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He read the report while he ate, and found himself mildly disappointed they’d yet to connect him, the real him, to Caine or the murder.
They would. He counted on it. A man needed recognition for accomplishments, after all.
He wondered if those bumbling Special Agents Beck and Morrison were on the case yet. He hoped so. It gave him such satisfaction to frustrate them, time after time.
Had they told Morgan? Oh, he really hoped so. He made a mental toast as he imagined her shivering with fear in a dark room, door locked, while her mother and grandmother wept in concern.
His mother had spent plenty of time locked in dark rooms nursing black eyes, cracked ribs.
He congratulated himself on not disposing of the junk jewelry he’d taken from Morgan’s drawer. Leaving those pieces on the women he’d finished? Inspired, if he said so himself.
And he did.
What would she think when she found out a corpse wore her cheap, tacky bracelet? He drew a picture in his mind of her curling into a ball, crying, hysterical, begging for someone to protect her.
He’d see that, he promised himself, in reality, in the fucking flesh. And that would balance the damn scales before he finished her.
He finished his wine, paid the check, and because his musings put him in a fine mood, added a generous tip.
Carter John Winslow III could afford generosity thanks to a hefty trust fund. It allowed him to pursue his art without worrying about a paycheck.
Not that he needed that background story at the moment. He wouldn’t stay in Kansas City more than a couple of days. He planned to head south of the border, book a suite at a resort on the Pacific Coast. A nice R and R.
God knew he’d earned it.
If he hadn’t taken that walk around, done some shopping, stopped for a bite to eat and a glass of wine, he wouldn’t have seen the police cars and the black SUV pull up in front of his hotel.
He wouldn’t have been half a block away when cops poured out and rushed into the hotel lobby.
He wouldn’t have been able to keep walking, just keep walking with his heart pounding in his throat and sheer shock ringing in his ears.
How had they found him?How?He’d ditched the Caine ID before he killed the bitch. He hadn’t left a trail.
He kept walking.
Somehow he had left a trail, and now his Winslow ID was useless. And his things—cash, other IDs, other electronics, clothes—they’d have those now.
The sweat that slicked his skin turned icy as he went into a drugstore. He needed hair dye, some haircutting tools, some basic supplies.
No Mexico now. No, he couldn’t risk a border crossing now. North, he’d go north. Montana, maybe Wyoming, where cows outnumbered people and people minded their own fucking business.
He couldn’t get to his car, so he’d have to steal one. Some old junker he could hot-wire. He had to find a place to deal with his hair. Cheap motel. He had cash on him, and ways to access his accounts.
A cheap motel, change his look, steal a car, get the hell out of goddamn Kansas City.
No, no, steal the car first and get out. Roadblocks, manhunt. His mind whirled with fear, with what-ifs.
He walked out without buying anything, and kept walking until he found a bus stop. He got on the first one to come by, kept his head down and turned. Buses had cameras like every other damn thing now.
He reminded himself he had the laptop, at least he had the laptop.
But his hands shook and more sweat pooled at the base of his spine.
It took him nearly an hour of walking, riding, walking until he found a likely car in the vast parking lot of a Walmart.
They hadn’t bothered to lock it, and it stank of pork rinds and loaded diapers, but he thought the car seat in the back would provide some cover.
He got it fired up, wound his way until he hit Interstate 29, and headed north. He cursed when he had to stop for gas, but he needed it, needed to keep going until he got clear.
