The Burning Man (17 page)

She had no doubt that she could hit the target. Shooting was as natural to her as breathing, and she’d made plenty of tougher shots in the past without breaking a sweat. But since she was preparing to join the Marines as soon as she graduated, she’d often wondered if she’d still be able to make a shot, knowing it would end the life of a fellow human being.

Now, knowing that her sister was in danger, Olivia had no doubt that she could pull the trigger—without hesitation or remorse.

Only she would never get the chance, because she had no way of getting access to any kind of firearm. Even if she were old enough, or able to find some unscrupulous person willing to overlook her age, she’d spent almost all her money on the bus ticket.

So she had to come up with some kind of plan that relied only on her bare hands, and her wits.

For the moment, however, the exhaustion was winning, and she found herself drifting. Not quite asleep, but not quite lucid. Drifting, eyes half shut, random, dream-like thoughts flapping like trapped bats inside her skull.

* * *

Tony cased several suburban neighborhoods around the outskirts of Boston before he found one he liked. It was generic, middle class, and mostly white. A complacent neighborhood, just nice enough to make the residents feel safe, but not nice enough that the homeowners would take paranoid measures in order to protect their possessions.

Most of the houses on the sleepy residential block he chose had two-car garages, which was his first requirement. The second requirement was that the garage in the target house have only one car in it. Third, he wanted a dwelling with a single, preferably female occupant with no kids or dogs.

It took some doing, but by mid-afternoon he’d located the perfect target.

It was a neat little place, yellow with flowerboxes and wind chimes. There was ceramic duck by the mailbox and a wrought iron sign that read
WELCOME TO GRANDMA’S HOUSE.

He parked the kid’s car around the corner and walked around to the back of the house, pulling a latex glove over his good hand. The back door wasn’t locked.

Perfect.

The door led him into a small, tidy kitchen that smelled like cookies. The harvest gold appliances were dated, but well maintained. Children’s drawings were stuck to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like fruit. A stained-glass cross hung in the window, casting patches of colored light across the worn orange linoleum. He could hear the television nattering in another room, and silently made his way down a carpeted hallway toward the sound.

He found the occupant sitting in a blue velvet easy chair in the living room. He’d glimpsed the back of her white head through the window, and now that he could see her face, it was pretty much exactly what he expected. Big, owlish glasses balanced on a thin, aristocratic nose. Deeply wrinkled lips painted garish pink, and fake choppers that were way too white. Hair like dandelion fluff that looked like it might be blown off her head by a light breeze.

She was dressed in a bulky magenta sweater and a pair of white velour trackpants. She had a gaudy polyester scarf loosely knotted around her wattled neck and furry pink slippers on her tiny feet.

When she saw Tony, she seemed more baffled than frightened. At first, anyway.

* * *

Olivia had a gun stuck in the waistband of her jeans, but she didn’t want to use it on the old woman because of the noise. But that scarf around her neck gave Olivia an idea.

She lifted the woman up like a ragdoll and threw her to the dusty carpet, jumping on top of her so that her knees were on the old woman’s shoulders. The lady was starting to make noises like a frightened turkey, so Olivia punched her in the face. That shut her up, but Olivia instantly regretted the action because the old woman’s big false teeth cut into her left knuckles.

She shook out her stinging hand and then grabbed the woman’s scarf and cinched it tight around her wrinkly neck.

As she choked the life out of the flailing figure, she found her attention drifting to the television screen. Some kind of talk show. Two pregnant women were shoving each other while a lascivious male host hovered over them, clutching his microphone and grinning. A frightened man with stringy hair and a scraggly beard hovered nearby.

By the time the fight between the women had been broken up by a pair of handsy security guards, the old woman was dead.

Olivia stayed on top of her for a few more minutes, though, watching the television, curious to see the paternity results for the angry pregnant women. When it was revealed that neither baby had been fathered by guy with the stringy hair, Olivia shrugged and went to find the old woman’s car keys.

* * *

Olivia woke with a little aborted cry stuck in her throat. She was soaked with sweat, her heart racing, and she was suddenly afraid that she was going to throw up.

She shook her head and tried to calm her pounding heart.

She was under tremendous stress, but that didn’t explain the recurrence of these terrible dreams. Was she losing her mind? Cracking under the pressure?

Maybe it was a manifestation of her murderous thoughts about the dark-haired man. That might have led to her latest nightmare, but what about the earlier ones?

There was no way of knowing, but she couldn’t let herself be rattled by dreams. She had more than enough bad reality ahead of her.

* * *

Tony found the dead woman’s keys in a ceramic dish full of candy and change. He took only the car keys and left the rest, including the
I Love My Grandbabies
key chain with a photo of a couple of pale, potato-faced brats.

At the far side of the kitchen he found the door leading to the garage. Turning on the light, he let himself into a blue ’91 Vista he’d spotted through the dirty garage window. There was an automatic garage door opener, which he pocketed, along with the keys.

He went back through the kitchen and out the back door, and walked back to the kid’s car. He didn’t hear any sounds coming from the trunk, and hoped it was just because Rachel had worn herself out struggling. But he couldn’t worry about that now. This next bit would be tricky, and he had to stay focused.

He got into the car and started it up, then drove around to the front of the dead woman’s house. He circled the block twice, just to be sure there was no one watching, and then on the third pass he used the garage door opener to let himself in. He parked next to her sedan, and then killed the engine and popped the trunk. He got out went around the back to check on Rachel.

The girl had wet her pants—the sharp reek of it was like a slap in the face when he leaned in over her. She was shivering, cheeks pink with shame, and wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“I tell you what,” he said, opening the trunk of the old lady’s sedan. “You be a good girl for the next thirty minutes or so, and I might let you clean up. Try anything stupid, and you can lie in your own filth until we get to Jacksonville.
Capice?”

She nodded, but her face was still turned away.

He lifted her out of the trunk, wrinkling his nose and reluctant to touch the wet spot on her jeans even with his gloved hand. Then he transferred her over to the new trunk. She made some kind of pleading noise behind her tape gag, tangled hair falling over her desperate eyes, but he closed the lid anyway.

He went back into the house.

In the living room, he quickly wrapped the dead woman in an ugly crocheted blanket and carried her into the garage. She barely weighed a hundred pounds and felt like a bundle of sticks in his arms. When he got into the garage, he put her body in the kid’s trunk and closed the lid.

Getting in and keying the engine, he knew this would be another risky moment. But he felt more exhilarated than anxious. He felt closer to Olivia than ever.

He opened the garage door and drove the kid’s car several blocks to a small park he’d previously chosen. He’d originally thought it would be good to leave the car in the parking lot of a supermarket or big box store, but the two closest lots had surveillance cameras. This sad little park was perfect. It was nearly empty, thanks to the chilly weather, the rickety old swing sets and rusted jungle gym long abandoned in favor of a new, more modern playground just a few blocks to the west.

Tony parked in the last slot, farthest away from the park entrance. There was only one other car in the lot—a battered white station wagon that was filled to bursting with bundles of newspapers and magazines. The wagon’s owner was nowhere in sight.

Giving one last glance around the lot, he got out of the car and swiftly walked away.

* * *

Back at the dead woman’s house, Tony headed into the garage to check on Rachel. She was still curled up in the trunk like a good girl, so true to his word, he carried her into the house and threw her into the shower stall, turning the water on full blast.

She let out a muffled yelp, twisting her face away from the spray, but then started to relax as the water warmed up. Tony left her there for a minute and went to locate some clean clothes, a plastic garbage bag, and a pair of scissors.

When he returned, he was pleased to find that she hadn’t moved an inch. She just lay there, right where he left her, compliant and still. He turned the water off, and then used the scissors to cut her free.

“Take off those clothes,” he said, “And put them in this trash bag.”

“Do you have to watch?” she asked, frowning and clutching her wet jacket up under her chin.

“Yes,” he said, “I do. But don’t worry. I couldn’t care less about your body.”

She reluctantly peeled off her sodden layers, trying to keep one arm across her chest, even though she hardly had anything to cover. The duct tape had really done a number on her wrists, leaving behind thick bracelets of irritated red skin. Once she’d shoved all her old clothes into the trash bag, he handed her a towel.

“Thanks,” she said reflexively, taking the towel and using it to dry her hair.

It was kind of absurdly cute that she had such good manners, given the circumstances. Tony figured that growing up with a fearsome demoness for an older sister meant she’d learned at young age to be polite, and not sass back. Still, he didn’t want her to get too comfortable with him, so he kicked her as hard as he could in the naked stomach.

She let out a breathless gasp and doubled over, clutching the towel to her belly, tears filling her eyes.

“I’m not your friend,” he said. “Remember that.”

He threw the clothes he’d chosen into her face, and waited silently for her to dress.

Olivia had to switch buses for the third time in Raleigh, North Carolina. She’d been on the road for nearly twenty-four hours now, at times stuck waiting in interchangeable bus terminals. She slept in spurts, but her gnawing anxiety kept her from getting any real rest.

She had a few extra minutes, so she ducked into a low-rent burger joint to grab a quick bite. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and was starting to feel a little woozy.

The food was unsurprisingly lousy, but she wolfed it down quickly and efficiently, washing it down with bottled water. On her way to board her new bus, she spotted a bank of pay phones, and was hit with a desperate need to call Kieran, to make sure that he was okay. She knew it wasn’t a good idea, because someone might have a trace on his dorm phone, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to hear his voice.

She paused for a moment beside the last phone in the row. Even allowed herself to reach out and rest her hand on the receiver. But she knew she was just being silly. Weak. She had to stay strong and not let herself get distracted.

Looking up at the digital clock above the bus schedule, she noticed that she had allowed far too much time to slip away while she was having her little moment of uncertainty. She only had a minute left to make her connection.

She sprinted toward the gate, but pulled up short right before the swinging glass door that led out to the spot where the bus was parked and waiting.

Standing by the open door and talking to the bus driver was the handsome black guy with the distinctive scar on his face. The private security guy she’d seen with Mrs. Gilbert at the train station.

Who
was
that guy? And how had he tracked her down?

What the hell was going on?

She backed slowly away from the door, brain working overtime to come up with some clever plan of action. Something better than
run like hell and hope for the best.

Nothing came to mind, so she ran like hell.

She had a vague idea that maybe she’d try to hitch a ride outside the station or something, but when she reached the main entrance, she found it jammed with kids her age. They were pouring into the station through all four doors, herded by several hassled and distracted adults wearing T-shirts that read
SAWBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL
on the front and
CHAPERONE
on the back.

Behind her, the handsome security guy had come back into the station and was looking around for her. He hadn’t spotted her yet, but he would any second now. She was sure of it.

Olivia looked over the heads of the incoming students at the cars idling out front. Weighing her chances of scoring a lift, and not liking her odds. But the giggling, rough-housing students gave her a much better idea. She had to act fast.

She slipped into the crowd of students, slouching down and falling in step beside a tall, fat kid in a black T-shirt decorated with the image of a masked wrestler on the front. He had thick, dark frizzy hair that stuck out every which way, close-set hazel eyes, and an aggressive outbreak of virulent acne. She could have kissed him.

“Are you excited about the trip?” she asked, trying to act nonchalant while keeping his massive body in between her and the spot where she’d last seen her pursuer.

“I guess,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t know. I mean, Disney World. Whatever. I’ve already been, like, a billion times when I was a kid.”

Olivia cheered silently.

Perfect.