Two shots. The moaning stopped.
They threw him in the backseat, headed back down the hill, then south out of town.
“Can I ask where we going?”
“No. You can shut the fuck up, tho.”
CHAPTER 43
AUGUST
Spokane, Washington
When Marissa came driving up the dirt road to rescue her from the past two days of living hell as she promised she would, her first thought was Marissa might not be so bad after all. Her second, her dad was still an asshole.
Jerry’s cabin sucked. No other girls anywhere nearby, she had to suffer the constant bombardment of the insufferable Mackenzie brothers’ whistles and appraisals of her burgeoning boobs (what was it with boys and boobs?) whenever she went out to sponge some sun. Inside the cabin was equally excruciating. Fat-ass Jerry, fat hanging out everywhere, always grabbing at her mom, the two of them dancing to music just this side of disco, drunk off daiquiris or whatever shit was in that annoying, never-ending blender; no internet or cable, no cellphone service, she was fairly certain she was being given a glimpse of what hell must be like.
But then came sweet salvation wearing a brown mini and a pricey striped top with spaghetti straps that Katie had seen at Nordies; the chick had style. Marissa left the Mackenzies speechless. As they drove away Katie left them a salutary middle finger.
“Art of negotiation,” Marissa explained when asked how she had convinced her mother to let her go.
Whatever. It worked. “What are we going to do?”
“I thought we’d start with a little shopping.”
“Oh. No. I can’t let you spend money on me. My dad wouldn’t like that.”
Marissa gave her a strange look. “Oh, mon cher enfant,” she laughed, “that’s sweet, but I’m not spending a dime. This shopping expedition will be entirely financed courtesy of your father.” Her eyes twinkled. “Seems only fair for abandoning us, no?”
It did seem fair. Shopping the rest of the afternoon, they ordered Chinese takeout from The Mustard Seed, her fave other than the diner, and returned to recuperate at her dad’s, which entailed trying on her haul and stuffing her face with garlic chicken at the same time. Marissa’s style was impressive, not to mention the great pleasure she took in spending her dad’s money. Lots to learn from her dad’s new girlfriend.
Weird to even think he had one. The last chicks he dated were trashy whores, especially that stupid redhead who wouldn’t stop jabbering about vegan crap. He’d played the monk since, and that was like forever ago.
They had giggled over hair highlights at the mall at her dad’s expense and after dinner Katie washed her hair and Marissa changed into a pair of bubble-gum pink shorts and one of her dad’s T-shirts (even making that look awesome) and set up in the bathroom for a bit of a makeover.
“You’ve got great hair, Katie.”
“Thanks,” she smiled, enjoying being attended to. It felt rather adult-like. “You wouldn’t rather be out partying it up with Karla?” She had met the vivacious KK at the mall. What a riot; every other word sexually active. Could probably learn a lot from her as well.
“No, mon ami. I like kickin’ it here with you.” When Marissa smiled it touched her gorgeous green eyes. Had to give it to the old man, her dad had taste.
“Isn’t it weird dating my dad? I mean he’s like twice your age?”
“Not quite.” Marissa glanced at her in the mirror. “He doesn’t come across as old to me.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I thought I was.”
“Karla kept hinting at it.” Understatement. Karla had been hilariously blunt.
“KK’s jealous.”
“She’s bi, right?”
Marissa laughed. “She’ll bust a gut when I tell her you think so. Sorry, she’s a bit much, she has no filter.”
“I thought she was cool.”
“She is cool. Bit risky sometimes.”
She rolled her eyes. “My mom’s given me the whole GHB/roofies lecture a thousand times already.”
“Smart woman.”
“Right. Boobilicious, the slutty secretary, most popular MILF on the block, who leaves my dad to marry a douche like Jerry.”
“Rude.” Marissa thumped her on the head. “So your mom wants to feel and look young and sexy, so what? Is that a crime? You’ll feel differently when you’re her age. We all do. Cut your parents some slack.” Marissa looked her coolly in the eyes via the mirror. “Your dad’s worried you’re having sex.”
“Oh shit. Are we going to talk about this?”
Marissa did her eyebrow thing. She had to learn that, too. It was pretty tight.
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“It’s just…Boys get pissy when you say no.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Like when I wouldn’t go down to Josh’s basement for a Lipstick Party. Know what that is?”
“I’ve heard tell. In France they’re called Baisodromes.”
“How come you’re always speaking French?”
“Practique, mon cheri.” She looked wistful.
“I’d like to go to France.”
“Maybe you and I will go together, a girl’s thing, tell your dad he’s uninvited but we’ll send him pictures.”
“Effin’ awesome!” She put her hand up and Marissa smacked it five. She thought it was time to lay down the law. “Missy?”
“Mmm?”
“If you hurt my dad I’ll hurt you back.” Their eyes met in the mirror. Marissa’s were reflective green ice but Katie’s held a cool promise of their own. She didn’t blink until Marissa did.
“We’re done,” Marissa said, setting down the mascara-like wand thingy. “I want chocolate.”
Her hair turned out awesome. Even Karla said so when she came over with even more clothes for her. It was ridic! KK broke out a bottle of wine and convinced Marissa to let her have one glass, KK’s dirty mouth making her blush, but informative, so informative. She was so cool, and it had to be said Marissa was too. Or maybe that was just the clothes, chocolate and wine talking.
Katie was out. A fireball awake, curled up on the sofa her face softened. Just like her dad’s. And just like him in the bar that night her eyes had been full of fierce promise of retribution if Marissa ever hurt him. It had unsteadied her, but only momentarily. Looking at her now, she was just a young woman trying to figure it all out after having been provided with ample inappropriate suggestions from Karla.
“You can’t say things like that around her,” she whispered.
“Get real.” Karla tossed her raven locks. “She’s gonna find out eventually.”
“Operative word, eventually. Not everyone was finger-banged in the broom closet at age ten.”
“Can I help it if I had an edifying fourth grade?”
Marissa felt the sleeping girl’s skin. Cool to the touch, she pulled the throw around her shoulders.
Karla snorted, took a sip of her wine.
They left the girl to sleep and refilled their glasses in the kitchen. Karla shook her head. “Wow. I figured I’d be married with two brats in tow behind my fat ass before you even thought about settling down.”
“Please.”
“You please. You’re falling all over yourself for his kid. You’ve fallen for his damn dog. His cats. That permaglow? You must be jumping his bones twice a day— “
“Sometimes three,” she confessed.
“Good God, woman,” Karla deplored, spilling her wine. “Even I don’t fornicate three times a day.”
“Sssh!” She reached for a paper towel and started padding the floor.
“You’re so losin’ it, chica. Do you see yourself right now? Spill a little wine, you drop to hands and knees, the good lil’ woman, cleaning it up before the man of the house gets home.”
Karla’s phone rang. She fingered a quick text and tossed back the last of her
wine. “Kevin’s here.”
“Kevin? Shit. Which Kevin?”
Marissa saw her to the door.
“Seriously. Lust, Caution, okay?” Karla hugged her. Her brow furrowed as she looked outside. “Whoa. Really? Camaro Kevin? I really need to clean out my phone contacts.”
“Bon soir. Ne pas faire ce que je ne ferais pas!”
“That doesn’t leave much these days.”
“Shut up. Love ya.”
“Love ya back.”
She closed the door, returned to the sleeping girl, wondering if her sister had ever stood over her as she did now. A vastly different perspective fostering than being fostered. Had the hair been an overstep? Perhaps John’s ex-wife wouldn’t approve. That could be an issue.
She startled herself. Good God, is Karla right? Am I losing it?
But losing what? Solitary nights studying tort reform, eyes crawling over the dry legalese of social security fraud for the law clinic while KK boomed and moaned next door? She wasn’t oblivious; she kept expecting panic, an alert of Spokane capitulation that had choked the life and dreams out of so many young women but no alarm ever rang. John didn’t treat her like the lil’ woman, in fact quite the opposite. He was the most uncontrolling man she had ever dated. She liked that, yet at times wished he was more…concerned? That wasn’t it, and it was early days. He never treated her less than a sensuous woman who was smarter than he was, and that might change but it worked now. She was bizarrely happy, and one thing her sister’s death had taught her that she worked to remind herself daily was that change was inevitable. That when the now was good, really good, it wasn’t something to deny, dismiss or cheapen as ordinary.
What to tell her mother was another story. Maybe the same thing she kept telling herself; get over it. Yes, he was older, divorced, unemployed. Her mom would love all that. Her primary complaint would be he was Anj’s boyfriend and a lousy one at that. But Anj wasn’t here, and lousy wasn’t a reasonable objection just an adjective. John shared the loss of her sister, the loss of an only sibling. If that wasn’t a reasonable foundation for a relationship, what was?
She could hear sister’s laughter mocking her rationale.
“Keep an eye on her,” she whispered to Crockett who winked, “On the job, sista’.” Geronimo was more apprehensive: follow the woman who fed him or stay with the little one who was fresh with adoration? “You stay too,” she settled it.
Slipping down the hall she lay on John’s bed. Gone but three days, she would have gladly doubled her debt to Sallie Mae for a phone call, a poorly typed text, vague smoke signals. She still wasn’t buying the whole retreat thing, not entirely, but she didn’t disbelieve him either. John was an odd duck out of the gate. It was one of the things she liked about him. That and the smell of him on the pillow. She breathed deep. God. Pathetic. Yep, there was her sister’s mirth again.
Spreading out across all that unproductive emptiness she was nearly asleep when she heard a light knock and looked up to see a blondish Katie groggily standing in the doorway. Definitely a bit much on the hair. At least it washed out in fourteen washes.
“It’s kinda creepy here without my dad,” Katie said diminutively.
“A lot of space, huh?” Marissa patted the bed next to her. “I miss him, too.”
Katie rolled onto the bed, yawned. Geronimo took up his post by the door.
The younger was lost to sleep in seconds.
The older held on a little longer, lost to nostalgia.
CHAPTER 44
AUGUST
Sanderson, Texas, or thereabouts
Winding their way up into the hills, bouncing along in the backseat along a dirt track, McConnell had caught a bullet-ridden sign: Dead Indian Road.
Held all the promise of a dirt nap.
The CB radio blathered, “Car nineteen, what’s your 10-20?” The guy with his gun spoke into the mic, “We’re 10-49 on McCue Road, over,” turned off the radio and put on some country. Waylon, that old outlaw; three chords and the truth.
The road went deeper and higher, curved around a hillside. The half-moon cast the earth in different shades of dark. To the right fell a small valley populated with what looked to be a field of gray, piss-poor corn. Killing the engine both agents got out, crunched away into the night, leaving McConnell and the two dead Mexicans in body bags in back for company.
A few minutes went by. He looked over his shoulder at the black bags. Waited. Wondered. Sweated.
Make a break for it? Of course it’s what these guys did, hunt people running from them out in the desert and dark. The lay of the land a vast unknown, just how many Border Patrol were out there? He had no water, not to mention his hands were bound and they still had his gun with his prints. Still, running away and being shot in the back beat being shot in the head while on your knees.
He heard footsteps and the door opened. “Get out.”
He did.
“Nice pistola,” the other agent said, turning the Desert Eagle over a few feet away. It glinted in the pale moonlight. He loaded a round into the chamber, pointed it at McConnell’s head.
He blinked but refused to flinch. If it was his time so be it. Sweat rolled down the side of his face.
The agent snorted, gestured with the gun. “Move it, tough guy.”
Back behind the SUV, the other whipped out a wicked looking cutter, spun him around and cut his hands free. “It’s your lucky night.” He spat into the dust, opened the rear door, jerked the body bags out to carelessly thud to the ground. “Start haulin’, boy.” He pointed down the slope towards the corn.
McConnell grabbed one of the bags and started dragging it, an agent leading the way. Where the lip of corn began at a less hostile slant, he heard, “That’ll do. Go get the other one, and giddy up, we ain’t got all night.” When both body bags and the dead inside them were at the agents’ feet, McConnell was told not to move. He was still allowed to sweat as he glanced at the straggly, thin corn.
“You think you could outrun me, boy?” the agent with his gun asked while the other unzipped the body bags.
“Wanna find out?”
The agent grunted. “Beat a cop car, can’t beat a radio. Sure as shit can’t outrun the bullet in this gun.” Gospel, even down here. But McConnell had beaten cop cars and radios, even helicopters. It was the bullet thing that was getting in his way. “Don’t move now.” He admired the gun some more while the other agent rifled through the dead, swearing.
There was a low whistle from the corn or somewhere thereabouts.
The guard considered McConnell, considered the weepy cornfield, sighed. He shook his head wistfully, slid the action, caught the ejected round, then wiped the gun clean with a handkerchief and said, “Don’ shoot no one ’til after you leave Texas.” He tossed the gun, then the clip and the single bullet from the chamber over to McConnell. They were letting him go. Why out here? Who was the whistle?
“Can I get my wallet?”
The border agent hooked a thumb towards the cornfield. “Down there.”
“Don’t forget this, neither,” the other said, his one hand holding a bloodied blade, the other a mushroomed bit of metal that had been wiped as clean as it was going to get out here. “That’s your slug? You popped the leg?”
McConnell took the spent bullet and added it to his collection.
The agent returned to his grisly work.
“Go on now,” said the other. “Remember what I said: No shootin’ folk. Not in Texas.”
Not locally permitted, apparently shooting folk was A-Okay outside the Lone Star State.
He proceeded to slide down into the corn, awaiting a bullet in the back all the same. None came. He kept walking simply because there wasn’t anything better to do. The end of the maize approached, just beyond was a man leaning against the trunk of a car.
“Dave!” T-shirt, khakis, a Texas Rangers baseball cap; arms crossed, McConnell’s wallet in his grip. He had no idea who this guy was. “Don’t remember me?” British a
ccent? Still no clue. The man found this amusing. He pushed off the car, a dark cherry Chevy Malibu LT, came closer.
“It’s me, man. Yeah?” American that time. New England? He took off his hat revealing short-cropped dark hair. He chuckled.
Wait.
“Mornin’, sunshine!” Garrett said, extending a hand attached to a non-descript arm.
“You seem to have lost your tats,” McConnell observed.
“You seem to have lost your glasses and brown hair. Not to mention your way, mate.” It was a comfortable Scottish brogue that time.
Garrett nodded back. He popped the trunk. “One point two each as promised. Cleaned and pressed.” Inside were two large, blue luggage bags. Unzipping one, he pulled it open to reveal orderly stacks of cash. “Count it if you want. But be quick.”
He glanced up at the agents on the road.
“Thought you were dead, did ya? Nah, not dead. Just in Texas.”
McConnell snorted. “I knew you weren’t right. Accent was bouncing all over the goddamn place.”
“Hadn’t needed to bother with one ’til you got there. Said fuck all at the garage, mumbled my bits through the interview. Christ, that job was work. Shant do that again.” He rubbed at his bare jaw. “We all have our little secrets though, don’t we Dave? Or should I say Michael?”
He handed McConnell his wallet but waved his fake ID. His real wallet with his real ID were safely hidden in his truck back north. “Who were the Mexicans?”
Garrett clucked his tongue. “Wankers who were supposed to deliver you your money, which is why it’s in the trunk of their car here.” He rapped said trunk for emphasis. “Had a change of heart they did, thought to disappear you then disappear with your bees an’ honey. So bloody hard to find good help these days.” He tossed him a set of keys. “Wouldn’t drive it overly much. I’m sure they have compadres here about. You feelin’ bad for ’em?”
“Not particularly. And the BP?”
“I said hard to find, not impossible to hire. Can’t be too careful in this wild, wild west of yours. You American blokes like to get pissed and shoot if a stiff wind strokes your prick funny. So, Michael Bartczak, one-one-two-four Birch Street, Dearborn, Michigan. Now that’s a right shithole there, eh mate?” He narrowed his eyes. “Nah…You’re no Michael Bartczak. Are ya?”
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