“James is already on the road. He has everything you’ll need. A new ID, new social security card, new bank card, new credit cards, everything. We’ve liquated all your accounts, paid off all your debts.”
I say, “Goodbye, Holly Lin. What is my new name, anyway?”
There’s a smile in Atticus’s voice when he answers.
“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
“I still think it’s bullshit I’m not able to pick my own name. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to change my name to Madonna.”
“Good thing the choice isn’t up to you.”
The car bounces up and down over the rugged terrain. I’m moving at a slow enough clip that not too large of a dust cloud spreads.
“Thank you, Atticus.”
“Of course, Holly. Good luck.”
I pluck the transmitter out of my ear, flick the switch to turn it off. I toss it on the seat beside me as I steer the El Camino over a rise and down into a ditch. The dirt bike is still where I left it. I park the car beside it, kill the engine, and step out.
I strip out of my clothes, put on new ones, and throw the dirty clothes into the car.
In the back of the El Camino is another plastic container of gas. I douse the car, including the interior, and light a match and throw the match onto the driver’s seat.
Wearing a new pair of gloves, I climb onto the dirt bike, start the engine, and drive back up the incline out of the ditch.
I pause at the top of the rise to glance back down at the El Camino. The fire is going strong. The car will be found at some point, but by then all trace evidence—including my clothes and the transmitter—will have long been destroyed. Maybe a connection will be made to Ernesto Diaz, but most likely not. The nice thing about committing crime in Mexico is that it happens all the time. It’s almost impossible to connect dots when there are an infinite number of dots.
The plan now is to ride to the next town. I’ll abandon the dirt bike and steal another car and drive that another twenty miles up the highway to the hotel I’d checked into two days ago. It’s not a nice hotel, but it’s not a shitty one either. It’s an anonymous hotel, one of hundreds. Assuming it hasn’t been stolen, my car is parked in the lot. I’ll drive north and cross the border and meet James, who has my new ID and other essentials to start a new life.
Holly Lin will cease to exist.
About time.
Nine
I park ten blocks away from the hotel. I’m wearing gloves, but I do my best to wipe the car down anyway—the steering wheel and gearshift and door—though part of me knows it won’t matter. The car will either get stolen again or it will remain abandoned for days and then stripped for parts. Doubtful the owner will ever find it. The old Holly Lin would worry about such things—maybe the owner needs the car for work, to get groceries—but the new Holly Lin (the Holly Lin that will soon no longer exist) has become much more selfish.
It’s early morning and the sun is rising, the city starting to wake up and go about its day.
I keep my head down the whole way to the hotel, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while also keeping an eye out for any danger.
I note the car I drove into Mexico is still in its spot. It’s not stolen—Atticus had arranged it for me, with clean tags and registration—but once I drive it back into the States it will be swapped with the car James is currently driving toward the border. He’ll take it and probably have it demolished. Not that it’s been used in any crime, but better safe than sorry.
The do not disturb sign is still on my door. Good. It’s been that way the past two days. I’m sure the cleaning people love the fact they get to skip the room.
I unlock the door and enter quietly, the SIG now held at the ready. I check the bathroom, then check the window overlooking the parking lot to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with. When I’m confident everything is secure, I chain the door, set the gun aside, and begin to strip out of my clothes.
I keep the gun in the bathroom while I take a shower. The water is warm and pulsing and I’m so exhausted I could fall asleep under the spray, but I stay focused, washing my skin and hair clean, then step out of the shower, steam thick in the air, and wipe at the mirror to look at myself.
Less than a week ago I had come face to face with a man who I had believed was dead. Zane, my boyfriend, my lover, the man who I thought my father had killed, had turned out to be a complete and utter asshole. He had taken David and Casey Hadden because I had messed up his operation and he wanted a flash drive, and I had to go to some pretty extreme lengths to retrieve that flash drive. Zane, unsurprisingly, was planning to kill the kids anyway, but I had managed to kill him. Not before he kicked the shit out of me first, which explained the bruising on my face and the broken rib. The rib will heal eventually, as will the bruises on my face. If I’m lucky there won’t be any scars, but if there are scars, then so be it. They won’t be my first, and they most certainly won’t
