powerful people in the Sierras are trying to kill her. It wasn’t like she was marrying the guy. And it wasn’t like he didn’t do this kind of thing. But, she admitted, he needed to come to it himself. If all he wanted was the shooter, so be it.
At some point in her ruminations, she realized he was awake and staring at her.
“You looked stressed out about something,” he said, shifting in the bed, propping his pillow to sit up a bit.
“I had my police-reporter friend, my only real friend up here at the moment, check you out. His advice was to get the hell away from you.”
“Sounds like he’s a wise man. You don’t strike me as someone who doesn’t take good advice.”
“I don’t.” Sydney Jesup looked away from him, her gaze on the wall, the window curtain, the old furniture in the room. “I never, ever thought of myself as crossing certain lines. Always by the book, by the law. And then I did.”
“Let me tell you something,” he said. “You take the very best, law-abidingest person on the planet and you stick them in the midst of massive and brutal corruption that has even the law in its grasp, and that leaves a simple, if unfortunate, choice. You have to submit and become corrupt, as many cops do—if not most in Mexico and quite a few in this country—or you have to rebel and cross that line. You took the right moral path in my mind. It comes with costs and high risks, but it leaves you your soul.”
“And your Shelby Mustang,” she said with a smile.
“That’s right, and I’m going to get the bastard who put bullet holes in it.”
No, it’s not ending there, she wanted to tell him. You might not know it yet, but you’re in this, and you can’t get out that easy. You’re going to help me get those bastards.
I’m not a cop or DA’s investigator anymore, she told herself. And he’s not a soldier or border patrol agent. But what did the things they were going to do—because she was confident that the deeper he got, the more locked in with her he was—make them? Criminals?
No. We’re not criminals, but we aren’t going to use the authorities, and we’re probably going to commit crimes. There needs to be a third category.
Staring at him, she made a decision: at some point in the not too distant future, she was going to climb into his bed if he showed interest.
23
Shaun Corbin was freaking out, yelling at himself in his head, coming apart.
You are such a moron! Jesus, man, you’re a dead man, Shaun Corbin. Sonofabitch. Is this how it ends?
His first panicked thoughts when he woke up in the dark in his pickup were, I got to get the hell out of here. Pack, get money from Kora, hit the road.
He’d been sleeping in his truck on a side street near the ski run. He drove the short distance to his house. Earlier, he’d been afraid to go home, but now he needed to pack up and get ready to run.
He parked and stood outside for awhile, looking around for something amiss. Something that would tell him somebody was there. But he realized he was alone on the lonely road. He wasn’t even entirely sure it was the same night. He went inside and put stuff together in a backpack and suitcase. Just the essential stuff—his laptop, some files, the travel junk, some clothes.
Should I take it with me now? No, I can’t leave it in the truck and go up to see her. If she can’t get the money until the bank opens, then what?
A million damn questions and problems. He separated out everything with Kora North involved—the videotapes, photographs. It was what he would trade for the cash. He put it all out on the coffee table.
Kora was his greatest find. She was now the top call girl in Tahoe and worked exclusively for his cousin’s party set. But it was late—he assumed she’d have to go to the bank in the morning, and probably bring the money to him. By then, he’d make up his mind what to do. And she could find out some things for him, like when his damn cousin was coming back. Maybe
At some point in her ruminations, she realized he was awake and staring at her.
“You looked stressed out about something,” he said, shifting in the bed, propping his pillow to sit up a bit.
“I had my police-reporter friend, my only real friend up here at the moment, check you out. His advice was to get the hell away from you.”
“Sounds like he’s a wise man. You don’t strike me as someone who doesn’t take good advice.”
“I don’t.” Sydney Jesup looked away from him, her gaze on the wall, the window curtain, the old furniture in the room. “I never, ever thought of myself as crossing certain lines. Always by the book, by the law. And then I did.”
“Let me tell you something,” he said. “You take the very best, law-abidingest person on the planet and you stick them in the midst of massive and brutal corruption that has even the law in its grasp, and that leaves a simple, if unfortunate, choice. You have to submit and become corrupt, as many cops do—if not most in Mexico and quite a few in this country—or you have to rebel and cross that line. You took the right moral path in my mind. It comes with costs and high risks, but it leaves you your soul.”
“And your Shelby Mustang,” she said with a smile.
“That’s right, and I’m going to get the bastard who put bullet holes in it.”
No, it’s not ending there, she wanted to tell him. You might not know it yet, but you’re in this, and you can’t get out that easy. You’re going to help me get those bastards.
I’m not a cop or DA’s investigator anymore, she told herself. And he’s not a soldier or border patrol agent. But what did the things they were going to do—because she was confident that the deeper he got, the more locked in with her he was—make them? Criminals?
No. We’re not criminals, but we aren’t going to use the authorities, and we’re probably going to commit crimes. There needs to be a third category.
Staring at him, she made a decision: at some point in the not too distant future, she was going to climb into his bed if he showed interest.
23
Shaun Corbin was freaking out, yelling at himself in his head, coming apart.
You are such a moron! Jesus, man, you’re a dead man, Shaun Corbin. Sonofabitch. Is this how it ends?
His first panicked thoughts when he woke up in the dark in his pickup were, I got to get the hell out of here. Pack, get money from Kora, hit the road.
He’d been sleeping in his truck on a side street near the ski run. He drove the short distance to his house. Earlier, he’d been afraid to go home, but now he needed to pack up and get ready to run.
He parked and stood outside for awhile, looking around for something amiss. Something that would tell him somebody was there. But he realized he was alone on the lonely road. He wasn’t even entirely sure it was the same night. He went inside and put stuff together in a backpack and suitcase. Just the essential stuff—his laptop, some files, the travel junk, some clothes.
Should I take it with me now? No, I can’t leave it in the truck and go up to see her. If she can’t get the money until the bank opens, then what?
A million damn questions and problems. He separated out everything with Kora North involved—the videotapes, photographs. It was what he would trade for the cash. He put it all out on the coffee table.
Kora was his greatest find. She was now the top call girl in Tahoe and worked exclusively for his cousin’s party set. But it was late—he assumed she’d have to go to the bank in the morning, and probably bring the money to him. By then, he’d make up his mind what to do. And she could find out some things for him, like when his damn cousin was coming back. Maybe
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