enough in the first phase of the morning rush.
She would have walked there. The distance couldn’t be much more than a mile. And at the roadside she would have stuck out her thumb and waited.
She might be waiting still. Might be, but he knew she wasn’t. Not too many cars would pass before someone stopped to pick up a pretty blonde woman in distress.
Afterward, what would she do? Call the police, identify him as Sharon Andrews’ killer? Possibly.
But the authorities were unlikely to believe her. They might carry out a perfunctory investigation. He could handle it.
Cray nodded, his lips pursed tight. Yes. He could handle anything Kaylie McMillan could do to him.
In his wallet he carried a duplicate key to the Lexus. He used it to open the rear compartment, where he kept a full-size spare tire and a jack.
Kneeling in the dust, he changed the tire. The wheel itself was slightly bent, but he could drive on it.
He replaced the jack and shut the trunk, and then very calmly he jacked back the slide on the Glock, taking aim at a tall saguaro.
But it was not a saguaro.
It was Kaylie.
“Die,” Cray said.
He snapped the trigger once, and a bullet pockmarked the saguaro’s trunk, scaring a cactus wren from its burrow.
“Die.”
A second shot nicked one of the long, drooping arms.
“Die, you little whore. Die as you should have died, twelve years ago. Die and die and die and die....”
He went on firing until the gun was empty and the saguaro was a punch card of drilled holes.
It, at least, would die.
Something had to.
Cray got into the Lexus and turned on the engine, then began the long drive home.
14
“Bad night?”
Elizabeth took a moment to register the question.
She knew the driver was looking obliquely at her, sizing up this strange, scared, barefoot woman who had appeared on the shoulder of Sandario Road in the predawn darkness, carrying a purse and a canvas satchel and hoping for a ride.
“You could say that,” she answered finally.
Something more was obviously required, some narrative to satisfy the man’s curiosity. She could claim she’d had a fight with her boyfriend and run from his parked car. Or that her own car had broken down on a back road.
There were many things to say, but she had no strength for any of them. She remained silent.
Daybreak bloomed over the mountains. A glaze of pink light spread across the pale, tired land.
“So where am I taking you?” the driver asked.
She looked at him. He was an Indian, perhaps sixty. Age had filled out his face and grayed his ponytail. His hands on the steering wheel of the old Dodge Rambler were thick and meaty and lightly liver-spotted.
He reminded her of Anson, her father-in-law. There was no physical resemblance, only a similarity of character. Both of them were men well worn by the years, men whose squinting eyes had seen too much darkness ever to fully trust the light.
“I’m staying at a motel.” She couldn’t remember the name. “It’s off Interstate Ten, near Silverlake Road . But if it’s out of your way—”
“Not really”
“I appreciate this.”
“Don’t worry about it. What’s your name?”
“Paula Neilson,” she said, using one of her old identities. Lying about such things had become habitual with her.
“Wallace Zepeda. What brings you to Tucson , Paula?”
“Just ... personal business.”
“Personal business. Well, that’s clear enough. Me, I’m in the security field.”
She flashed on the fear that he might be a cop, a detective or an undercover officer or something.
“Airport security,” he added, and she saw a smile crease his cheek. “You wouldn’t get past my checkpoint.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Not when the mere mention of the word security turns you as pale as ... well, as a paleface, pardon the expression. You on the run from the law, maybe?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. I’d hate to be aiding and abetting. Mind if I turn on the
She would have walked there. The distance couldn’t be much more than a mile. And at the roadside she would have stuck out her thumb and waited.
She might be waiting still. Might be, but he knew she wasn’t. Not too many cars would pass before someone stopped to pick up a pretty blonde woman in distress.
Afterward, what would she do? Call the police, identify him as Sharon Andrews’ killer? Possibly.
But the authorities were unlikely to believe her. They might carry out a perfunctory investigation. He could handle it.
Cray nodded, his lips pursed tight. Yes. He could handle anything Kaylie McMillan could do to him.
In his wallet he carried a duplicate key to the Lexus. He used it to open the rear compartment, where he kept a full-size spare tire and a jack.
Kneeling in the dust, he changed the tire. The wheel itself was slightly bent, but he could drive on it.
He replaced the jack and shut the trunk, and then very calmly he jacked back the slide on the Glock, taking aim at a tall saguaro.
But it was not a saguaro.
It was Kaylie.
“Die,” Cray said.
He snapped the trigger once, and a bullet pockmarked the saguaro’s trunk, scaring a cactus wren from its burrow.
“Die.”
A second shot nicked one of the long, drooping arms.
“Die, you little whore. Die as you should have died, twelve years ago. Die and die and die and die....”
He went on firing until the gun was empty and the saguaro was a punch card of drilled holes.
It, at least, would die.
Something had to.
Cray got into the Lexus and turned on the engine, then began the long drive home.
14
“Bad night?”
Elizabeth took a moment to register the question.
She knew the driver was looking obliquely at her, sizing up this strange, scared, barefoot woman who had appeared on the shoulder of Sandario Road in the predawn darkness, carrying a purse and a canvas satchel and hoping for a ride.
“You could say that,” she answered finally.
Something more was obviously required, some narrative to satisfy the man’s curiosity. She could claim she’d had a fight with her boyfriend and run from his parked car. Or that her own car had broken down on a back road.
There were many things to say, but she had no strength for any of them. She remained silent.
Daybreak bloomed over the mountains. A glaze of pink light spread across the pale, tired land.
“So where am I taking you?” the driver asked.
She looked at him. He was an Indian, perhaps sixty. Age had filled out his face and grayed his ponytail. His hands on the steering wheel of the old Dodge Rambler were thick and meaty and lightly liver-spotted.
He reminded her of Anson, her father-in-law. There was no physical resemblance, only a similarity of character. Both of them were men well worn by the years, men whose squinting eyes had seen too much darkness ever to fully trust the light.
“I’m staying at a motel.” She couldn’t remember the name. “It’s off Interstate Ten, near Silverlake Road . But if it’s out of your way—”
“Not really”
“I appreciate this.”
“Don’t worry about it. What’s your name?”
“Paula Neilson,” she said, using one of her old identities. Lying about such things had become habitual with her.
“Wallace Zepeda. What brings you to Tucson , Paula?”
“Just ... personal business.”
“Personal business. Well, that’s clear enough. Me, I’m in the security field.”
She flashed on the fear that he might be a cop, a detective or an undercover officer or something.
“Airport security,” he added, and she saw a smile crease his cheek. “You wouldn’t get past my checkpoint.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Not when the mere mention of the word security turns you as pale as ... well, as a paleface, pardon the expression. You on the run from the law, maybe?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. I’d hate to be aiding and abetting. Mind if I turn on the
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