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“Sure.” Remmi had nodded appropriately, as any other response would have been met with anger.
“Remember that,” Didi said, standing and taking stock of her slim figure in the glass. She swatted a bit of lint from her shoulder, then, satisfied with her appearance, added, “Now, you wait here. I’ll be back after the first set and drive you home.” Then she was off, leaving Remmi alone in the small room to dabble with her mother’s precious makeup and to note that all of Didi’s theories about life, love, and especially men didn’t really mean much as they certainly hadn’t worked out for her, evidenced by the trail of burned-out romances that had flamed oh-so-hot for a while, then inevit
ably sputtered and died. Mostly because of Didi’s mercurial temper, but also because, in Remmi’s estimation, her mother always picked losers, never anyone solid. In every case, any man whom Didi had pronounced as being “the one” had ended up with the title of “sick, damned bastard” only a few months later. All wrong.
In a flash, she thought of Noah, and with a twist of her heart and more insight than she wanted, she wondered if her attraction to him was genetic, if she’d inherited her mother’s fascination and proclivity for men who were obviously all wrong for her.
Don’t even go there. She couldn’t think of Noah right now, or anything other than the drama unfolding in front of her. Through the slit, she saw her mother’s backside, swinging in the beams of the Caddy’s headlights. In heels, blond wig, and a tight dress, she sauntered as one of the baby carriers swung from one hand.
What the hell was Didi going to do?
In the sweltering secret compartment, Remmi was sweating, her heart racing a million beats a minute. Even the bit of air sifting in from the back seat, as Didi had left the car door open, didn’t cool her off or ease her anxiety. Biting her lip, Remmi wondered if she dared pop out from behind the false wall to get a better view of her mother and whatever she was doing, of the spot where the beams of the facing sets of headlights embraced. Or maybe she should even fling herself out of the Caddy and demand to know what her mother was doing with one of her siblings.
Whatever it was, it was wrong. Remmi felt it.
But if she exposed herself, Didi would be furious. Out of her mind with anger. And whatever she was plotting would be blown to smithereens. No, she had to remain hidden. It was the safest move. For her. And for her little brother and sister. Oh, Lord, she hoped so.
But as Didi walked farther into the distance, Remmi sent up a silent prayer that whatever her mother was doing, it wouldn’t be the disaster that seemed so imminent.
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I’m gonna let it shine.
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I’m gonna let it shine . . .
Soundlessly, the Marksman mouthed the familiar words, the lilting, deeply ingrained tune sifting through his brain as he stared through the sight of his rifle. Everything was going perfectly, unfolding just as he’d been informed it would happen.
Well, other than the dead guy.
That was a wrinkle he hadn’t foreseen.
He didn’t bother glancing at the corpse again. Would deal with it later. Right now, he had to concentrate.
Through the sight, he saw that the two cars had stopped, were idling about twenty yards apart and facing each other. His lips twisted as he recognized the woman, all curves and shimmery dress and ridiculously high heels. She was already out of her classic Cadillac, the door open, its interior light casting a weak glow.
He zeroed in on her and forced his heartbeat to slow. He had to remain calm. Steady.
He adjusted his sight just a hair. Watching, he saw her bend over the back seat and withdraw a bulky infant carrier, and it appeared heavy, with a kid inside. Then she rounded the big car and opened the opposite door, only to withdraw another carrier. It too looked heavy.
Deftly, she kicked the door closed.
Far in the distance, over the sound of a lonesome coyote’s cry, he heard the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle’s engine. The driver was winding the bike through its gears. From the corner of his eye, the Marksman thought he saw a trail of dust at the far end of the valley. No way. And yet, the glimmer of a single headlamp boring into the twilight caught his attention.
No.
Not now.
Don’t let it get to you. It’s just some cycle junkie out on a joyride. It has nothing to do with the job.
But the rider could be a witness.
Just like the dead man.
