closed his eyes.
Still totally worth it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
––––––––
L afitte took stock.
His elbow, a fucking bloody mess. Rubbed a patch of skin clean down to the bone. Ear was all skuzzed up from gravel, broken asphalt. Cheek, too.
But other than the blood, the burning, and the electric cattle prod his heart was turning into, he got out of it pretty fucking clean.
Behind a house in an old subdivision, all brick homes in one of three styles, propped against the back wall in a fenced yard with a colorful, plastic swing-set, an air conditioning unit, roaring, next to a water hose snaking through unmown grass. He turned it on a trickle, hoping no one inside would notice, and took a long drink before washing off the blood, dirt, and rocks.
DeVaughn had known where Ginny was, had he? Or had someone follow him there? Shit. DeVaughn knew too much. Shit. BGM and DeVaughn had been the ones writing in shit. Shit. Shit. How long had they known? By the time they wrote on the wall of the truck stop, it was too late. He’d already committed. Like a dog and bell, he came running. Shit. Is that all that was left in his skull? Shit? DeVaughn? Not Rome? Not the FBI?
“Shit.”
The smell of shit all over the yard. Dog shit. He looked around—no dog. But then he heard it, the barking, relentless, scrabbling at the back sliding-glass door. He couldn’t see it from his spot. Squeaking, squeaking, dog nails on glass. Relentless. Barking. But that was good, right? No one had come outside to see what the puppy was barking at. No one had yelled for it to shut up.
The electric cattle prod bit harder each time and took longer to fade away. He flexed the fingers on his left hand, even though he knew the pain wasn’t in his muscles. Not those muscles, anyway. He had been sitting on his heels, back up against the house, tense all over, and finally stuck his feet out in front of him, ass on the ground. Relief.
First thing, he needed a car. There had to be plenty in this neighborhood, in garages or parked on the curb. Okay. Actually, it wasn’t the first thing. The first thing was to stop hurting. He was holding his breath without thinking, trying to stop the pulsing, white-hot—
—Ginny, dead. Ginny, bruise around her neck. Smiling. Thanking him—
He must have dozed off. Not sure of the time. Maybe the sky was darker, or maybe it was his eyes still adjusting to the light. Someone out front on the street was revving their engine for fun. Then high-pitched brakes, then nothing. Was the dog still barking? The pain had subsided, mostly. He checked his elbow, his ear. Crusty blood, dry. Good.
He pushed himself off the ground, hand on top of the A/C unit until he was sure he could walk. There was a wooden backdoor, probably led to the garage. He crouched and duck-walked over to it, tried the knob. It was open. He pushed, but it only went another inch. Chain lock up top.
The energy leaked out of him and he ached all over again. But fuck that. He put his boot in the gap at the bottom, pressed hard with his knee, then shouldered the door, more pressure gradually, trying to keep the noise down. He was just under eye-level with the chain, watched as the screws holding the latch stripped out of the door frame. He stumbled inside the garage.
The door only opened forty-five degrees, blocked by plastic totes. Those and cardboard boxes and tools piled on wobbly steel shelves, five high, along with beat-to-shit and sun-faded toys the kids must’ve lost interest in. And, thankfully, a car, all packed into a narrow garage. He wondered if it meant there was someone home after all. But he couldn’t hear anything except the dog still barking, whining, scratching, now at the interior garage door. Lafitte closed the back door, too dark, no windows in here, but then left it open a crack, enough to help him see as he walked sideways between a wall of boxes and the passenger side.
The car was a shitpile, no doubt. Tan, four-doors, what was
Still totally worth it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
––––––––
L afitte took stock.
His elbow, a fucking bloody mess. Rubbed a patch of skin clean down to the bone. Ear was all skuzzed up from gravel, broken asphalt. Cheek, too.
But other than the blood, the burning, and the electric cattle prod his heart was turning into, he got out of it pretty fucking clean.
Behind a house in an old subdivision, all brick homes in one of three styles, propped against the back wall in a fenced yard with a colorful, plastic swing-set, an air conditioning unit, roaring, next to a water hose snaking through unmown grass. He turned it on a trickle, hoping no one inside would notice, and took a long drink before washing off the blood, dirt, and rocks.
DeVaughn had known where Ginny was, had he? Or had someone follow him there? Shit. DeVaughn knew too much. Shit. BGM and DeVaughn had been the ones writing in shit. Shit. Shit. How long had they known? By the time they wrote on the wall of the truck stop, it was too late. He’d already committed. Like a dog and bell, he came running. Shit. Is that all that was left in his skull? Shit? DeVaughn? Not Rome? Not the FBI?
“Shit.”
The smell of shit all over the yard. Dog shit. He looked around—no dog. But then he heard it, the barking, relentless, scrabbling at the back sliding-glass door. He couldn’t see it from his spot. Squeaking, squeaking, dog nails on glass. Relentless. Barking. But that was good, right? No one had come outside to see what the puppy was barking at. No one had yelled for it to shut up.
The electric cattle prod bit harder each time and took longer to fade away. He flexed the fingers on his left hand, even though he knew the pain wasn’t in his muscles. Not those muscles, anyway. He had been sitting on his heels, back up against the house, tense all over, and finally stuck his feet out in front of him, ass on the ground. Relief.
First thing, he needed a car. There had to be plenty in this neighborhood, in garages or parked on the curb. Okay. Actually, it wasn’t the first thing. The first thing was to stop hurting. He was holding his breath without thinking, trying to stop the pulsing, white-hot—
—Ginny, dead. Ginny, bruise around her neck. Smiling. Thanking him—
He must have dozed off. Not sure of the time. Maybe the sky was darker, or maybe it was his eyes still adjusting to the light. Someone out front on the street was revving their engine for fun. Then high-pitched brakes, then nothing. Was the dog still barking? The pain had subsided, mostly. He checked his elbow, his ear. Crusty blood, dry. Good.
He pushed himself off the ground, hand on top of the A/C unit until he was sure he could walk. There was a wooden backdoor, probably led to the garage. He crouched and duck-walked over to it, tried the knob. It was open. He pushed, but it only went another inch. Chain lock up top.
The energy leaked out of him and he ached all over again. But fuck that. He put his boot in the gap at the bottom, pressed hard with his knee, then shouldered the door, more pressure gradually, trying to keep the noise down. He was just under eye-level with the chain, watched as the screws holding the latch stripped out of the door frame. He stumbled inside the garage.
The door only opened forty-five degrees, blocked by plastic totes. Those and cardboard boxes and tools piled on wobbly steel shelves, five high, along with beat-to-shit and sun-faded toys the kids must’ve lost interest in. And, thankfully, a car, all packed into a narrow garage. He wondered if it meant there was someone home after all. But he couldn’t hear anything except the dog still barking, whining, scratching, now at the interior garage door. Lafitte closed the back door, too dark, no windows in here, but then left it open a crack, enough to help him see as he walked sideways between a wall of boxes and the passenger side.
The car was a shitpile, no doubt. Tan, four-doors, what was
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