimal; the poor old gals were so old they hadn’t had much pumping through their veins.

  “Now, Eva, let’s go to the sunroom, and you and I can have a little talk.”

  Eva Travis, the target, was more darling in person than any picture could portray. Symon smiled, a genuine smile because his memories were slowly sifting back, and this child’s calm demeanor reminded him of his own daughter, who took after her mother.

  “Seriously, sweetie. We need to talk about your daddy and about Jacob.”

  That put a look of bewilderment on Eva’s face.

  “Oh, yes. I know all about Jacob.” He had no idea how he knew, but there were lots of things he knew without any idea how he’d acquired the knowledge.

  He led the way to the sunroom and motioned to one of the chairs. “Sit. Would you like a drink?”

  Eva said nothing, neither nodding nor shaking her head.

  “Very well, I’ll take that as a yes.” He went to the refrigerator and poured tall glasses of iced tea. He took a sip. “Oh, Southern sweet tea. I haven’t had this in ages. You’ll like this.” He handed her a glass, then sat in an overstuffed chair across from her. “Now, let’s talk about your daddy, shall we? Do you know where he is right now?”

  She set the tea on a table and looked at him.

  “Come now, Eva, we need to have a discussion here. That means both of us talking, sharing information, feelings, passions, all of it. Do you know where your daddy is?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Symon crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “But you do know he’s going to do something naughty, don’t you?”

  Again, no response.

  “Well, don’t you? Isn’t that what Jacob told you?”

  “How do you know about Jacob?”

  “Ah, you do talk. I know many things, Eva. How I know isn’t important.”

  She looked around the room, her eyes finding and searching every corner.

  “He’s not here,” Symon said. “He can’t come to this place. It’s just you and me now.”

  “Where’s my dad?”

  “I know, I know. He needs to know you love him, blah, blah, blah. It’s too late for that, sweetie. Your daddy is long gone, and he’s not coming back. He’s on a mission right now, doing something very important. And you, you are my insurance to make sure he does it. Now, what do you say we give your daddy a phone call and let him know what’s at stake, shall we?”

  Eva mumbled something.

  “Excuse me, sweetie? I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I said it’s not just me who loves him.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, many people love your dear old daddy. He’s such a great guy, isn’t he?”

  “I need to tell him that Jesus loves him.”

  Heat crawled up Symon’s neck and settled in his cheeks. “Eva, coming from most, that name would not bother me, but coming from you, I’m afraid I find it quite offensive. I’ll ask you politely once to not use it again.”

  Eva appeared to think about that. Her eyes shifted around the room and finally landed back on Symon. He was impressed with her courage. With all sincerity, she said, “Jesus loves you too.”

  Symon vaulted from his chair and covered the space between them before she could flinch. His hand found her throat and squeezed. “Don’t you ever even think about saying that name again in my presence. Do you hear me, you little brat?”

  Eva’s eyes bulged and her face reddened.

  He looked deep into her eyes and there found real fear. “Do you hear me?”

  She nodded.

  He released his grip and dropped to one knee. His head began to throb. “I’m sorry, Eva. I probably shouldn’t have done that. I … Let’s just call your daddy. You know, someday you’ll be proud of what he’s about to do. He’s about to change the course of history.”

  Symon took the phone from the table and dialed the number the voice had given him. The number for Sam’s motel room.

  Fifty-Seven

  9:35 a.m.

  WE’LL BE THERE IN TEN MINUTES, SIR,” TAYLOR SAID. SHE WAS seated in front of Lincoln in the Suburban, with her cell phone to her ear. “Your wife has just arrived and is waiting in her vehicle at the rostrum.”

  “How do things look?”

  “Sir?”

  “Security, what are they saying?”

  Despite the confident appearance he put on for his staff, Lincoln couldn’t help but be concerned about safety at the Gettysburg event. His concern wasn’t for himself but for his wife. If anything happened to her because a few radicals hated him, he’d never forgive himself. His team rarely told him the details of the threats. He knew most were the routine batch that a
lways came in, and only a few were taken seriously. Apparently this time there were more than a few.

  This was a risk he would take, a risk they all took.

  “The crowd is growing by the minute,” Taylor answered, dropping her phone into the inside breast pocket of her jacket. “There’s a group of protestors on the other side of Taneytown Road, but they appear peaceful. Taneytown and Steinwehr have been closed off. Security is covering the perimeter. Locals are patrolling the immediate area and rerouting traffic. So far so good. When we get there, we’ll pull up right behind your wife’s vehicle. The two of you will get out and take the platform together. There are chairs there for you and several local notables.”

  “Do you have their names?” Most politicians didn’t care whom they shared their platform with so long as it reflected well on them, but Lincoln’s concern was for the individual. That’s why he’d gotten into politics in the first place, and knowing whom he was sitting with was important to him.

  “I have the list here.” Taylor dug a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. “The mayor of Gettysburg, Milt Kyle; the president of Gettysburg College, Harry Lee; the president of the Lutheran seminary, George Wickham; a few honor students from Gettysburg High and Gettysburg College; and the pastor of a local Baptist church, Ed Mickley. They’ve all been cleared.”

  She looked to him for his approval to go on. He nodded, satisfied.

  “Lee will speak first,” she said, “followed by Wickham and Mickley. Then the mayor will introduce you. You’ll take the podium, and you’ll notice the first several rows of the audience are children. The kids of Lincoln Elementary School have been invited.” She looked out the window. “Thank goodness it stopped raining.”