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Every damn window had shades pulled down tight so he couldn’t get a peek inside.
He got one of his water bottles out of the truck, went to sit on the stool in the shade.
He’d hear her coming in that rattletrap truck. He might as well relax awhile.
He played with his phone, drank water. Wished for an air-conditioned suite at the Plaza. No, a water view. The cacti and sand, the sheer canyon walls made him yearn for the water.
The Casa Cipriani if he stuck with New York.
Or he could imagine the Pacific. Post Ranch Inn, Big Sur.
Or…
And here she came. Rattle, rattle, clunk, clunk.
About damn time.
He got up, used his ears first, since he couldn’t risk his eyes.
He heard the truck stop, and yes, there it was, the creak of the shed.
Now he waited for the truck to shut off, the door to creak shut.
He had to take her from behind, planned on coming up on her after she unlocked the cabin door. She’d have her hands full. She always bought fresh fruit, some vegetables on these trips.
He heard the door shut and the snap of the padlock. Heard her bootsteps approach the house, so he slipped around the shed side of the house and pinned to the wall, sidestepped down.
Then her bootsteps stopped.
He risked a peek.
Her back was to him, her arms holding the crate with cloth bags in it. A carrot top poked out of one.
She looked down.
And he saw it, too. His tire tracks, his footprints.
She dropped the crate, reached for the gun at her side. And he was running.
She’d pulled the gun, started to spin toward him when he barreled into her. Like hitting a bag of bones, he thought as the gun flew.
They landed hard, hard enough he heard her head crack against the side of the narrow front porch. But it didn’t slow her down as she jabbed an elbow into his gut.
He didn’t see the knife until it sliced down his arm. But the pain, the smell of his own blood brought on the rage. He gripped her knife hand, twisted. He felt her wrist snap like a dry branch underfoot. And he rode her high-pitched scream as he pounded his fist into her face.
“You cut me!” His voice was like her scream as he pounded again, again. “You bitch! You whore!”
Her screams turned to gurgling moans as he beat her head against the edge of the porch.
She stopped gurgling. She went silent, went still. Now she only stared at him as he shoved up and clamped a hand over his arm.
Blood slid down, dripped off his fingers, stained the dirt, as hers did. She’d opened him up six inches between shoulder and elbow.
“I’m going to have a fucking scar, thanks to you!”
Furious at the thought, he kicked her, kicked her, then stomped her.
“See how you like it, you stupid oldcunt!”
