Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

But at least then—at least then he could have said, “I saw her talking to a biker, and Tim Randolph.”

The bag was overstuffed. The zipper wouldn’t close. He yelled at it with everything he had, until his head felt hollow and light, his blood pulsing hard in his temples.

H
e parked
in front of a convenience store, its front windows lit against the evening. A woman came out clutching a brown bag, cheap white bread poking out the top. A couple of teenagers went in, arguing with each other. He had nowhere to go. He had two dollars in his pocket, and the banks were closed. No parents’ house to run to. His aunt and uncle—he hadn’t been able to face them since Soph. Every exchange with them afterward had been awkward, impossible. They didn’t blame him; they told him they didn’t blame him. But
he
blamed himself, and he couldn’t deal with their not admitting they blamed him too.

And, God, now look at him. His chest caved. He’d not only let her get killed, he’d moved in with her fucking killer. How he wasn’t in jail himself right now—he could only credit some keen sense on Bays’ part. Because if Carl were a cop, he’d have put his ass in jail right alongside Tim’s.

Who moves in with the guy who killed his sister and doesn’t know it?

Anyone would think he’d been in on it. His aunt and uncle—the minute they heard, they’d have to think he’d been in on it.

He yanked his key from the ignition and went into the store. Bought two packs of Camels and asked for matches. Lit up as he walked out the door, and man
that
felt good. That was the first thing that had felt good in days.

He climbed into the back seat, right in the convenience store parking lot, shoving the beach ball of a duffle bag he’d packed against the back of the passenger seat. He curled up, knees pulled up, jacket draped over his shoulder. He had no idea where else to go. The thought of the apartment made his stomach buck, his throat clench. The wreck of the place—all their things strewn on the floor, ripped apart, gone through.

A shadow appeared in the car’s windows, peering in.

Carl tugged the jacket higher, covering his eyes. He listened to the soles of shoes walk away, crunching grit in the parking lot.

Twenty minutes later, a car pulled alongside his. A flashlight shined in the window. The cop knocked, and Carl folded himself out of the backseat, rumpled and unsteady. The cop listened to his brief, halting story, no expression on his face. Checked in with the station on the radio in his car. Came back telling him he needed to find someplace to go; he couldn’t sleep in the convenience store parking lot.

He dragged himself behind the wheel and moved to a diner a few blocks away, someplace lit up inside with people coming and going. He parked closer to the street this time, less obvious, and climbed into the back seat again to wait for morning with the school photo of Soph in his hand. He was going back to talk to Bays. Tim Randolph was going away for killing his sister, he was going to make sure of it. He didn’t know what he could offer, but there had to be something.

S
hoes on his feet
, room and bus keys in his pocket. Dean took the stairs down to the ground floor, turning toward the hotel’s side exit instead of the lobby. He didn’t need the desk clerk remembering him leaving.

He’d lost track of what town they were in. He remembered the early tours, the first ones they’d done by bus. The excitement of going to the next town and the next. Chicago! St. Louis! Hell, I even can’t wait to see what Boise’s like! Teddy’d pipe up, saying he’d been to Boise, and he’d have some story about it—a van broken down, a club manager that shorted the payout, a crowd so wild three people came out of the show with stitches.

He had no fucking idea where he was.

Bland hotel, McDonald’s on the corner, a gas station across the road, interstate beyond that, headlights flickering through the overpass guardrails.

He hiked to the convenience store, his shoulders bristling at the heavy, greasy smell of burgers and fries at the McDonalds. The store was bright, making him squint—he had to stop himself from shielding his eyes with his hand as he moved past the candy bars and motor oil, antacids and cases of cold drinks. The clerk, a skinny guy in his fifties with a faded anchor tattoo on his forearm, sported nicotine stains on his fingers. An unfiltered cigarette burned in a beansack ashtray by the register.

“Coupla Winston softpacks.” Dean pulled folded-up bills from his pocket. “Matches too.”

The clerk rang him up, gave him change back from his two dollars.

Out in the parking lot, he peeled a pack open and stuck a cigarette between his teeth. He turned his head to follow a woman hurrying from the pumps to the store, her coat held closed, her hair flapping in the wind.

Apparently it was chilly out. He didn’t feel it, in his thin shirt and jeans. As he stuffed the two packs of smokes in his jeans pockets, though, he still missed his jacket. He had to move the buck knife to a front pocket to make room for the smokes in the back.

It took some walking to get to a place where it didn’t look too strange, some guy out on foot. Places these days had too many roads set up for cars, too few accommodations for pedestrians. But he’d made it to a neighborhood off the main road, one with houses that didn’t all look the same, a place with sidewalks and gnarled trees, their branches casting dark shadows over the concrete.

He’d thought a lot today about what would be ideal. Ideal would be a private place to do it, someplace indoors. Someone home alone, a house not an apartment in case there was noise. He smoked another cigarette, casing buildings as he passed—big houses, not a lot of yard between them but not too crowded together. Some had tall wooden fences between, which would be a bonus, but probably not necessary.

His only plan was to cover ground and keep an eye out for opportunity—or make an opportunity if he had to. If things got desperate.

He needed to do this tonight. His fangs weren’t staying retracted. His thoughts were hard to get hold of, squirming away like greased pigs when he tried to catch one.

And the blood. He wasn’t even near any, and the thought of it consumed him.

Several blocks later, as he was considering breaking into one of the houses, maybe one of the dark ones so he could stand in the foyer and wait for its owner to come home, he turned a corner and found a woman unloading groceries from her trunk. The driveway was so short, she was practically standing in the road.

Before his brain could put together a plan, a sack in her arm spilled a can onto the road. It rolled in his direction, almost like the biker had bowled it toward him:
Here
.

Start here.

He bent and picked it up.

“Thanks,” she said, giving him half a glance as she struggled to adjust the bags in her arms.

“Here, let me grab that.” He slipped the can into the bag it had fallen from as he took it from her arm.

“You don’t have to—”

“Not a problem.” He grabbed two more sacks and still managed to close the trunk while she backed up with the other bag in her arm.

“I should have just made two trips.” She turned, her hair swinging across the back of her coat. “I always hate to have to make two trips, though.” Looking over her shoulder, she said, “My husband’s gotten used to broken eggs.”

He wondered if the mention of the husband was a tactic or the truth. She was in her mid to late twenties, he thought. Her modest pumps clacked up the asphalt as she drew her keys out of her coat pocket. She gave him another quick glance, her face tight.

He took in the house’s front windows—dark, both upstairs and down—as she climbed the porch steps.

He was halfway up when she turned at the door, hugging the bag with both arms. “Well, thank you for your help.” Blocking the way.

“I’ll just leave these here.” He set them against the wall. He didn’t want her on high alert. Let her think she’d run across a real Samaritan. “You have a good night,” he said, turning down the steps.

“You too. Thank you.”

He whistled as he walked away, fingers pushed in his front pockets.

When he got back to the sidewalk, he glanced back. She had her keys in hand, watching him go. Making sure he did. He didn’t blame her. There were dangerous people out here.

When he circled back, coming up behind the house through a neighboring yard, the windows glowed with warm light. He imagined her in the kitchen, pulling items out of paper sacks, putting them where they belonged. Maybe while a kettle of water heated on the stove, tea to take the chill out.

Their trash cans sat by the back porch, two metal bins with a large cardboard box, broken down flat, leaning between them. He had a use for that. Later. First came the woman, whose warm flesh he could already imagine in his grip.

Keeping to the shadows, he skulked to the front, slipping between the house and a neatly trimmed hedge of hawthorn. He crouched below a window, listening for sounds inside.

Cars passed, tires whisking over asphalt. He didn’t hear anyone walking around, inside or out. The nearest neighbor’s home was dark.

Five or so minutes passed, time pressing against him.

He came back around the side of the house, to the back porch, climbing it quietly. Figuring it would be better to surprise her—and better for the neighbors to not see him pushing his way in.

Holding his breath, he unlatched the storm door and eased it open. He’d expected to feel at least a little uneasy about this; instead he felt a rush, his fingers thrumming, his breaths coming fast. He peeked in the spaces around the curtain in the window. It looked onto a hallway. Up the way was an opening to the kitchen.

He tried the doorknob. Locked. He’d expected that, but it didn’t hurt to try.

He looked for a doorbell. None on the back door. So he knocked before taking half a step back, holding the storm door open. Excitement buzzing through him. He cut a glance to the side. Neighbor’s house still dark.

It took a moment before her shadow started to grow against the white curtain.

The cloth shifted as she peeked out. He smiled a little bashfully and lifted his hand, a little wave. Her eyebrows drew down. He nodded a little, in the direction of the doorknob.

The curtain fell back. The door opened a crack, her eyebrow raised as she peered through. Lower down she had her shoes dangling from two fingers, like she’d been taking them off when he’d knocked.

“Sorry,” he said, moving closer, putting his hand against the door. “I was wondering—” He shoved with this side of his arm, his other hand coming through the widening gap to propel her back.

“What are you—”

“Shh.” He touched his finger to his lips as he closed the door behind him. “I won’t be here long, darlin’. Let’s go in the other room.”

Her shoes clattering where she dropped them. Her stockings slipped on the smooth floor as she ran through the doorway.

The Eagles’ “One of These Nights” played softly from the direction she ran. When he rounded the corner, she had her back against the kitchen sink, both hands gripping the handle of a cast-iron skillet.

The music came from a portable radio on the counter.

A lock of hair had fallen loose from where she’d had it tucked behind her ear. She drew closer to the sink.

“Relax. You’re not gonna need that frying pan.” He had his palms up, like she had this all wrong.

Calm, even though his pulse raced.

Hers was running a mile a minute too, hot and fast and sweet, playing a song he could feel all the way up into that new sense, high in his nose.

“Just take what you want and go,” she said. “I won’t tell the police what you look like.”

“I actually don’t have a lot of time, so if we could just make this quick.”

Her breast heaved. “Then take what you want and get the hell out of here!” White rimmed her eyes. “I’m not stopping you!”

“How about we put that down, okay?” He moved closer, hands still up.

She slid over, lifting the skillet over her shoulder, her arms shaking with its weight, her fear. The fear gave a sharp scent to her perspiration. He found he didn’t mind it a bit.

His mouth was full of teeth.

“Listen, I have a knife in my pocket,” he said. “I don’t want to pull it out. Just set that down on the counter—” Sweeping in, he twisted the skillet from her hands, easy as anything. The skillet, big and heavy, was easy to catch hold of, even as she tried to slip away.

With her hands empty, she yanked a drawer open, throwing utensils out of it—ladles and spatulas, looking, he supposed, for a knife.

He wasn’t afraid of a knife. Those shish kebob skewers she was throwing to the floor were more problematic than any knife.

He dropped the skillet in the sink, put his arms around her waist from behind, and pulled her backward, away from the counter.

She dragged the drawer right out of its guides, kicking as he hauled her off her feet. The drawer’s contents rattled to the floor.

His head rushed, at the warmth of her, the smell of her, the
pulse
of her as she fought to bring the drawer over her shoulder and hit him with it.

He dodged. It glanced off his neck.

“It’s nothing personal, darlin’,” he said as his teeth grew two sizes, right into the side of her throat. Right where that delicate pulse was beating its signal out to him. Blood burst into his mouth, going right for his throat. Right down it as he took a big swallow, breathing in, feeling his feet go unsteady for a second.

He cut off her scream with his hand over her mouth. She jerked against him, like she was orgasming, and the hot blood rushed down his throat. He clamped her tighter, his own pulse racing, her blood singing a sweet song in his ears as he drank it.

Her weight brought him to one knee, her body going limp—a twitch here, a twitch there. Blood kept coming, as fast as he could swallow it. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he felt like he couldn’t stop, not until the spurt petered to a dribble.

He slipped his hand off her mouth.

She didn’t gasp in air.