guaranteed three-million-dollar client in my column. I’ll be—
we’ll
be set for life. We can get a house on the lake, a boat, everything we’ve wanted.”
At the moment she didn’t want anything. She no longer wanted him. The law had not changed him. It had just defined who he was all along. She studied the moss that had worked its way through the mortar of the stone walkway, undermining its integrity, and thought of her marriage. Removing the moss would not be easy.
10
E SPN’S S PORTS C ENTER filled the cramped motel room with animated chatter. Two sportscasters sat behind a miniature studio desk, narrating the day’s highlights. Laurence King turned the volume up high, but the newscasters’ voices still did not drown out the sound of the woman through the paper-thin wall.
“More, honey. Yes. Yes. Yes, baby.”
The photograph of Mount Ranier on the wall thumped rhythmically. The lamp shade on the wood-veneer nightstand vibrated. Had it not been bolted down, it likely would have slid off. The woman was being well paid to moan, but at the moment King didn’t want to hear it.
“Oh, you’re big. You’re so big. You just fill me up, baby.”
King pounded his fist on the wall. “Shut the fuck up.” The grunting and groaning continued, uninterrupted. King paced the worn brown carpet, alternately rubbing at the coarse dark stubble of his chin and biting at his thumbnail, perpetually stained with grease and dirt from his work as a day laborer for a construction company. The room held the smell of body odor and moldy wood.
“Fifteen thousand.” Marshall Cole paced an area near the bathroom, stepping around and over fast-food bags, a grease-stained pizza box, beer bottles, and articles of clothing he continued to discard—first his shoes and socks, then his shirt. He stood naked to the waist, his blue jeans hanging from narrow hips, holes worn in the knees. They had buried his other clothes in a dirt field behind the motel, digging the hole deep enough to prevent stray dogs from unearthing them, searching for the scent of blood.
“Fifteen thousand.” Cole compulsively tugged at the bill of his Seattle Mariners baseball cap, alternately pulling it low on his forehead and pushing it onto the crown of his head. “You tell him we want fifteen thousand. I didn’t sign up to kill nobody, Larry. No fucking way.” He pointed to King. “It was supposed to be a burglary. That’s what you said. You said the man told you it was a burglary. Empty. The fucking place was supposed to be empty, man.”
“Shut up,” King shouted at the wall, growing more angry.
“Nobody said nothing about killing anyone. I ain’t no killer. They’ll kill me for this. They’ll kill us both.”
King turned from the wall and took a step toward Cole. “Shut up.” He’d had enough whining from the little prick. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
Cole stepped back, no match for King, who stood six foot two and weighed 255 pounds. Cole was rail-thin, with a washboard stomach that displayed protruding ribs. He had a nervous stomach and irritable bowel syndrome, which caused him to spend more time in the bathroom than a janitor and prevented him from keeping anything in long enough to put on weight. With full lips, green eyes, and sandy-blond hair that hung past his shoulders, Cole would have been called pretty if he’d been born a woman.
“Fifteen thousand,” Cole muttered under his breath. “Enough money to get out of here. Maybe go to Canada. They don’t extradite from Canada, do they? Shit!” He threw the cap on the floor and tugged at his hair. “I had to do it. He saw me. He looked right at me.”
“Just take it easy.” King walked to the window and eased back the heavy curtain. The Emerald Inn sat like a boil on a dog’s butt. King hadn’t chosen it for the ambience. He’d chosen it because the rooms were off an outdoor landing that offered a clear view of
we’ll
be set for life. We can get a house on the lake, a boat, everything we’ve wanted.”
At the moment she didn’t want anything. She no longer wanted him. The law had not changed him. It had just defined who he was all along. She studied the moss that had worked its way through the mortar of the stone walkway, undermining its integrity, and thought of her marriage. Removing the moss would not be easy.
10
E SPN’S S PORTS C ENTER filled the cramped motel room with animated chatter. Two sportscasters sat behind a miniature studio desk, narrating the day’s highlights. Laurence King turned the volume up high, but the newscasters’ voices still did not drown out the sound of the woman through the paper-thin wall.
“More, honey. Yes. Yes. Yes, baby.”
The photograph of Mount Ranier on the wall thumped rhythmically. The lamp shade on the wood-veneer nightstand vibrated. Had it not been bolted down, it likely would have slid off. The woman was being well paid to moan, but at the moment King didn’t want to hear it.
“Oh, you’re big. You’re so big. You just fill me up, baby.”
King pounded his fist on the wall. “Shut the fuck up.” The grunting and groaning continued, uninterrupted. King paced the worn brown carpet, alternately rubbing at the coarse dark stubble of his chin and biting at his thumbnail, perpetually stained with grease and dirt from his work as a day laborer for a construction company. The room held the smell of body odor and moldy wood.
“Fifteen thousand.” Marshall Cole paced an area near the bathroom, stepping around and over fast-food bags, a grease-stained pizza box, beer bottles, and articles of clothing he continued to discard—first his shoes and socks, then his shirt. He stood naked to the waist, his blue jeans hanging from narrow hips, holes worn in the knees. They had buried his other clothes in a dirt field behind the motel, digging the hole deep enough to prevent stray dogs from unearthing them, searching for the scent of blood.
“Fifteen thousand.” Cole compulsively tugged at the bill of his Seattle Mariners baseball cap, alternately pulling it low on his forehead and pushing it onto the crown of his head. “You tell him we want fifteen thousand. I didn’t sign up to kill nobody, Larry. No fucking way.” He pointed to King. “It was supposed to be a burglary. That’s what you said. You said the man told you it was a burglary. Empty. The fucking place was supposed to be empty, man.”
“Shut up,” King shouted at the wall, growing more angry.
“Nobody said nothing about killing anyone. I ain’t no killer. They’ll kill me for this. They’ll kill us both.”
King turned from the wall and took a step toward Cole. “Shut up.” He’d had enough whining from the little prick. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
Cole stepped back, no match for King, who stood six foot two and weighed 255 pounds. Cole was rail-thin, with a washboard stomach that displayed protruding ribs. He had a nervous stomach and irritable bowel syndrome, which caused him to spend more time in the bathroom than a janitor and prevented him from keeping anything in long enough to put on weight. With full lips, green eyes, and sandy-blond hair that hung past his shoulders, Cole would have been called pretty if he’d been born a woman.
“Fifteen thousand,” Cole muttered under his breath. “Enough money to get out of here. Maybe go to Canada. They don’t extradite from Canada, do they? Shit!” He threw the cap on the floor and tugged at his hair. “I had to do it. He saw me. He looked right at me.”
“Just take it easy.” King walked to the window and eased back the heavy curtain. The Emerald Inn sat like a boil on a dog’s butt. King hadn’t chosen it for the ambience. He’d chosen it because the rooms were off an outdoor landing that offered a clear view of
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