Armageddon Conspiracy (21 page)

What McTighe couldn’t understand was how fast Lucas had managed to track the Reverend. It had even freaked Beddington out, and he had wanted to pop the both of them right there, on the road between the church and town. It would be easy, he’d insisted, and they could dump the bodies down near Camden. No way, McTighe had said. He wasn’t killing anybody that close to his wife and kids.

It kept eating at him that the woman was a cop. He tried to think on what Reverend Turner said, how true Christians had a duty to the prophecy. It was a grave responsibility, the Reverend said, and if they didn’t do it, they could be pushing back Jesus’s return by five hundred or even a thousand years. Would that be right? Would God want that? It was tough to argue with the Reverend.

His thoughts were interrupted when the VW ahead of them put on its blinker. “Shit,” he mumbled. One of his front parking lights was broken, and he hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. If Lucas’s girlfriend had been checking for tails, that broken light would be easy to
pick out. He took his foot off the gas and let the space between the Toyota and the truck widen to the point where he could barely see her taillights.

“Don’t lose her!” Beddington snapped.

“I don’t want her to spot us.”

“She ain’t going to,” Beddington said.

“I’m glad you’re so sure.”

Beddington nodded. “We’re invisible to the sinner. We are enclosed in the blinding cloak of God’s grace. No way they can see us.”

McTighe shot him a sideways glance, hating the smug expression Beddington always wore when he talked about God. McTighe knew that God helped those who helped themselves, so it seemed just plain foolish not to be careful.

After another mile, Route 202 merged into Route 287, and the traffic became heavier. McTighe sped up again but managed to get a delivery van between him and the Toyota. They were eating up the distance to Morristown.

“We gotta find our chance,” Beddington said.

McTighe winced and rubbed his hands on his trouser legs to dry the sweat. “Maybe we just ought to wait.”

As if in response, Beddington took out his automatic, slid a shell into the chamber, and clicked on the safety. “We already talked about this. What if they’re not goin’ back to her house? What if they’re goin’ to the cops to report the Reverend?” Beddington glanced at him.

McTighe felt none of Beddington’s confidence, only fear. He thought about their alibi. They’d sure as hell need God to make it hold up because the whole thing sounded like bullshit—especially the part about how they’d driven fifty miles to meet a friend at a bar
for a couple Cokes. Maybe other people did stuff like that, but not him. Other than his jobs for Mr. Biddle, he generally hung out close to home.

He went over everything in his head again, looking for comfort in the details. He had to admit Reverend Turner had thought it out pretty good—even had a waitress at a Morristown restaurant who’d claim she’d waited on them if anybody asked. But nobody would. He and Beddington were cops. They’d be heroes for nailing a murderer.

“Hey!” Beddington said suddenly.

The Toyota’s turn signal was on. There was an exit just ahead, and McTighe tried to recall what the last sign had said. Basking Ridge, that was it. “Shit,” he muttered as he slowed down.

“
TELL ME AGAIN WHY WE
didn’t drag that sonofabitch out of his church and beat the truth out of him right on the spot?” Brent demanded.

“Other than to feel good,” Maggie said, “what would be the point?”

“To make him admit he’s working with Biddle!”

“What if he denies it? What do you do then?”

Brent threw his hands in the air. “I’ll break his arms!”

“That
would be persuasive to a jury. An accused murderer and embezzler beats up a minister!” Maggie nodded. “Good thinking.”

“So we’re just going to leave him there?”

“He won’t run if he doesn’t think he’s a suspect,” she said, even as something in her rearview mirror caught her eye. She was once again seeing the set of headlights she’d been seeing intermittently for the
past twenty miles. They’d gone under some bright arc lights a while back, and she’d seen they belonged to a pickup truck. The truck had a burned out parking light down on the bumper.

“Can you at least tap the guy’s phone?”

In her rearview mirror Maggie could see a delivery van now sitting directly behind her, screening the pickup. “We’ll probably need more evidence than we’ve got, especially when it concerns somebody like Biddle.”

Brent slapped his door in frustration.

She ignored him, staring now at the rearview mirror. “Somebody’s been following us, probably ever since Lambertville. I should have paid better attention.”

Brent turned his head and looked through the back window. “Police?”

Maggie put on her turn signal. “Police would have stopped us already. It’s a pickup truck.”

“So where are we going?”

“The back way,” Maggie said.

“If he doesn’t follow us, maybe we can park and make out,” Brent said.

“Funny.” Maggie glanced back and chewed her lip. “Hopefully I’m just paranoid, but I don’t think so.” She thought about the narrow road through the nature preserve that led eventually to Morristown. She knew it well enough to drive it at high speed and was pretty sure she could lose somebody who didn’t know where they were going.

“If those are the guys who killed Smythe, a deserted road is about perfect for them,” Brent said. “This is a bad idea!”

They were off the highway, approaching the turn for the nature
preserve. “You’d rather lead them to my house?”

Brent’s face was creased with worry. He glanced over his shoulder at the lights of the pickup about a hundred yards back, then gritted his teeth. “Do it,” he grunted.

She swung left, and immediately the road narrowed and became uneven. The houses and lights disappeared, replaced quickly by empty darkness stretching on all sides.

The driver of the pickup seemed to sense that they would try and lose him because he roared up on their bumper. Maggie floored the Toyota, but its soft suspension slammed through the bumps. “Shit!” she said as the far more powerful truck stayed on their tail. There were no other headlights in either direction, and after a half mile or so a blue police light began to flash.

She glanced at Brent, who already had one hand on the door handle. She grabbed his arm. “Stay put and keep your head turned forward,” she ordered. She struggled to think as she slowed and pulled to the side, careful to leave two of her wheels on dry pavement for traction. She shifted into neutral and snatched her holster from the space between the seat and console.

She was sure these weren’t cops, but what if they were? A voice in her head screamed that she couldn’t risk shooting a fellow officer, but it all smelled wrong. No cop would make a stop like this without backup, so if they stayed in the truck and waited, they were real, she decided. If they got out, they were something else.

She unsnapped the holster, pulled out her Glock, and chambered a round. She reset the safety and slipped the gun beneath her thigh, knowing if things got tight she’d have only a split second to decide.

She heard a door open. Her rearview mirror showed two men
climbing from the truck. They edged cautiously toward the Toyota, taking small steps, staying to either side. She lowered her window and strained her ears for the sound of a police radio. Cops would have handhelds or the volume turned up in the truck so they could hear, but the only sound was the peeping of frogs in the nearby marsh. The man on the left stepped in front of the truck headlight, the silhouette of a pistol outlined beside his leg.

These guys had waited to make their stop until they were someplace where there’d be no witnesses. They weren’t cops!

She leaned out and called back to the man on the left side, “Hold it right there! Who are you and what do you want?” She said it with enough force that the man stopped.

“Police. The two of you step out of the car,” he barked. “Hands where I can see them.”

“Where’s the guy on your side?” she whispered to Brent.

He was slouched in his seat, staring intently at his side mirror. “Couple feet behind the car.”

“I’m not stopping here,” Maggie shouted. “I have the right to drive to a well-lighted place. You can follow me.” She felt Brent coil beside her, again ready to bolt. She gripped his thigh. “Don’t move,” she whispered.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, ma’am.” The man’s shoes crunched gravel as he took another step. “Turn your engine off. You and your friend just get out of the car with your hands in plain sight.”

She took her hand from Brent’s thigh and gripped her pistol. She was out of time, but could she shoot? What if these were stupid cops who were breaking all the rules?

Suddenly Brent let out a gasp as he stared at the side mirror. “I see
his face! It’s one of the FBI guys!” he said in a choked whisper. In the next second his door was open, and he exploded from the car.

Maggie heard a gunshot, but she had no time to think. She jammed the shifter into reverse, stomped on the accelerator and cut the wheel. The rear bumper slammed the guy on her side with a loud thump. She immediately hit the brakes, her automatic already out the window. “Freeze,” she shouted at the man who was on his knees, groping for his gun. “Freeze!” she shouted again. The man glanced up and saw her Glock aimed at his chest, and he raised his hands.

“Brent?” she screamed as she opened her door, rolled out, and squatted beside the car.

“I’m okay,” he shouted.

“Are you hit?”

“No.”

“Do you have his gun?”

“No, but I’ve got him,” Brent answered. He appeared around the rear of Maggie’s car struggling with a large man. He held him in a throat lock and had one of the man’s arms twisted up behind his back.

Maggie straightened, went forward, and kicked the first man’s pistol away. “On your stomach,” she commanded. “Hands behind your back. The man obeyed, lying face down in the road. She placed the barrel of her gun against his spine, pulled a pair of handcuffs from the pouch on her belt, and locked them around his wrists.

Brent’s prisoner suddenly began to struggle wildly. He was as tall as Brent and more thickly built. Brent’s face knotted in pain as he struggled to keep control. Maggie approached and then kicked the man hard in the crotch. His eyes bugged, and then the air left his
lungs in a rush. He sagged abruptly, appearing to lose all resistance and almost taking Brent down.

“Get him on his stomach,” Maggie said, as she reached into her car for a spare set of cuffs in the door pocket.

She handed Brent the cuffs just as the man started to struggle again. He outweighed Brent by thirty or forty pounds, and it was clear from Brent’s expression that the fighting must have re-injured his wounded stomach. Nonetheless, Brent knelt on the man’s back and gripped one meaty wrist as he managed to fasten the first bracelet. He seemed to have things under control, but then the man moved suddenly, raising his shoulder and bringing one leg up as he jerked his other hand free.

Maggie saw what was happening. “Watch out!” she cried.

Brent grabbed for the man’s arm as it snaked down to his pants cuff and a second later reappeared with a small revolver. Brent was off the man’s back now, holding the man’s gun arm in a desperate grip. The man swung his other arm, lashing the loose cuff savagely into the back of Brent’s head. Brent lost his grip momentarily, but grabbed the wrist again and shoved the gun away just as the man pulled the trigger. The gun was waving toward Maggie, and she dove to one side as a second shot boomed out.

She aimed her own gun, looking for a chance to return fire. The man continued whipping his handcuff into Brent’s back and head until he once again jerked his gun hand free. He rolled away from Brent and onto his knees, bringing the gun to bear on Brent, his arms locked in a two-handed shooter’s pose.

“Drop it!” Maggie commanded, her finger tightening on the trigger.

The man’s gun stayed locked on Brent, but he looked at her, then past her at his companion. His eyes widened.

“Drop it!” Maggie shouted. “Now!”

The man looked back at Brent, his face now oddly contorted. “McTighe!” he shouted, but his partner didn’t answer. “Oh Jesus,” he whimpered.

“Drop it,” Maggie repeated.

He kept the gun on Brent, but he cut her another sideways glance. “I can’t,” he said.

“You can’t win,” Maggie said. “Drop it, now!”

“I am one of the chosen!” he said, his voice cracking.

“Put down the gun,” she said, struggling to sound calm and steady.

The man shook his head.

Brent was on his knees, holding his stomach. “Who are you?” he grunted.

“One of the chosen,” the man repeated.

“Why did you steal the money? Why did you kill Dr. Faisal and Owen Smythe? Is Prescott Biddle your boss?”

Sweat was streaming down the man’s face, and his hands shook. “I am one of the chosen,” he said for a third time, as he thumbed back the hammer.

“No!” Maggie screamed as she saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger. She fired twice, knocking him backward even as his gun went off. She looked at Brent, who was frozen in shock, staring at the twitching body.

“Are you okay?” she asked in a trembling voice.

Brent only nodded. All around them the world had fallen deathly silent. Maggie’s pulse thundered against her eardrums. After several
more seconds, as frogs resumed peeping in the swamp, she turned to look at her other prisoner. He lay motionless. She went over, knelt beside him, and put her hand over her mouth upon seeing the jagged wound where his partner’s wild shot had blown the corner of his forehead away.

Brent stood, hobbled over, and touched her shoulder. When she finally glanced up, she saw blood in his hair from where the handcuff had lacerated his scalp. Without a word he took the corpse by the ankles and dragged it into the deep grass beside the right front tire of the truck, out of sight of a passing car. He pulled the larger man behind the tire as well and then collapsed against the truck’s hood, his head bowed. “Who the hell were these guys?” he mumbled.