Crimson Eve by Brandilyn Collins Page B

flicking from the Durango’s navigation system to the quiet streets. Thanks to the pepper spray his face was still red, and now his nose ran like crazy. He’d made a pit stop to buy two boxes of tissues. On the passenger seat sat the first open box and a plastic grocery bag now filling with used wads.
    The annoying symptoms only made him madder. He couldn’t wait to find Carla Radling.
    A state trooper stationed twenty miles south on Highway 95 had informed Tony that Miss Wit had not been spotted. Which meant she’d likely either stopped in Moscow for the night or she’d headed west on Highway 8.
    Tony had programmed the GPS to flag all hotels in the area. One by one, if it took all night, he would cruise their parking lots, looking for a white Toyota.
    Three times Tony had snatched up his phone to call Miss Wit. How he’d love to hear the panic in her voice. But each time he’d put the cell back down. Better not let on just how close he was.
    He’d started at the Hillcrest Motel on 95, then on to the Mark IV Motor Inn and down the highway. At the numbered streets downtown he had to make a decision. Sixth Street would take him into the university. No use going there. Looked like the lower numbers would be his best bet.
    As he drove through motel parking lots he imagined Timmy at home, sleeping in his small bed with the Superman sheets and spread. He’d be wearing his red soft jammies, hugging Tito the Bear. Robyn, who believed Tony was working on a case for his CIA job — which he could never talk about — would be in their room curled up on her side of the bed, one hand reaching toward his empty half.
    Then he pictured gut-wrenching scenes of his family if he didn’t find his target.
    Tony’s fingers curled into the wheel.
    The net, man. Just pull in your net.
    He turned onto Third Street — Highway 8. Passed various businesses on the right until he came to a Super 8 Motel. He pulled into the lot, rolling past the cars. At each white sedan he shone his flashlight beam on the license plate.
    Every time he was disappointed, his anger at Carla Radling simmered a little higher.
    The Super 8 parking lot was small. He pulled out of it and headed west on the highway.
    Tony was used to killing quickly. Get in, do the job, get out. Not this time. Carla Radling deserved to suffer for putting his family in danger. Tony wiped his runny nose and dreamed of taking her apart limb by limb.
    Next on his right — the Palouse Inn. He cruised its lot but saw no white Toyota. Breathing a curse he turned back to the highway, headed for the next motel. Soon he saw the sign for University Inn.

FIFTEEN
    At one o’clock, Carla was still reading.
    The going was slow. There were a lot of entries — she’d written in the diary practically every day. But certain entries were so wrenching, she had to stop and settle her emotions. Wipe away tears. And every little sound outside the room scared her. What if Thornby showed up at her door? Twice she started to get up and flee the motel. But then what? Spend the night by herself on some dark road until she could change cars? At least here she was locked in the room, close to other people. Close to a landline phone.
    As for the diary, it was a wonder she still had it at all. In the past sixteen years she’d come close to burning it at least a dozen times. But for some crazy reason she’d never been able to let it go. The pages held memories too painful to read, but they were her life . They made her what she was today. Sometimes she’d thought, This is all I’ll ever have.
    Carla sighed. This is why she had lived her life so close to people, yet so far. Making friends — to a point. Laughing, teasing. But nothing closer, no real intimacy.
    She hadn’t shed a tear at her mother’s funeral ten years ago. Okay, maybe two. Not because she would miss the unloving woman who smoked herself right into the grave. Because she missed the mother she never had.
    As for men, forget it.
    Sure, she’d