“The date they got married.That’sthe master key. It’s how we’ll access the lockbox.”
Fletcher smiled, something small and a little sad. Dyer always did call Tiffany his safe place. “Then let’s get out of here before—”
A gunshot rang through the canopy.
24
Heart meet throat. Fletcher’s pulse jumped around her jugular as she and Waylon crouched beneath the windowsill.Don’t be Jackie, don’t be Jackie, don’t be Jackie. Fletcher dared a peek below. “Um, is this a stress hallucination, or do you see the Ghost of Salesmen Past, too?”
“You’re joking.” Waylon inched up. Looked. Shook his head. “Not unless we’re both hallucinating.”
Asshole Rick stood at the base of the kapok tree. Alive, but stretching the definition.
With him wafted the undeniable stench of fried flesh. An angry pink blister formed over half his face, and the other half scowled. Black, bubbled skin covered his arms, one hand hanging limp at the side and the other clutching the lightning rod bayonet that got him electrocuted in the first place.
How the gun still worked was beyond Fletcher, but he’d strapped a bandolier across his chest, stuffed with shells. He wore a wickedgrin, although his lips had been burned off, so it was mostly skeletal teeth with very little gums.
“You thought you could outrun me?” Rick slurred. At this point, even a sloth could outrun him. Clearly, he was operating off fumes of pent-up rage and very little else. When Fletcher squinted, she swore steam still radiated off him.
Then, Fletcher noticed the ATV. He’d parked it behind the roots, the engine still humming. Once the idea sparked, there was little Fletcher could do to snuff it out. They’d make it to the marinawayfaster if they had a ride.
While Rick wasted his breath shouting at the sky, Fletcher pointed toward the ATV. “What’s a little grand theft auto when you’re already an accessory to, like, ten murders?”
“Probably ten to twelve years,” Waylon muttered. It really wasn’t much of an argument, considering their other option was serving a life sentence on a deserted island.
“We need to throw him off. If we try to waltz down there now, we’re definitely getting shot.” Fletcher tucked her camera into the rucksack before Waylon hauled it over his shoulder. They didn’t have much time to spare. An eight-legged rustling upstairs hatched an exit plan. “Arnold!”
No ordinary paper in the world had the heft required to support Arnie’s leviathan leg span, so Waylon wedged one of his mom’s leftover canvases beneath the basket and carted the spider downstairs.
“Three, two, one…” Fletcher counted. On “go,” she shoved the balcony door open, and Waylon shuffled out far enough to hurl Arnold over the railing.
Ambient screaming signaled the Austrian Oak made impact.
Shooting back inside, Waylon said brusquely, “That’s our cue.”
The tree house’s ladder unraveled back toward the forest floor,and they wasted no time sliding down the rungs, moving too fast for the fear to set in. A glance sideways proved Rick still wrestled with the heavyweight champ.
But when they were mere inches from their getaway quad bike, Rick laughed, harsh and maniacal. Much, much too close for comfort. The barrel of his gun pointed at Waylon’s back, and Arnold Schwarzenegger perched on his shoulder.Traitor.
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” Rick spat.
Up close, his scorched wounds looked so much worse. Pus-filled, oozing. Puckered scar tissue already formed beneath the uneven terrain of his skin. The bayonet must have taken the brunt of the lightning bolt, but he hadn’t fared much better.
Even Fletcher, who had never called out of work in her entire career, could admit he needed a sick day. Or three. Or three hundred. She may have hated his guts, but the man clearly required medical attention.
The empathetic part of her quickly shut up as he plodded forward, ramming the burnt end of his spear against Waylon’s ribs with enough force Waylon sucked a stiff breath through his teeth.
“Look, Evanston, we’re unarmed,” Waylon rationalized. Not even Naya was prowling around, the undergrowth disappointingly undisturbed. “We don’t have to fight.”
“You got me struck by lightning.” The air around Rick still smelled vaguely metallic. “And then threw a spider at me.”
Hot exhaust made it hard to breathe. Harder to think. The clock was ticking, and Fletcher didn’t like it. She’d seen how fast Rick’s temper had snapped with Theo, how quickly blood could splatter and a body could drop.
They needed to act now, before Rick’s rifle remembered it, too.
Fletcher stomped on Rick’s foot, and his gun tipped downward, spear tearing through the fabric of Waylon’s T-shirt but thankfullyno deeper. With a curse, Rick’s finger instinctively pulled the trigger, resulting in more cursing and a few of Rick’s wayward toes spraying around the clearing.
No time for sorrys. Fletcher slung herself into the front seat, revving the engine. Waylon clambered on behind her, arms seat-belting across her middle. And they were off.
