Split Second

Kirsten frantically turned the radio dial of the stolen Silverado to the next station, and heard it again. The male accomplice of Ted Bundy’s daughter, Kirsten Bolger, died after extensive surgery during the early hours of this morning from gunshot wounds in a shoot-out in Baltimore with the FBI. . . .

She smashed her fist against the radio until it went silent, and pulled to the side of the country road. She laid her forehead against the steering wheel, the horrible truth playing over and over in her mind. Bruce was dead, really dead. But he’d managed to save her, and now those fed jerks were chasing their tails again.

She slammed her foot down hard on the gas, and the Silverado shot forward. Soon she was flying, singing Springsteen’s “Born to Run” at the top of her lungs, hooting and hollering, trying to drown out her thoughts.

Who would she talk to now about her daddy and what he did with his lady loves? She remembered how after she’d gotten back to him, she’d dress to look like her own lady love for the evening, and they’d watch lovely raunchy porno and Bruce would grab her and they’d tear the sheets off the bed. No one would ever understand her like Bruce did; no one else would listen to her tell how it felt to jerk the wire one last time and know, know all the way to your soul, that this life was gone, forever. And he’d hold her and tell her how much he loved her as his thumb rubbed away the dried blood on her hands.

How had Bruce missed that setup? How had the cops even known they’d be at that dive? That big-haired waitress, she’d bet on it. She’d seen Big Hair looking at her, but she hadn’t paid her much attention because she was just an old hag with tons of brassy blond hair who worked in a bar. Who cared what she thought about anything? Kirsten wished she’d told Bruce about her, but she hadn’t.

Even that smart-mouthed redheaded girl was a fed. The redhead had played her, played her really good. She got hold of herself. With any luck, the redhead was dead now, like Bruce was dead, a tag hanging off her big toe. Kirsten hoped she’d died in her own vomit. Not that it mattered much. It was the FBI boss guy who’d shot Bruce, the guy on TV Bruce had told her about, whatever his name was. I’ll put him down, Bruce, like I promised you. Wherever you are, you can count on that.

Kirsten heard a sob. It was from her, from deep inside her, and it surprised her.

Bruce was gone. She was alone again, and she couldn’t bear it.

You never had anyone, did you, Daddy? You were always alone, weren’t you? If only you’d known about me, if only we could have been together, you could have told me how clever I was, how right I was, to kill those snotty girls in high school. But like you, I had to learn alone, and practice until I was pleased with what I’d done, until I was ready to take a road trip, just like you.

But I had Bruce. I’ll bet even when you were with my bitch of a mother, you felt alone. You knew she wouldn’t understand, knew you couldn’t ever confide in her, share your plans and triumphs with her, not like I did with Bruce. He loved me, he admired me for what I was, what I did, just as you would have done if only you’d known about me. You could have taken me away from that bitch. What fun we would have had. I bless Aunt Sentra for finally telling me about you. I would never have realized, never have felt what I could share with another person. Most of those ridiculous books I read about you, those writers were idiots, they didn’t understand, didn’t know what it was like to be so full of life, so full of power.

But I understand. And now I’m like you. Alone.

She’d crossed into Virginia on a narrow country road with few cars on it. She’d stolen a big Gold Wing outside Baltimore, but she’d felt way too exposed, so the first chance she got, she revved it off a cliff, watched it bounce into scrubs and trees on its way down to the bottom, smashing itself to pieces. She’d watched the wheels spin in the early dawn light. She’d hot-wired the old Silverado right out of a driveway on a cul-de-sac near Pinkerton, and started driving.

She saw a diner up ahead. What an ugly piece of crap, she thought, plunked down by itself on the edge of a podunk town called Whortleberry, a long name for a dot on a map. There wasn’t a single car parked in front—no surprise there. The diner was long and narrow, old and weather-beaten. It reminded her of that big-haired waitress who’d called in the feds on them. What was her name? Kirsten didn’t know, but she could find out, if she ever wanted to go back to Baltimore and pay her a visit. She looked again at the diner, still didn’t see anything going on.

What a dump. Burgundy vinyl-covered booths lined up along the long window that gave out onto the empty parking lot. It was good nobody was around; it seemed like it was meant to be, a diner here, just for her.

She felt the chill wind against her face when she stepped out of the Silverado and pulled her leather jacket closer. A stupid tinkling bell rang when she pushed open the door. Sure enough, the place was empty except for a single woman sitting at the counter, hunched over, reading a paperback, a cup of coffee at her elbow. She turned to see who’d come in, her long streaked blond hair falling straight to her shoulder. Kirsten realized she wasn’t a woman, she was a girl, real young, and she was wearing a dippy uniform.

Kirsten pulled off her driving gloves. “Get me coffee.”

The girl looked her over, rose, straightened her red uniform with its stupid white handkerchief sticking up out of her single breast pocket, and walked behind the cheap laminate counter to pour some obviously old coffee from a nearly empty carafe into a chipped mug.

Kirsten said, “Bet you don’t get much business here.”

“Enough,” the girl said, and shoved the mug toward her. “But not today. You want anything else?”

You’re rude, little girl. Kirsten shook her head. Five minutes passed, and no one came in. Kirsten timed it. She had to admit, it made her consider the possibilities—that sweet young thing lying at her feet, making her journey to the hereafter, the sullen, rude little bitch. She watched the girl return to her seat and the novel. She ignored Kirsten.

Kirsten said, “You got a cook in the back?”

That broke the dam, and the complaints burst out of her. “The putz went home, sick to his stomach, he said, from stuffing down too many nachos last night watching a dorky football game. He made me stay even though all the regulars know I can’t cook and they won’t come in until he’s back.”

“I guess you made the coffee. It sucks.”

“Yeah, I did. Hey, it looks like you’ve got crappy taste, since you drank all of it. You want a refill?”

Kirsten had to laugh; the girl had a mouth on her. Like the redhead last night, like Suzzie with two z’s. This girl was pretty, fine-boned, with the greenest eyes Kirsten had ever seen. Nice, she thought, succulent, the way her daddy preferred them. Young, she thought, and probably dead broke. Kirsten bet she had a yearning to do a whole lot else that wasn’t this. Kirsten shook her head, put her palm over the top of her mug. “No coffee. Why aren’t you in school?”

“I graduated last May. I’m saving to get out of this dump. Hey, I’ll get you a piece of pie if you promise to give me a good tip.”

“What kind of pie, and who made it?”

“Strawberry. It’s fresh. Dave made it this morning before he got sick and went home. How about an extra- large tip for an extra-large piece?”

Kirsten smiled at her, a scary smile, but she didn’t know it. The girl took a step back and tried to mask her alarm with a shrug.

Kirsten said, “Sounds good to me.” It did, indeed. Kirsten realized she was starving, hadn’t eaten since— when? She couldn’t seem to remember. The past hours were a blur of panic and pain and rage. But life had to go on, that’s what her daddy would say, and so she’d eat a slice of strawberry pie, and then she’d see.

Ann Marie Slatter felt something cold slither through her when the weird woman smiled at her. The knife she was using to cut the strawberry pie slipped out of her nervous hands and dropped to the floor. She picked it up, wiped it on her apron. She gave the woman nearly a quarter of the pie, left only a sliver so Dave could complain about it when he came back, whenever that would be. He loved strawberry pie, particularly his own, and she knew he was looking forward to eating it when he got back.

“That big enough?”

“That’s very nice of you.” Kirsten cut a bite and ate it. Delicious. She ate steadily until it was gone. She sat back and rubbed her stomach. She said, “You won’t believe the size of the tip you’re going to get.”

Ann Marie shrugged again, tried to act blase, but realized she was frightened to her bones. She wanted to run out the door and never see this woman again. She stared at the woman’s red hair, in thick, short spikes, and her face, it was dead white, like—something nagged at her, something just out of reach, but she couldn’t remember