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Always showing up at the wrong time.
I glance in the rearview mirror and realize that the truck that had nearly pulled out in front of me belongs to Regan Pescoli’s kid. I’ve seen him hauling ass in the old Chevrolet more times than I care to remember.
Ironic, I think, as I drive up Boxer Bluff and past the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, set back from the road not far from the jail. I wonder if Manny Douglas has shared his information with the cops yet. Maybe yes. Maybe no. I
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know a part of him will want to keep the information and publish it, try to “crack the case” himself. His ego is so big that he’ll have the mistaken notion that
his fame will spread and he’ll be propelled to national stardom. He has grandiose ideas. I’ve heard him brag that he once turned down a job at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. “The Post,” as he calls it. Like there isn’t any other. Not even the New York Post or closer still, the Denver Post, or others scattered across the continent. Oh, yeah, Manny, you’re brilliant. Maybe losing you is why “The Post” is no longer printing, the reason it went fully digital. They lost out on that whip-sharp, ace reporter Manny Douglas, and things have just gone downhill ever since. Hah.
I laugh aloud, then pull into my usual gas station to tank up, buy some coffee, and talk to the cashier, wish her a Merry Christmas. I’ll be on camera, and she’ll remember me, along with the waitress where I left a big tip for my breakfast.
Alibis, alibis, alibis.
If Manny has shared the contents of his mail, the sheriff’s department is a madhouse.
And if he hasn’t, they’ll learn soon enough.
“Have a good one,” I say with a wave as I carry my tall cup of coffee back to my truck.
“You, too. Merry Christmas!”
She’s a pretty young thing and if her initials had been right for my purpose, she might have become a candidate. No, no, no! Remember: No one local. No one who can be tied to you. Except for Pescoli. That was the deal.
I fire up the truck and wonder about that. Maybe Pescoli was a mistake. But I couldn’t help myself. 392
Lisa Jackson
Not only did her name lend itself so well to the creation of my message, but how better to stick it to Dan Grayson than by taking one of his own? But you shot Brady Long. He’s local. The police will tie the bullet to the other killings. That might have been a little bold; maybe even cocky, I acknowledge, as I roll out from under the overhang of the gas station where a black leg dangles from its eave, the booted foot of a stuffed Santa, trying to climb onto the roof of Bitterroot Gas and Mini Mart.
As I pull away, I see the rest of Santa’s body lying facedown as he appears to cling to the roof, his sack of toys spilling over.
Everyone in this town is an imbecile except me. It’s pathetic.
With a full tank and alibis all over the place, I turn on the road leading away from town and into the surrounding hills. I’ve had my fun, now it’s time to deal with Regan Pescoli.
She hasn’t been broken yet.
And even now is probably plotting her next escape. Or is doing it right now.
My heart lurches.
You left her handcuffed and broken from the fight, but she’s not one to give up easily. Did you lock the door? Glancing in the rearview, I see the worry in my own eyes and I step on it. I’m less than half an hour from the mine.
Run!
Keep moving!
Run as fast as you can!
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God, it was freezing.
