Dead Even by Mariah Stewart Page A

him.”
    “We’re aware of that, Mr. Unger.” Miranda hesitated. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
    Unger gestured toward the empty movie theater.
    “Got the whole theater to ourselves. Oughta be good enough.”
    “How about we sit down here in the front?” Will pointed to the row of seats.
    “Long as it don’t hold me up too long. I don’t want to miss my bus,” Unger told them as he sat. “Now, what the hell is this all about, talking about Curtis coming back from the dead? What kind of nonsense is that?”
    Miranda and Will filled him in on the FBI’s theory.
    “You have got to be kidding. You think Curt asked someone else to kill me?” Unger’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his sparse hairline. “Why in the name of God would he do that?”
    “Before Curtis died, he’d been holding a woman captive. Her name was Anne Marie McCall. She’s an FBI profiler,” Miranda told him.
    “I remember that. She was the sister of that girl Curt been trying to find.”
    Miranda nodded.
    “Curt told Dr. McCall that he hated you for killing his mother.”
    Unger stared at Miranda blankly.
    “Hated me for that? For killing her and stopping his suffering? Shit.” Unger shook his head. “You’d think he’d a been thanking me. Why would he hate me for that?”
    “Because he’d wanted to kill her himself.”
    Unger nodded slowly. “That, I can understand. I can understand why he would have wanted to been the one . . . but he was just a little boy then. Eight, nine, maybe. If she’d a kept on doing what she’d been doing to him, he wouldn’t have lived long enough to grow up.”
    “That’s probably true, Mr. Unger,” Miranda agreed.
    “But the problem we have now,” Will told him, “is that someone else might be thinking about doing that job for him.”
    “Curt killed someone for him, you said, so you figure now this other person is going to kill me for Curt?”
    “Close enough.” Will nodded.
    “Well, then, best I can do is watch my back.” Albert Unger stood slowly. “Any idea what this guy looks like? The one who wants to kill me?”
    “He’s young, about twenty. Tall, lanky. Bad skin . . .” Miranda opened the leather bag that hung from her shoulder.
    Unger started to laugh.
    “Miss, that’s a fair description of maybe half the young men who come into this theater.”
    “Maybe this will help.” She handed him a photograph. “That’s his mug shot. He looks a bit different these days. His hair’s a bit longer; he’s lost some weight. . . .”
    “Still looks like half the kids I see on any given day. I can’t be running every time some young kid comes through that door.”
    “We’re not suggesting that. We just want you to be aware of people. A little more watchful, maybe. And here.” She took a card out of her wallet. “If you even think someone is watching you, if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable, or uneasy, I want you to call me. Stay right where you are until we can get someone to you, okay?”
    He studied the card, then slipped it into his pocket.
    “Sure. Thanks.” He stood up, leaning on the broom handle to get out of his seat. “You know, someone was by a few weeks ago. Some writer. Said he used to get mail from Curtis. Said he wants to talk to me, maybe do a book about me and Curtis. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
    “It sure would,” Miranda agreed.
    “Well, I better get back to work here. I lock up, you know, after I’m done, and if I’m too late turning the lights off, the local cops come in to see what’s going on, and the boss always hears about it. Thanks for letting me know what’s what.”
    “You’re welcome. Just be careful.”
    “Will do, Agent . . .”
    “Fletcher,” Will told him.
    “Pleased to have met you.” Albert Unger went back to pushing his broom under the seats, and brought a wide swath of popcorn and candy wrappers into the light.
    “Mr. Unger,” Miranda paused on her way up the aisle, “what was the name of the writer who