Free Every Move You Make by M. William Phelps

posing as him—went to the Spare Room II to pay the bill, the Bureau would be there waiting for him.
    Horton, however, warned everyone that Evans wasn’t that stupid. There was no way he was going to just march into Spare Room II after calling. It was some sort of trap. A way to throw off the scent.
    At about 2:40 P.M ., as undercover officers from the Bureau, who had been there all day long, stood despondent around the Spare Room II gate thinking that the entire day had been a waste, a 1996 Ford Contour with New Hampshire license plates pulled up to the entrance gate. A female was driving. She was alone. She looked lost. Scared.
    But also very familiar.
    When officers approached the car and asked the woman to identify herself, she simply rolled the window down and said, “Lisa Morris.”

CHAPTER 14
    Throughout the years, Evans had juggled scores of women. He liked to brag to Horton about all the women he had slept with. Most of them, he said, were nothing but “whores”—a “piece of ass” he could call every once in a while for some fun. Bedding down with women was a game to Evans, a challenge. There was one time Horton stopped at a hotel room Evans had been renting and Evans handed him a photo of himself and a rather good-looking blonde. They were blasting around the ocean on Jet Skis. “I had that photo taken two days ago,” Evans boasted, “in Florida!” He seemed proud of the fact that he could pick up a woman on a Friday night, fly down to Florida for the weekend, “bang her a few times” and return home the following Monday—an all-expense-paid weekend vacation, courtesy of whichever antique shop owner—who had undoubtedly spent his life building his business—Evans had pillaged.
    Other times, Evans would show Horton photos of different women and his demeanor would change entirely. He sometimes became docile, as if he had invested his emotions in the woman and she had let him down. One of those women was Doris Sheehan , a twenty-six-year-old brunette Evans had dated throughout the years. In one of his letters to Horton, Evans talked about Sheehan as though she had been the only woman he had ever loved. A bit on the chunky side at five feet three inches, 140 pounds, Sheehan’s blue eyes accentuated the beauty of her pudgy yet cute face. She had been arrested for a few DWIs, but other than that she was just a young and naive local girl Evans had won over with his charm and his showering of stolen jewelry.
    A local Troy woman who knew Sheehan later said she was “all about material things. She never loved Gary, but loved what Gary could provide her with.”
    When Horton found Sheehan in late October, after locating her through Evans’s prison visiting list, she was apprehensive and unresponsive to most of his questions. She had obviously been trained by Evans to keep her mouth shut if the cops ever came knocking.
    “I haven’t seen Gary,” she said when Horton asked, “since before summer. But,” she added, “I spoke to him a few weeks ago.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Not much. I told him to pay me the five hundred he owed me for back rent. He said he was leaving. He told me I could have his truck. A day later, it was parked in my driveway.”
    Evans had lived with Sheehan in her trailer for a brief period. When Horton found her, she had already hooked up with another man whom she referred to as her “fiancé.” They were preparing to move to Florida.
    Sheehan had also rented a unit at the Spare Room II back on September 19, 1996, but when the Bureau checked it out, it was empty.
    In the end, Doris Sheehan could offer only one more false glimmer of hope.
     
    There was a name on that same prison visitor’s list that had been bothering Horton ever since he had seen it. A young kid in his twenties with no criminal record had visited Evans a few times during his last stay in prison. When the Bureau tracked the kid down, he said Evans had recently been to his house in upstate New York to pay