into park, turned off the key, then leaned her head against the back of the seat. Allowing herself to go limp was such a relief.
Behind her, the double doors at the rear of the van opened. Frankenstein, up to no good. There was a moment of silence, then a between-the-teeth kind of whistle.
Against her better judgment, Summer looked around.
Frankenstein’s head and shoulders were silhouetted by the light outside the van. His expression was in shadow, but she did not need to see where his eyes rested to realize what had prompted that low whistle: The van’s cargo was a pair of glossy gray coffins.
Oh, God.
With the concealing furniture blankets crumpled in the aisle between them, the coffins were so obvious that Summer had trouble believing that she had ever escaped seeing them. But darkness and urgency and fear combined must have blinded her to the reality of the shrouded rectangular shapes. Now the van’s inside light was pitiless in its illumination.
Oh, God.
Of course the van must have been delivering coffins. Nothing odd about that. After all, its destination had been a funeral home.
Oh, God.
There was nothing so inherently horrible about coffins, she told herself. No need to hyperventilate over their mere presence. She had merely to think rationally, and compose her nerves.
Oh, God.
Frankenstein hoisted himself aboard the van from the rear. Light poured through bullet holes in the roof and sides, reminding Summer of the pierced-tin Christmas ornaments her mother had bought in Mexico and used on their tree every year. Two webbed black straps ran through metal loops set into the sides of the van. The straps were secured around the coffins, presumably both to hold them closed and to keep them in place.
Oh, God.
„What are you doing?“ she asked, horrified, as he began to unfasten the straps.
„Checking.“
Checking what was the obvious next question, but Summer realized she didn’t really want to know. Still, she could not help but watch with a certain fascinated dread as he freed first one strap and then the other. Then he lifted a lid.
The way her life was going lately, she should have been prepared. There was a corpse inside the coffin. A young man in a dark suit, hands crossed piously on his breast.
Oh, God.
Summer’s eyes snapped shut. She felt ill.
„What are you moaning about now?“ Frankenstein growled.
Summer’s eyes opened, and she glanced around again. Big mistake. He had the lid up on the second coffin. It was as occupied as the first. This time the body was that of a young woman. College-age, perhaps, with long dark hair, decked out in a pretty floral dress with a lace collar.
Oh, God.
„We’ve got to take them back,“ she said with conviction.
„Yeah, right.“ He was staring down at the corpse.
„We do! This is – sacrilegious, or something. They’re dead.“
He shut the lid. „Better them than us.“
„What are we going to do?“
„I vote for heading for Mexico.“
„I mean about the – the bodies!“
He sighed. „You are a worrywart, aren’t you?“
„I don’t consider myself a worrywart just because I’m upset that you’ve stolen two dead bodies!“
„We, Rosencrans. The operative pronoun here is we“ The strangled sound she made earned her an irritated glance. „And for God’s sake stop moaning, will ya?“
„I am not moaning!“
„Sounds like moaning to me.“ He turned and clambered out the back, shutting the double doors with a slam that rocked the van. Summer expected him to come around to her door – she expected him to do something – but as minutes passed and she saw neither hide nor hair of him it became increasingly obvious that he was no longer nearby.
Oh, God. Had something happened to him? Had the goons who were chasing them found them? Had they taken Frankenstein out when he jumped down from the van? Was he even now lying on the gravel nearby, blood bubbling from a cut throat, while his killers waited to claim their next
Behind her, the double doors at the rear of the van opened. Frankenstein, up to no good. There was a moment of silence, then a between-the-teeth kind of whistle.
Against her better judgment, Summer looked around.
Frankenstein’s head and shoulders were silhouetted by the light outside the van. His expression was in shadow, but she did not need to see where his eyes rested to realize what had prompted that low whistle: The van’s cargo was a pair of glossy gray coffins.
Oh, God.
With the concealing furniture blankets crumpled in the aisle between them, the coffins were so obvious that Summer had trouble believing that she had ever escaped seeing them. But darkness and urgency and fear combined must have blinded her to the reality of the shrouded rectangular shapes. Now the van’s inside light was pitiless in its illumination.
Oh, God.
Of course the van must have been delivering coffins. Nothing odd about that. After all, its destination had been a funeral home.
Oh, God.
There was nothing so inherently horrible about coffins, she told herself. No need to hyperventilate over their mere presence. She had merely to think rationally, and compose her nerves.
Oh, God.
Frankenstein hoisted himself aboard the van from the rear. Light poured through bullet holes in the roof and sides, reminding Summer of the pierced-tin Christmas ornaments her mother had bought in Mexico and used on their tree every year. Two webbed black straps ran through metal loops set into the sides of the van. The straps were secured around the coffins, presumably both to hold them closed and to keep them in place.
Oh, God.
„What are you doing?“ she asked, horrified, as he began to unfasten the straps.
„Checking.“
Checking what was the obvious next question, but Summer realized she didn’t really want to know. Still, she could not help but watch with a certain fascinated dread as he freed first one strap and then the other. Then he lifted a lid.
The way her life was going lately, she should have been prepared. There was a corpse inside the coffin. A young man in a dark suit, hands crossed piously on his breast.
Oh, God.
Summer’s eyes snapped shut. She felt ill.
„What are you moaning about now?“ Frankenstein growled.
Summer’s eyes opened, and she glanced around again. Big mistake. He had the lid up on the second coffin. It was as occupied as the first. This time the body was that of a young woman. College-age, perhaps, with long dark hair, decked out in a pretty floral dress with a lace collar.
Oh, God.
„We’ve got to take them back,“ she said with conviction.
„Yeah, right.“ He was staring down at the corpse.
„We do! This is – sacrilegious, or something. They’re dead.“
He shut the lid. „Better them than us.“
„What are we going to do?“
„I vote for heading for Mexico.“
„I mean about the – the bodies!“
He sighed. „You are a worrywart, aren’t you?“
„I don’t consider myself a worrywart just because I’m upset that you’ve stolen two dead bodies!“
„We, Rosencrans. The operative pronoun here is we“ The strangled sound she made earned her an irritated glance. „And for God’s sake stop moaning, will ya?“
„I am not moaning!“
„Sounds like moaning to me.“ He turned and clambered out the back, shutting the double doors with a slam that rocked the van. Summer expected him to come around to her door – she expected him to do something – but as minutes passed and she saw neither hide nor hair of him it became increasingly obvious that he was no longer nearby.
Oh, God. Had something happened to him? Had the goons who were chasing them found them? Had they taken Frankenstein out when he jumped down from the van? Was he even now lying on the gravel nearby, blood bubbling from a cut throat, while his killers waited to claim their next
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