slope.
Have to look for it on the way back up.
In the meantime, she didn’t much care about the loss of the towel. She was too hurt and filthy all over to bother cleaning herself with it. And she didn’t need to worry, down here, about being half naked.
Bill certainly wouldn’t be ogling her.
As for the woman, Sandy didn’t care. She’d never had real trouble with any woman. It was only men who always wanted to stare at her and mess with her.
Dirty cruds, all of them.
Two down in one night, she thought. That’s pretty good.
Limping slightly, she made her way toward the car.
It looked as if it had bounded down the slope, raced across the short clearing at the bottom, and finally met a tree. Though the taillights and one of the headlights still worked, the engine seemed to be dead. She saw no smoke or flames.
As she approached, she crouched slightly to look through the windows.
The woman was sitting up straight behind the steering wheel.
She seemed to be gazing out through the hole in her windshield.
Bill no longer filled the hole.
He’d left his empty sweatshirt in the broken glass at the bottom of the hole, but he was gone.
With a quick, sick feeling, Sandy hurried forward.
She stared at the hood of the car.
Bill was gone from there, too.
But he hadn’t gone far. Maybe fifteen or twenty feet.
The headlight pointed him out.
Sandy gasped. She almost ran away, but realized he didn’t seem interested in her.
He couldn’t even see her.
He was upright with his back toward Sandy, standing on his head—just on his head, not even supporting himself with his hands. Both his arms dangled, his hands limp against the ground.
It seemed a remarkable feat.
Until she noticed that he wasn’t balancing himself on his head. Up above him, both his feet were wedged into the crotch of the tree trunk.
He was no acrobat, after all. Just a dead guy turned by accident into a freakish spectacle.
Sandy grimaced at him.
She could see how it might’ve happened: when the car struck the tree that demolished its right headlight, Bill had been shot backward, feet first, off the left side of the hood. He’d hit the ground and done a wild backward somersault toward a second tree. At the peak of the somersault, only his head touching the ground, he’d rammed both his feet into the V of the trunk and gotten stuck that way.
Staring at him, Sandy felt goosebumps prickle her skin.
Sure doesn’t look accidental, she thought. Looks like somebody put him that way on purpose.
What if someone did, and he’s still around?
Stupid, she thought. The guy just happened to end up like that.
Maybe .
Let’s get.
But she couldn’t. Not yet. First, she needed to check the woman.
She hurried around the rear of the car. In the red glow of the taillights, she saw that it had a traitor hitch.
Lot of good it’ll do me.
She kept moving. Her right hand ached from clutching the knife so hard. She scanned the woods on all sides as she made her way toward the driver’s door.
So dark.
Except where the headlight went, she could see almost nothing.
Somebody could sneak right up on me.
Take it easy. Nobody’s around. It’s Just the three of us, and both of them are dead. Probably.
She crouched near the driver’s door, saw the shape of the woman sitting behind the wheel, then opened the door.
The car filled with light from its ceiling bulb.
The woman wore a seatbelt. Her blouse was torn open and hung off one shoulder—probably the result of the beating, not the crash. From her face to her lap, she was coated with blood. It still dripped off her chin.
Dripped from her wide open mouth.
Her mouth was jammed full of bloody hair.
Not her hair.
Her own hair was all shaved off. The hair stuffing her mouth had to be Bill’s.
It was easy to figure out how that had happened.
Sandy muttered, “Jeez.”
The woman’s head slowly turned toward her.
The eyes opened.
Chapter Eight
THE DAY TOUR
“We’ll be there in just a few
Have to look for it on the way back up.
In the meantime, she didn’t much care about the loss of the towel. She was too hurt and filthy all over to bother cleaning herself with it. And she didn’t need to worry, down here, about being half naked.
Bill certainly wouldn’t be ogling her.
As for the woman, Sandy didn’t care. She’d never had real trouble with any woman. It was only men who always wanted to stare at her and mess with her.
Dirty cruds, all of them.
Two down in one night, she thought. That’s pretty good.
Limping slightly, she made her way toward the car.
It looked as if it had bounded down the slope, raced across the short clearing at the bottom, and finally met a tree. Though the taillights and one of the headlights still worked, the engine seemed to be dead. She saw no smoke or flames.
As she approached, she crouched slightly to look through the windows.
The woman was sitting up straight behind the steering wheel.
She seemed to be gazing out through the hole in her windshield.
Bill no longer filled the hole.
He’d left his empty sweatshirt in the broken glass at the bottom of the hole, but he was gone.
With a quick, sick feeling, Sandy hurried forward.
She stared at the hood of the car.
Bill was gone from there, too.
But he hadn’t gone far. Maybe fifteen or twenty feet.
The headlight pointed him out.
Sandy gasped. She almost ran away, but realized he didn’t seem interested in her.
He couldn’t even see her.
He was upright with his back toward Sandy, standing on his head—just on his head, not even supporting himself with his hands. Both his arms dangled, his hands limp against the ground.
It seemed a remarkable feat.
Until she noticed that he wasn’t balancing himself on his head. Up above him, both his feet were wedged into the crotch of the tree trunk.
He was no acrobat, after all. Just a dead guy turned by accident into a freakish spectacle.
Sandy grimaced at him.
She could see how it might’ve happened: when the car struck the tree that demolished its right headlight, Bill had been shot backward, feet first, off the left side of the hood. He’d hit the ground and done a wild backward somersault toward a second tree. At the peak of the somersault, only his head touching the ground, he’d rammed both his feet into the V of the trunk and gotten stuck that way.
Staring at him, Sandy felt goosebumps prickle her skin.
Sure doesn’t look accidental, she thought. Looks like somebody put him that way on purpose.
What if someone did, and he’s still around?
Stupid, she thought. The guy just happened to end up like that.
Maybe .
Let’s get.
But she couldn’t. Not yet. First, she needed to check the woman.
She hurried around the rear of the car. In the red glow of the taillights, she saw that it had a traitor hitch.
Lot of good it’ll do me.
She kept moving. Her right hand ached from clutching the knife so hard. She scanned the woods on all sides as she made her way toward the driver’s door.
So dark.
Except where the headlight went, she could see almost nothing.
Somebody could sneak right up on me.
Take it easy. Nobody’s around. It’s Just the three of us, and both of them are dead. Probably.
She crouched near the driver’s door, saw the shape of the woman sitting behind the wheel, then opened the door.
The car filled with light from its ceiling bulb.
The woman wore a seatbelt. Her blouse was torn open and hung off one shoulder—probably the result of the beating, not the crash. From her face to her lap, she was coated with blood. It still dripped off her chin.
Dripped from her wide open mouth.
Her mouth was jammed full of bloody hair.
Not her hair.
Her own hair was all shaved off. The hair stuffing her mouth had to be Bill’s.
It was easy to figure out how that had happened.
Sandy muttered, “Jeez.”
The woman’s head slowly turned toward her.
The eyes opened.
Chapter Eight
THE DAY TOUR
“We’ll be there in just a few
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