Facets by Barbara Delinsky Page A

Verne said, “but you’re comin’ with me whether you like it or not.” When he closed a hand around his prisoner’s arm, Cutter knocked it away. “Watch it, sonny. I don’t want to have to add resistin’ arrest to the charges.” This time, though, when he reached for Cutter, Eugene was the one who stopped him.
    “I want him, Verne.”
    Cutter’s eyes shot to Eugene while Verne said, “You what?”
    “I want him. Let me have him for the rest of the day.”
    “You gone mad?”
    “Do I look like I’ve gone mad?” Eugene asked, his tone dead serious.
    “What are you gonna do with him?”
    “That’s between him and me. Any problem?”
    “You want him, you got him. But I’d be careful if I was you. Turn your back on him and he’ll be gone.”
    “I’m not turning my back.” He took Cutter’s arm. “Let’s go.”
    Cutter didn’t resist. He didn’t know why, whether it had to do with the choice being between Eugene and Verne, memory of that hard knee in his groin, curiosity about what Eugene had in mind, or something else. But he went along, albeit uneasily. Eugene was more commanding than Verne any day. He was also stronger, quicker, and more wily. Making a break for it would be hard. Not that Cutter planned to do that, at least not right off. It might be worth sticking around if there was promise of a hot meal in it.
    “Where you takin’ me?” he asked.
    “You’ll see.”
    “I want to know.”
    “If you wanted to know where you were goin’, you should’a gone with Verne.”
    Manacled to Eugene by a single strong hand, Cutter didn’t have much choice but to march alongside him, through the rain and the mud, back to the scene of the crime.
    They didn’t talk. Cutter wasn’t good at conversation in the best of circumstances. When they reached the car, Eugene opened the passenger’s door and nudged him in.
    He balked then. “I got mud all over me.”
    “So do I.”
    “Your car’s new and clean.”
    “So? I don’t plan on stayin’ out in this rain forever, and I’m sure as hell not goin’ to walk for miles in it. You may be young and insensitive, but I’m gettin’ cold. Now get in.”
    He gave Cutter another push, a firmer one this time. Cutter got into the car.
    Slamming the door, Eugene rounded the car and climbed in behind the wheel. He shot Cutter a glance. “You missed your chance. The keys were here in the car. You could’a taken off when I was goin’ around.”
    But Cutter was cold and tired. It never occurred to him to take off. Not that he was about to tell Eugene that. “I don’t know how to drive.”
    “No? So how do you get around?”
    “Motorcycle.” He snorted. “Got no gas for it now, thanks to you.”
    “You want gas, you can earn the money to buy it.”
    Cutter snorted again but didn’t say another word. He thought it was fine and dandy for Eugene St. George to talk about earning money. He lived an easy life, had everything he needed, and if there was something he wanted, all he had to do was open the company till and help himself. No one would call him a thief. No one would come running after him, threatening to lock him up. Some people had it made in life, that was all there was to it, and Cutter wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t earn decent money because he wasn’t trained for a damn thing. The only jobs he could get were ones any idiot could hold. They always bored him so he quit.
    Eugene was heading out of town, not in the direction of the big brick home or the gem pits but in the opposite direction, the one that was familiar to Cutter. “Where are we goin’?”
    “Your place.” He peered through the windshield. “Is this the turn?”
    Instantly Cutter was wary. Folks from town came to his place only when something was wrong, like when his daddy ran the old truck into a tree or when his mama died. “Why are we goin’ to my place?”
    “So you can change your clothes. Is this the turn?”
    The reason was fair enough. “Yeah.”
    As soon as