tunnel entrance. Clear.
Sanchez wobbled to sitting, but Rick raised a finger to cut her off before she could ask any questions. Then he slipped outside for a quick reconnoiter. Nothing was shaking. He’d dodged a bullet.
As he gazed out over the valley below, he inhaled deeply and stretched. It was kind of strange. He felt like he’d had surgery last night, and a huge tumor had been removed from his gut. The heaviness was almost gone. He didn’t feel the familiar ache when he breathed too hard. That pain hadn’t just developed since he’d lit out of New York with a stolen van. He’d been living with the added weight a long time.
But last night, he’d had a dream about Richie. Michelle had gone to work so Rick was staying home to babysit. Richie sat in his high chair while Rick fed him a jar of strained peaches. Each time Richie took a bite, his arms jerked like the sweet fruit was giving him an electric charge. The sun shone through the kitchen window. A little mirror hanging from a red and blue and yellow mobile glimmered as it spun in a circle.
Then suddenly, Richie was a year old, and Rick was pushing him in a stroller. Mister Franken’s fat beagle waddled up to Richie and pressed his cold nose against the boy’s bare foot. He squealed, reaching out to try and touch the old dog. Then, zip, Rick was at the small park behind the church, and Richie was two years old. Leaning back in a molded plastic seat, the boy’s curly brown hair fluttered each time Rick pushed the swing.
God, how he loved that little guy. Why had Rick let Michelle drive him away? Once it was too late—when it was all over and Richie was gone—Rick wished he’d just taken the boy and moved out.
For a while in the van last night, Rick thought Sanchez wasn’t going to let up until she had him crying. Fat chance. Tightening his lips, Rick set his jaw and marched back to the van. He’d done all of that he was ever going to do.
He cranked the van and pulled out of the tunnel so he could get a better look at the wheel covers. But as soon as he got out, here came Sanchez, tagging along instead of doing something constructive like fixing breakfast.
Just as he thought, the right rear shield was stuck halfway. Shit. Should he take the time to get that sucker retracted or just drive with it down?
Miss Know-It-All hunched next to him. “Can’t we drive with it in that position?”
Oh, she must have been in a real hurry to get to Asheville and her own car. Well, too bad. He was going to get that shield back up if it took all morning.
He lay on his back and scooted under the carriage. It looked like he’d have to get the housing cover off the shield spool first, then see what the problem was.
Sanchez squatted to get a look, too. What, like she’d be able to fix it?
“Look, Doc, why don’t you get my tool box out of the van? It’s under my cot.”
After she left, he crawled all the way under the van to get a look at the housing. He’d need a twelve-millimeter socket to get the bolts off. The shield had to run on a track, hopefully pulled by a chain or cable. Maybe one of the teeth on a sprocket had just gotten out of synch. Could he get that lucky?
He heard Sanchez at his feet and told her to find him a socket wrench.
A low growl answered. He looked toward his boots and saw a mangy shepherd staring back. One eye was dark brown, but the other was a creepy pale blue. The dog bared his teeth. Rick heard a second growl and tilted his head to look above him. He saw another dog crouched on its front legs. This one was built like a friggin’ pit bull, but the nose was smashed in like a boxer. A big glob of drool sagged from its jowls.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered.
The dog at his feet danced on his front paws, waiting for a signal to attack.
Rick ran through his options. He could get the Glock out of his waistband and blast the dog at his feet. But Rick was far enough under the van that all the shepherd could latch onto was his boot,
Sanchez wobbled to sitting, but Rick raised a finger to cut her off before she could ask any questions. Then he slipped outside for a quick reconnoiter. Nothing was shaking. He’d dodged a bullet.
As he gazed out over the valley below, he inhaled deeply and stretched. It was kind of strange. He felt like he’d had surgery last night, and a huge tumor had been removed from his gut. The heaviness was almost gone. He didn’t feel the familiar ache when he breathed too hard. That pain hadn’t just developed since he’d lit out of New York with a stolen van. He’d been living with the added weight a long time.
But last night, he’d had a dream about Richie. Michelle had gone to work so Rick was staying home to babysit. Richie sat in his high chair while Rick fed him a jar of strained peaches. Each time Richie took a bite, his arms jerked like the sweet fruit was giving him an electric charge. The sun shone through the kitchen window. A little mirror hanging from a red and blue and yellow mobile glimmered as it spun in a circle.
Then suddenly, Richie was a year old, and Rick was pushing him in a stroller. Mister Franken’s fat beagle waddled up to Richie and pressed his cold nose against the boy’s bare foot. He squealed, reaching out to try and touch the old dog. Then, zip, Rick was at the small park behind the church, and Richie was two years old. Leaning back in a molded plastic seat, the boy’s curly brown hair fluttered each time Rick pushed the swing.
God, how he loved that little guy. Why had Rick let Michelle drive him away? Once it was too late—when it was all over and Richie was gone—Rick wished he’d just taken the boy and moved out.
For a while in the van last night, Rick thought Sanchez wasn’t going to let up until she had him crying. Fat chance. Tightening his lips, Rick set his jaw and marched back to the van. He’d done all of that he was ever going to do.
He cranked the van and pulled out of the tunnel so he could get a better look at the wheel covers. But as soon as he got out, here came Sanchez, tagging along instead of doing something constructive like fixing breakfast.
Just as he thought, the right rear shield was stuck halfway. Shit. Should he take the time to get that sucker retracted or just drive with it down?
Miss Know-It-All hunched next to him. “Can’t we drive with it in that position?”
Oh, she must have been in a real hurry to get to Asheville and her own car. Well, too bad. He was going to get that shield back up if it took all morning.
He lay on his back and scooted under the carriage. It looked like he’d have to get the housing cover off the shield spool first, then see what the problem was.
Sanchez squatted to get a look, too. What, like she’d be able to fix it?
“Look, Doc, why don’t you get my tool box out of the van? It’s under my cot.”
After she left, he crawled all the way under the van to get a look at the housing. He’d need a twelve-millimeter socket to get the bolts off. The shield had to run on a track, hopefully pulled by a chain or cable. Maybe one of the teeth on a sprocket had just gotten out of synch. Could he get that lucky?
He heard Sanchez at his feet and told her to find him a socket wrench.
A low growl answered. He looked toward his boots and saw a mangy shepherd staring back. One eye was dark brown, but the other was a creepy pale blue. The dog bared his teeth. Rick heard a second growl and tilted his head to look above him. He saw another dog crouched on its front legs. This one was built like a friggin’ pit bull, but the nose was smashed in like a boxer. A big glob of drool sagged from its jowls.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered.
The dog at his feet danced on his front paws, waiting for a signal to attack.
Rick ran through his options. He could get the Glock out of his waistband and blast the dog at his feet. But Rick was far enough under the van that all the shepherd could latch onto was his boot,
Similar Books
