Balfour was still a little shaky when the two bodyguards opened the doors and let him drive on out. What he needed were a couple shots of Jack to steady his nerves, but he didn’t dare take even one. Had to be cold sober the rest of today. Tomorrow and the next couple of days, too. His plans, his life, depended on it.
When he was back on the road again, he was even more careful than he’d been on the drive down. Not one mile over the speed limit, safe lane changes and only when necessary. Those two detectives in Six Pines might be after him right now, but the law wouldn’t be. Suspicious, yeah, the woman’s husband would see to that, but they couldn’t prove nothing against him. Not yet, they couldn’t. He didn’t have no cause to worry unless he got stopped for some stupid traffic violation and that wasn’t gonna happen. Still, he’d sweated all the way down from Asshole Valley, and he’d sweat some on the way back, even with the new plates.
The woman hadn’t made a sound since he’d put her in there. Dead by now, for all he knew. While he was still up in the county, he’d thought about taking a detour into wilderness country and dumping her. Too risky, he’d decided, riskier than keeping her with him. Woods were crawling with fishermen and campers and sightseeing tourists this time of year. Somebody saw him do it or find her later, he’d never get to Stockton, much less make the return drive to Asshole Valley. Never get his revenge. That was all that mattered in the short run, paying Verriker and the rest of them back for what they’d done to him. Worry about the rest of it later, the long drive out of California and on up to Idaho. First things first.
But he had to think about something while he drove, so he thought about Idaho. He’d never been there, but that didn’t matter. Lot of wilderness area in the north part of the state, he knew that. Go in deep enough and there’d be a remote spot for an experienced woodsman like himself to fort up. That Unabomber guy, Kaczynski, he didn’t know Montana, didn’t have any survival skills, when he went there and built himself a cabin and lived for, what, twenty years with nobody the wiser. FBI never would’ve caught him if his brother hadn’t turned him in.
Nobody was gonna catch Pete Balfour once he built his own cabin way the hell out in the middle of nowhere and settled in. And if by some fluke they did track him down, well, he wouldn’t just give up like Kaczynski had, he’d use his ordinance to take down as many as he could before they finished him.
Be kind of lonesome, living up there in the Idaho backcountry. No TV, no Internet, none of the things he’d done for R amp;R most of his life. He’d get used to it, though. Wouldn’t even miss his old life after a while. Never had needed people anyway, never would after what those bastards in Asshole Valley had done to him. Get along just fine by himself, hunting, fishing, trapping.
No, they’d never catch him because wasn’t nobody could turn him in. As far as anybody knew, he’d’ve dropped right off the face of the earth. All he had to do was finish his business in Asshole Valley, then make it up to Northern Idaho without nobody being the wiser, and he’d be home free.
It was full dark when he reached the valley. He’d made sure it would be by taking a roundabout route and stopping twice on the way, once for gas, once for a Big Mac and fries. Pulling into places with lights and people didn’t make him edgy. He wasn’t worried, wasn’t sweating anymore. Sure, he’d had his share of bad luck up to now, crap happening to spoil his plans, but that was all behind him. Everything from now on was going to go down without a hitch-he was sure of it. Nobody even looked at him once, much less twice, in the service station or the golden arches drive-through. And neither of the highway patrol cops that passed him on the roads glanced in his direction.
He wouldn’t be recognized in the Six Pines area, neither. Not with the camper shell and clean plates on the pickup, and a cap he hardly ever wore except when he was hunting, pulled down low on his forehead. Just another tourist.
But once he got there, he’d have to be careful-real careful. Use the back roads, make sure nobody spotted him going in. Wouldn’t take long to do what needed to be done, but if somebody saw him…
No, the hell with that. Wasn’t nobody gonna see him. Dark tonight, drifting clouds hiding the moon. And it’d be late enough that there wouldn’t be many people out driving around. He’d be all right. Just had to do what they were always saying you should-think positive. Yeah, think positive.
Wasn’t nothing gonna screw up his plans this time.
Nothing did.
Less than thirty minutes, in and out.
Hellbox, baby. Hellbox!
On his way to Eagle Rock Lake, he passed a sheriff’s department cruiser. He tensed a little, but the deputy driving didn’t pay any attention to him, didn’t brake or slow down. Nothing to worry about. Keep cool, keep thinking positive.
He thought positive about Verriker and the palms of his hands itched. He drove chewing on his hate, his blood singing with it.
Damn, though, he could still smell, still feel the woman.
He hadn’t noticed the smell too much on the round-trip to Stockton, but now it seemed strong, like a gas filtering through the camper walls into the cab. He rolled down the window to let the night breeze in, but that didn’t seem to help much. Lucky nobody’d noticed it at the gas station or the McDonald’s drive-through. He’d have to stop somewhere tomorrow and buy something to fumigate the shell. Couldn’t drive all the way to Idaho with that stink in his nose and throat.
The steering wheel felt gummy. So did his hands. He wiped one down his pant leg, then the other, but it didn’t help any. Residue. And underneath the stickiness, a kind of residue from the woman, too, that he couldn’t wipe off. Crazy notion, but there it was.
Hadn’t had that feeling any of the other times he’d picked her up, carried her, but when he’d hauled her out tonight, he’d felt that residue come off her like flakes of dried skin, and his gorge had lifted right up into his throat. Had to put her down fast to keep from puking. Why? Because she was dead? Hadn’t been a sound out of her, and he couldn’t hear breathing or feel any heartbeat. Yeah, she must’ve died sometime on the round-trip to Stockton.
But why should that bother him? She’d of been dead tomorrow, anyway. And he’d handled dozens of dead animals, field-dressed deer and small game, without turning a hair. Carrying a dead woman shouldn’t be any different. But somehow, it was. Her smell, the weight of her limp body on his hands and against his chest, a flash image of the way she’d looked alive… it all gave him the creeps.
It was as if her residue had gotten inside his head, too, and was working on him like some kind of drug, trying to make him think he should be sorry for what he’d done to her. He’d killed Verriker’s wife and tonight he’d kill Verriker. Tomorrow there’d be plenty more blood on his hands. None of that made him feel sorry. So why should a woman he didn’t even know be twisting up his insides?
He couldn’t figure it out. She wasn’t nothing to him. And she’d tried to put his eyes out with those tacks. Another of his enemies. Got in his way, gave him nothing but trouble, would’ve killed him if she could… an enemy the same as Verriker and the rest. You had every right to take revenge on your enemies, no matter who they were. Sure you did. Soldiers didn’t have no qualms about killing, he didn’t have none, either.
Then why was he bugged about the woman?
He put his head out the window, took some deep breaths. Told himself to quit thinking about her, she was dead, it was over and done with. But the smell and the residue wouldn’t let him. His palms still itched, but now it was as much because of her as the thought of killing Verriker.
He wished he could stop somewhere, wash his hands, change his clothes. But there wasn’t time. Later, after he was done with Verriker and out of the county. He’d have to park at a rest stop or campground somewhere and get a few hours’ sleep-he was already dog-tired from the hours of road time he’d put in today, no way he could make it all the way to Northern Idaho or even out of California without some rest. He’d clean up the camper and himself then. Wash the woman out of his head at the same time.
The turnoff for the lake was just up ahead. He put on his turn signal even though there were no other cars on the road. Keep playing it safe, obeying the law, no matter where he was. One more survival skill.
The pickup rattled and bounced through the ruts until he passed the long limestone shelf. Lights on in the Ramsey cabin. Verriker was there and still up, but did he have company again tonight? If the Ramseys were holed up with him, they’d get theirs first thing. But it’d be a whole lot easier if Verriker was alone.
Balfour passed the place where he’d parked the last time, drove on past the cabin, slow. Grinned, his lips
