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With a running leap, I hurdled the ditch with ease, then crouched in knee-high grass outside the fence, watching and listening. Nothing in sight r
esembled a residence, but for all I knew, Big Bubba lived in the shipping containers. Not to mention, I’d watched enough TV to know that places like this always had a pack of vicious guard dogs—even though the only sign of life was a possum sniffing around the rusted shell of a minivan.
I scaled the six-foot fence and dropped to the other side then picked my way across the uneven ground toward the impound lot. Countless hunks of steel, old wheel rims, axles, and who knew what else lay covered in a treacherous tangle of grass and weeds. Watching my step, I crossed the dirt track and another twenty feet of tetanus booby traps to the impound lot fence—a formidable twelve feet of commercial grade chain link. At least there wasn’t any razor wire or spikes.
After reaching the top, I climbed down the other side instead of jumping—partly because of the height, but mostly because the inside of the fence was lined with cars.
I reached the ground between an LTD and a Kia then took stock. In addition to the cars around the perimeter, more were parked in a line down the middle of the lot. All told, there were twenty or so vehicles of a variety of makes and models, including an odd little three-wheeled car and, right smack in the middle, a shiny red Camaro with a dealer sticker still on the window. Two Camrys, but only one was silver, not to mention having four blown tires and a deflated airbag.
Pleased, I tugged on the gardening gloves. No point leaving fingerprints all over the car I planned to turn inside out.
I pressed the point of the punch tool against the bottom corner of the passenger window, and was rewarded with a shower of safety glass. Time to get serious. I wasn’t constrained by pesky shit like probable cause or the limits of a search warrant. There was no one to stop me from slicing carpet or removing door panels.
And I did. For nearly an hour I sliced and ripped and pried. Yet even though I uncovered every secret hidey hole a car interior could possibly have, I came up empty. The same with the wheel wells and undercarriage. Nothing.
Crossing mental fingers that the trunk would yield something useful, I hit the release latch. The trunk interior was clean and empty except for a plastic bin that held a fire extinguisher, road flares, and a first-aid kit. I gave Reno grudging props for his roadside emergency preparedness, but none of that told me why he’d been at the hospital admin building, and why Sorsha had been watching him. I changed the blade on my box cutter then slashed at the lining, dug through the spare tire well, and even sliced open the spare tire itself. Nada.
I held my frustration at bay with effort. I’d tugged this thread hard and so far had nothing to show for it. Great. Found Reno’s car. Tore it apart. But I—
The sound of tires on gravel cut my pity party short. Headlights of an approaching car shone through the trees. With only seconds before the vehicle made the curve, I scrambled into the trunk and pulled the lid shut to barely a crack so I could see who was coming.
To my everlasting annoyance, a battered green pickup stopped right outside the impound lot gate. A man stepped out—at least six feet tall and skinny, with a potbelly that made him look nine months pregnant. With twins. Impressive, in a grossly disproportioned way. I eyed him as he fumbled with the key for the gate lock. Long, stringy hair. Dingy flannel over a grubby white t-shirt. Stained jeans.
Potbelly Guy wrestled the lock open and pulled the gate aside. “C’mon, babydoll.” He waved for the passenger to join him.
A woman with painfully red hair climbed out. She wore a crop top, exposing a midriff that had never known a situp. A black mini skirt at least two sizes too small strained over lumpy curves.
As she stepped around the pickup, I got a good look at her face. I clamped a hand over my mouth to hold back a chortle. Carol Ann Pruitt who, back in the day, had tried to steal my then-boyfriend Randy away from me. And this past fall she’d tried to bust my skull open with a pool cue during a bar fight, only to end up on the floor after I laid her skanky ass out with one brain-fueled punch.
“Bubba baby, why’d you bring me way out here?” Carol Ann whined. “It’s creepy.”
“Come on, I got a surprise for you.” Bubba held out a hand for her. Pouting, she took it and allowed him to lead her into the yard.
“Now you gotta close your eyes,” he said, grinning—or as much as a body could grin with only a scattered handful of teeth in his mouth.
Carol Ann giggled and squeezed her eyes shut. “You gonna do something nasty to me?”
“Aww baby, all sorts of nasty.” Bubba led her around to the front of the Camaro—directly across from where I was hiding. “Okay, you can look now!”
She let out a gasp. “Oh my god! Is it yours? It’s so gorgeous!” She rushed forward to stroke her hands over the sports car.
“Nah, ain’t mine, but that don’t mean we can’t have some fun on it.” He patted the hood and leered.
“On it?” Carol Ann’s face puckered. “You mean we can’t drive it?”
Bubba shifted uncomfortably. “Well, no. Not this one, anyhow. I could get in a heap of trouble. But, um, next time I get me a hot car in, I’ll make sure your purty little ass gets in the driver’s seat.”
Carol Ann squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “You’re the best, Bubba!”
Or maybe she’d said “the best Bubba” because she was hedging her bets. Either way, she seemed plenty satisfied with his offer. She did a little jump and wrapped her legs around Bubba’s waist. Or mostly around, since the size of his belly made the feat impossible. Not to mention, Carol Ann wasn’t exactly petite, and Bubba didn’t have a ton of muscle tone.
The result was Carol Ann trying to tighten her legs to hold on while Bubba staggered to keep his balance. He saved them from crashing to the ground only by turning and falling forward onto the hood of the Camaro, with Carol Ann flat on her back.
“Aww, yer so damn sexy,” Bubba crooned as if placing her on the hood had been his intention all along. “You want me to fuck you right here? Would ya like that?”
Carol Ann giggled then shimmied out of her undies and tossed them aside. “What do you think, big boy?”
I pulled the lid closed just shy of latching since I had zeeerrroooooo desire to see those two banging away. Yikes. The sounds were bad enough. Bubba grunting, and Carol Ann making porn star noises, mixed with the melodic tones of flesh slapping wetly against flesh.
