Sudden Death

He straightened. “I will be.”

His head pounded. Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know what. Maybe it was just him. He was wrong. He was very, very wrong. He laughed, then squeezed his eyes shut with the pain.

She was still in the room. “Don’t do anything, go anywhere, talk to anyone. Not until I call you.”

Ethan picked up a vase and aimed for the wall, but she grabbed it out of his hands and slapped him. The familiar sting comforted him as much as the sound of her palm hitting his flesh.

“You’ve already jeopardized everything! Don’t cause a scene just because you can’t have your way.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He didn’t think he had. She’d taught him to think on his feet, and he always did. Those people at the rest stop could have identified them, so he’d taken care of it.

“Don’t go there, Ethan.”

“They were witnesses. And you were listening to that fool.” He stared out the windows. The sun had disappeared. Maybe it had drowned in the ocean. All that was left was bleeding pools of orange, pitiful remnants of the dead sun.

“Do you know how many times I begged for mercy?” He didn’t know he’d spoken out loud until he heard his voice ringing in his ears. Still, he doubted. Had his lips moved? Had his throat vibrated?

“Do you know how many times I cried out for the God my parents told me, promised me, was there? I turned to Satan, hoping at least he was real and would deliver me. I didn’t care about my soul; I just wanted it to stop.”

And Satan had come, complete with tits and ass. Ethan turned away from the darkening sky and looked at his master.

She wasn’t a god or a devil. She was real, yes, in the flesh. His penis twitched, wanting her to touch him, to hurt him. Make him want to die. She could kill him. She wore a sexy red dress. Like Satan would wear if he were a woman.

“There is no God,” he whispered to her. “There is no Satan; there is nothing but humans slithering around the world much as they slithered out of the ooze millions of years ago. And you were buying it. You were listening. He would have told someone about you. Remembered you. You taught me to be careful. You taught me to cover our tracks, to wear disguises, to prevent evidence from building a case against us. It’s working, and then you turned into a quivering mass of pathetic, crying Jell- O when some idiot starts to pray for you. It’s your fault he’s dead.”

Her face was livid. “He caught me off-guard. But you killed him! You didn’t have to kill him.”

“What was your excuse with that fucking priest who left me to die? I should never have listened to you.”

“Don’t bring the priest into it. The fact remains, you shouldn’t have shot them. Ballistics, you asshole. You used the wrong gun!”

He didn’t know what she was talking about. He didn’t know much about guns, only what she’d taught him. Yet she looked at him like he’d made a big mistake. He hadn’t! But she didn’t like him anymore. Despair washed over Ethan.

“I-”

“Just forget it. Forget it,” she barked. “They won’t be able to get the ballistics report overnight. Forty-eight hours, and that’s stretching it. They’d have to pull out all the stops to get anything that fast. I already got rid of the gun, we’re going to be okay, I hope it’s okay.” She shifted nervously on her high heel shoes. She was worried about something. He should remember what, but he couldn’t. He squeezed his temples again, the pain blinding.

“It could have been so much worse, Ethan. Get it together and don’t do anything without my express permission.”

His lip quivered and he bit it. “Okay.”

“I’ll call you when he gets here,” she said. “Then you’ll have to get ready. Can you do that?”

He nodded.

Karin stared at Ethan and worried that he was going to screw up her entire plan. There was too much riding on this for him to go totally bonkers on her. She’d been managing his psychosis for two years through manipulation, pain, and sex, but none of that seemed to be working anymore.

He didn’t look well. She couldn’t do anything about that now. She refused to feel guilty for what he had become. He had made his own choices, twisted mind and her manipulations notwithstanding.

She patted Ethan gently on the cheek, still red from her most recent slap. “I need you to be strong. We’re in this together. When we’re through, you’ll be back to your old self. You believe me, right? You know that this was the only way for you to reclaim your life?”

He nodded. She smiled and kissed him. “Good boy. Wait for me.”

She closed the door on him and took a deep breath, the evening air fresh and salty, a bit crisp. This was it. Everything she’d been working toward for the last year was riding on tonight.

As long as Ethan stayed in the cabin and waited for her call, her plan would work.

She pulled off the clear latex gloves she’d been wearing and stuffed them in her large purse. She’d had an excuse for Ethan had he questioned her about them, but he hadn’t noticed. She wondered if he even really saw her. Most of the time he didn’t remember her name.

Which was good, but she couldn’t count on it. Like she couldn’t count on Ethan not noticing that she hadn’t brought any of her personal belongings into their beach cabin.

She stopped far enough away so if Ethan was looking out, he wouldn’t see her. She pulled out her compact, inspected her new hair color. She wished she didn’t have to cut more hair off later, she kind of liked this in-between length.

She applied another layer of makeup, popped in brown-colored contacts, and fluffed her bottle-blond hair. She’d curled it earlier. She never wore her hair all primped and perfect. It would be a great cover. As soon as she got it wet, it would go straight.

She walked across the resort grounds and into the main hotel and sat in the bar to wait for General Lyle Hackett.

He preferred blondes.

Price took them to a dark biker bar on the outskirts of Cortez, Colorado, fifteen minutes from the airstrip. Megan didn’t like feeling intimidated, but she clearly stood out in this environment. She resented Jack for putting her in this situation when they could easily have talked back at the airstrip-or met Price on neutral turf. As it was, everyone in the bar knew Price by name. They called him “George,” not much of a new identity.

Price took a bottled American beer; Jack ordered the same. Megan asked for water. Everyone looked at her.

“Get her a beer.” Jack leaned over and whispered, “Loosen up. He’s okay. But everyone here was suspicious of you the second you walked in, and you announced you were a cop when you ordered water.”

“So what?” she snapped. She was a cop. A federal cop. She didn’t want to show Jack how nervous she was out of her element, but he knew. He tugged on her hair, kept his hand on her back. Protective. She didn’t need protecting. But she grudgingly admitted to herself that it felt nice.

“So you thought I was dead,” Price said after draining half his beer in a gulp.

“Yes,” Megan said. “Have you ever been to Sacramento-”

Jack cut her off. “You heard about the Hamstring Killer.”

“Not until my pal called me after talking to Padre.” He used his bottle to gesture toward the wide-screen television. A baseball game played on the screen. “This is the only television I watch, and it don’t play nothing but sports.”

The stupid act was just that: an act. Megan tried to ask another question, but Jack squeezed her leg. She bit her tongue and sipped her beer. She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. She’d never liked the taste of beer. Wine, sure; margaritas, any day. But beer? Never. Still, she had to do something; otherwise she’d give Jack Kin-caid a dressing down he’d never forget. Forced to trust him, she didn’t have to like it.

“Scout was one of his victims,” Jack said.

Price sipped his beer. “Sorry, Kincaid. That sucks.” He sounded genuine.