Free The Last Day by John Ramsey Miller Page A

until he stopped resisting, which took minimal effort. That done, Watcher put the cloth in his coat pocket, took a look at the unconscious young killer, and stripped off his own clothes. He took Howard's clothes—piled on the floor—and put them on. Howard wore ridiculous, loose-fitting clothing, so they fit the much larger man reasonably well. Sitting on the side of the bed, he slipped on Howard's flip- flops to cover the footprint angle. Taking up the aluminum baseball bat, he went from bedroom to bedroom making an unbelievable mess of the other young men's heads. The boys were so drunk they didn't awaken at the hollow wet smacking sounds Watcher made.
    When Watcher returned to Howard's room, he flipped on the lights and, looking in the mirror, admired the amount of gore covering Howard's clothes. The wet shoe patterns stood out on the hardwood. He wiped blood on Howard's hands and he put the bat in them sothe kid's bloody fingerprints were clearly printed on the handle like words on the pages of a Bible.
    In the bathroom, Watcher stripped off and dropped the saturated clothes onto the floor, covering the bat. Watcher ran a bath, got in, and let the water grow pink with the blood of dead boys. He dried off, and laid out the towel before stepping onto it. After dressing he placed the towel in a plastic Wal- Mart bag he'd brought along in the back pocket of his jeans.
    The last thing he did was carry the naked Howard Lindley into the bathroom and place him in the tub, washing him and using a plastic glass to rinse his hair. Lindley remained unconscious the entire time.
    His work done, Watcher slipped from the cabin, and, after removing his surveillance equipment from young Lindley's Tahoe, he returned to the lake house, raised the windows in the den overlooking the neighbor's house, and turned on the stereo full blast. He slipped out the back door and crossed yards stealthily until he came to his truck.
    Even now, fifteen months later, Watcher found himself smiling at the totally impromptuplan, spurred by the sight of the bat Lindley had been using to threaten his friends.
    He gave little thought to the dead boys in the cabin.
    They should have chosen their friends better.

SIXTEEN
    When Ward got home at five- thirty there was a message on the answering machine from Natasha. “I won't be home before eight, so I guess you better fend for yourself for dinner.” He replayed the message twice, listening closely. Each time her clinical delivery left him cold. These days she left messages, even though she knew he always carried his cell phone.
    Ward took a long cool shower, changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and turned on the television to the local news.
    Ward's cell phone rang at a few minutes past seven. The caller ID showed a number he wasn't familiar with.
    “Ward McCarty,” he said.
    “Mr. McCarty, it's Todd Hartman. I hope this isn't a bad time.”
    “No, it's a good time.”
    “Just wanted to let you know I've tracked the young girl down.”
    “That was fast,” Ward said.
    “Alice Palmer. That's her name. She's eigh teen. Five five, ninety pounds, blond hair, green eyes. Her license picture fits your description. At tends UNCC, math major, with a petty rap sheet that points to a troubled, not a criminal, young woman. She lives with her mother in a three-quarter- million- dollar home in Dillworth. Her mother, Delores Palmer, sells high- dollar residential real estate and she makes mid- six figures. Drives the Porsche you saw to impress prospective clients, and has a large BMW to ferry clients around in. Alice travels to Vegas to see her father a few times a year. She probably doesn't know the monetary value of the car. This was probably for attention from someone. Maybe the parents.”
    “What do you do next?”
    “I'll catch her in the A.M. on her way to classes on campus. Lots of people around so it's a safe atmosphere for her. I'll talk to her and I'll know where we are.”
    “Great work,” Ward