48
ANSON
We waited until dark.
Vincent, Paul, and me.
Ruddy gave us a white Toyota with dark windows and green felt seat covers that made my skin itch.
Vincent drove, I was up front, and Paul was in the back.
The Kid wanted to go, but he was in no shape to travel, and frankly, he was most useful plugging away on that laptop researching Porter, Hillburn, and anything else he could find. Maybe Guyon.
Hillburn’s house was nothing special. A two-story brick Tudor near the middle of a street lined with more nearly identical two-story brick Tudors, each separated by driveways leading to detached garages in back.
No doubt the builder’s idea to maximize space on each narrow lot.
Seeing the white van parked halfway down Hillburn’s driveway was enough to send my heart pattering.
Vincent navigated the Toyota into an empty space across the street and two houses down and switched off the engine. “Got you now, fuckhead.”
He’d brought the .38. How he was able to sit in the driver’s seat with the gun tucked in the back of his jeans, I didn’t understand, but he did, and the thought of that brought on a realization.
Anyone who could sit comfortably in a car with a gun poking them in the back could only do so because they’d done it before, because they were used to it—and that made me wonder what Vincent had been doing before arriving on Finicky’s doorstep.
Vincent had the gun, I brought my knife, and Paul was armed only with his sketchpad, on which he was busy scribbling.
He’d roughly drawn out the Hillburn house, the surrounding properties, and the street.
In the short amount of time we’d been there, he even managed to add Maybelle Markel on the sidewalk, standing beside her bike.
She was looking at the van in the Hillburn driveway.
Paul continued to sketch as he spoke. “In the business, this is what we call a crossover. The Misadventures of Maybelle Markel meets The Death of Van Man. It will have a limited print run with only a handful of copies, which will make it super valuable.”
“We’re not going to kill him,” Vincent said, his eyes also on the van.
Paul stopped sketching. “We’re not?”
“We’re going to follow him.”
I was confused. “Why don’t we just corner him in his house? Find out what he knows about Guyon?”
“. . . and then kill him.” Paul went back to his drawing.
Vincent looked toward the small grassy yard between the house and the garage out back. “That’s why.”
I followed his gaze to the clothesline strung between the two buildings, to the various items hanging from it.
Then I understood. Not only were several white collared shirts hanging from the line, but there were also a couple of dresses and various undergarments.
Even a pair of long stockings. “He’s married. ”
Vincent nodded. “Or he’s living with someone. Either way, he’s not alone in that house.”
Paul pulled a red colored pencil from his pocket and began coloring in his drawing. “If he’s married or has a girlfriend, no way she doesn’t know what kind of scumbag he is. And if she knows, she’s no better.”
“No, Vincent’s right,” I told Paul. “We need him alive, and that would be hard enough if he was alone in there. They might even have kids. If we wait for him to leave, we can corner him someplace else.”
Let’s hope he takes the van, Father said softly. Lots of room to work in the back of that van. Nice and private.
I found myself nodding.
Father hadn’t spoken since the previous night with Twill, and I found the familiar voice comforting, even if he could be disagreeable sometimes.
I hadn’t seen Twill all day, but as the hours ticked by, I’d fully accepted the fact that my memories of the previous night were, in fact, memories, not a dream.
I hadn’t seen or heard anything about an explosion or fire, but that didn’t mean we hadn’t killed those men—only that news hadn’t made it back to the Quick.
I also hadn’t stopped thinking about what Vincent had told me.
How Twill had killed that kid, Mathew, back at Finicky’s, and buried him out in the cornfield.
Her warning to Vincent not to tell a soul.
I wasn’t sure if I should be frightened by all that, repulsed, or impressed.
The truth was, I probably would have killed Mathew, too.
Mother surely would have. Father would have buried him in the cornfield.
I would have too. She and I weren’t that different, and that thought also frightened, repulsed, and tugged at me.
“There he is.” Vincent sank lower in his seat. “Came out the back door. He’s getting in the van.”
I only caught a glimpse of him. He was wearing the same long, navy trench coat he’d had most other times I’d seen him, and the wind caught it as he slipped behind the wheel.
A quick flash before he pulled the bottom of the coat inside and slammed the door.
A moment later, the headlights snapped on and the van pulled out of the driveway.
He made a left at the end of the street.
“Here we go.” Vincent started the Toyota, made the same left, and lined up behind him. Not so close as to be noticed, but several car lengths back. He followed Van Man like a seasoned pro, which again made me wonder about his past.
In the back seat, Paul flipped to a blank page.
Within moments, he produced the van ahead of us, caught in the beams of our lights.
Watching him draw was like watching a comic come to life in real time.
He captured the rust on the van’s bumper.
A turned trash can we passed on the right.
The moon looked down at us with a harsh coldness to its light as we turned down various side streets and narrow roads.
We made a right onto the much wider Calhoun, where Vincent allowed two cars to get between us and the van before we then took the bridge over the Ashley River toward Albemarle Point.
He kept sight of him, though. And when the van took an exit on the right, Vincent did too, keeping the distance between us.
There were several more turns, and with each, there was less traffic, less means of concealment, and Vincent had no choice but to drop back.
Residential gave way to old commercial. Commercial gave way to slums. Slums gave way to abandonment.
Paul scribbled furiously, capturing it all.
Page after page. When the van pulled under a bridge next to a four-story brick building with boarded windows, Vincent drove past. We parked three blocks over behind a warehouse covered in graffiti.
Vincent switched off the motor and turned to us both while flexing the fingers of his hands. “Ready?”
Paul set his sketchpad aside and I nodded.