Stop that, damn it. Those are the wrong breaths from the wrong woman.
But the right woman didn’t breathe anymore.
Soon he was asleep.
32
They’d stuck to the back roads after Janell killed the deputy. Sirens became audible not long after they left, but those had screamed north on the highway while Doug drove west on a narrow, winding lane. She tried not to look at the clock. This was going to cost them precious hours, and she’d waited on the reunion with Eli for so long that she could hardly bear the delay, wanted to keep speeding toward him.
She couldn’t bring danger with her, though.
Several times Doug slowed and suggested cars to take. She dismissed each of them, but she saw what he was looking for-an empty car and a dark house. That was troubling. His resolve was weakening.
“You’re only picking out houses that are dark,” she said. “Tell me why.”
“It should be obvious.”
“Evidently not. Explain.”
“Speed!” he snapped. “Get a new car, one without all the police in five states looking for it, and get the fuck out of here.”
“Hmm.” She pursed her lips. “So you want to gain two things: time and distance.”
“No shit.”
“Can you find the flaw in your solution, or do I need to point it out?”
He didn’t answer. She nodded. “Time and distance are joined for us, obviously. The more time we gain, the more distance. Now, you’re attempting to gain time by rushing. It’s the exact philosophy that created the problem with the deputy back there.”
“You killed him. That created the problem!”
“No. You were speeding, in a foolish attempt to gain distance and time. This is the underlying problem. You’re bringing the same approach to the current situation. If we steal a car from someone who isn’t home, how much time did we buy?”
“More than we’ve got now.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well, we wouldn’t know. Depends how long until they got home and called it in.”
“Exactly. So maybe we gained a day, maybe twenty minutes. The unknown isn’t desirable.” She’d lost the sensation of Deputy Terrell’s pulse under her thumb, but the odor of his blood lingered.
Doug started to speak, to object, but she cut him off.
“Slow down. I want to look at this one.”
There was a steep gravel driveway angling away to the right, climbing a wooded hill. Through the trees, the lights of a house gleamed. It was high on a forested ridge and would barely have been visible if not for those lights.
“Turn in here.”
“Somebody’s home.”
“I’m not disputing that. Just make the turn.”
He wasn’t happy about it, but he pulled into the drive and they crunched over the gravel. Halfway up, dogs began to bark and howl. Lots of dogs.
“Terrible choice,” he said. “Listen to all that.”
“Anyone who can hear them now has heard them before.”
A vehicle came into view, parked in front of a shed, a small house beyond, kennels just past that. A half a dozen dogs, floppy-eared hounds of some sort, stood with their paws on the fence, howling. The vehicle was a giant SUV, a Tahoe or a Yukon, covered with dust, the tailgate a hideous array of bumper stickers pledging allegiance to dogs, guns, and God.
“Promising,” she said.
“How in the hell you figure? That thing will be even easier to spot than this frigging truck.”
“This feels like the home of a lonely soul. All those dogs.”
Doug hadn’t even cut the engine before the front door of the house opened and a man in a flannel shirt appeared on the porch, peering out at them.
“Shit. See what we got now?”
“Exactly what we need,” she said, climbing out of the truck.
The man on the porch looked to be about sixty, tall but with stooped shoulders and thinning white hair.
“Can I help you?” he called.
“I hope so! We’ve lost our dog. I thought he might have headed toward the sound of your pack here.”
“What kind of dog?”
“Beagle. A fat, dumb old beagle.” She laughed when she said it, and the man on the porch laughed with her.
“He light out after a rabbit?”
“Most likely.” She was close to the porch steps now, walking quickly. “You haven’t seen him? He was running through the woods right there.”
She pointed to the west, and he turned to squint speculatively into the trees when she came up the porch steps and drew her knife. He kept studying the woods.
“Usually my own would take to barking if they heard another dog,” he said, “so I’d figure he must have headed in the other direction, or he might have crossed the road on you and doubled back. I’ll help you look if you give me a minute to-”
When he turned, he saw the blood on her shirt. He started to voice a question, but then he noticed the blade and stood with mouth agape, the question forgotten.
“Walk inside, please,” she said. Behind her, Doug finally got out of the truck. The man’s eyes went to him. He didn’t move toward the door.
She said, “The choices you make in the next few seconds are important. I’ll ask you again to walk inside the house.”
He went to it, with her just a step behind. Inside, the place lived up to the promise of its exterior. From the dirty dishes stacked in the sink to the jackets and boots in the corner and even to the smell, there was no indication that anyone lived here except for him and the dogs.
There was an Adirondack chair in front of a cold fireplace. “Sit there,” she said. Doug had appeared behind her, gun in hand, and he closed the door and set to work on the blinds. The white-haired man watched him with far more apprehension than he’d shown her, seeming to view Doug as the primary threat. The bull-moose approach of males, always deferring first to gender, then to size. Likewise, the gun scared him more than the knife when what mattered was not the weapon but the willingness to use it.
“Sit,” she repeated, and he finally followed her instruction, talking while he moved.
“Only cash I’ve got is in my wallet on the counter. Every gun is in the cabinet. It’s locked, but the key’s tucked on top. Take what you want.”
“We will,” she assured him. “But first we need to talk.”
The natural incline of the Adirondack chair forced him to lean back and look up at her, the height difference reversed, the power differential self-evident. She stepped forward, slipped her left foot through the gap between the arm of the chair and the seat, then her right, and settled onto his lap. He flinched and made a small whining sound, like a whipped dog. She smiled. Reached up with her left hand, which was still streaked with rust-colored dried blood, and stroked his cheek. His jaw trembled beneath her hand. She ran her fingers through his thin, wispy hair until she found enough for a solid handhold and tightened her fist. She pulled the hair at his scalp, forcing his head back. She kept her eyes on his while she brought the blade up to his throat and, with a precise hand, trimmed a few whiskers away from his Adam’s apple. He made the whining sound again and there was a sudden wet warmth beneath her thigh as his bladder released.
“I think you’re ready to be honest, aren’t you?” she said, releasing her tight hold on his hair and stroking his head, the blade still resting against his Adam’s apple.
He wanted to nod but the knife at his throat prevented that, so he had to speak. He gasped out the word “Yes” as tears formed in his eyes.