over the small, careful whorls and intricate lines. The long slashes, beautiful as impressionistic art. He hungers over them for several long moments before gently slipping the photographs into a protective sleeve.
Next, he turns his attention to the files. She has moved to California, which will require—what?—a twelve-hour drive? It will take some planning, of course, but later, once Plan B is rolling . . .
He sucks his teeth.
He’ll want to spend more time reading through all this before destroying what he doesn’t want, so he shuffles pages back into their files, amazed at how much Dr. Moody has accumulated over the years, and chastened by how much he blabbed. Why had he ever talked about his father’s burial? And how could he have been so stupid as to mention Walter Wertz?
“Risky behavior, Daryl. Risky, risky, risky,” he says, mimicking Wertz’s voice.
Truth was, he’d been showing off for his shrink, watching the color spread up Moody’s neck. The old goat was turned on by it all, scribbling away in his notebook while his forehead glistened with that telltale sheen.
Flint locates a briefcase and fills it with Moody’s papers and notebooks.
What else? He looks around. The door to the safe is still wide open.
He smirks, recalling how Moody’s cranky behavior last night had turned quite reasonable once he’d revealed the gun. With a moment’s encouragement, Moody had shown him the safe, which was hidden behind a false front in the closet, just like in the movies.
After spinning the combination and opening the door, Dr. Moody had said, “You can just take the money and go. There’s nearly ten thousand dollars here. How’s that?”
“Are you sure? That’s a lot of money, Terrance,” Flint said, looking over Moody’s shoulder while stroking the man’s ear with the gun barrel’s tip.
“You can count it,” Moody said, his voice going up a notch. “I was planning on . . . never mind. Take it. It’s yours.”
“That’s generous of you. How about we leave it right there for the moment, and I’ll count it later.”
“And you can take my car,” Moody continued, speaking rapidly. “You could be over the border into Canada before dawn. The car has GPS, and I know a way you can get across without even a passport, no border guards, nothing but open road. You can simply disappear and no one will even know you were here.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Flint said, playing along. “And I sure appreciate your generosity.” He stepped back and lowered the handgun, grinning. “In fact, I think that kind of plan deserves a toast, don’t you?”
“Uh, sure. What’s your drink of choice? Vodka? Gin? I have a full bar, and I’d be happy to serve whatever you’d like.”
“Well, I’m not really in the mood for hard liquor.”
“Beer then? I’ve got some good pilsner.”
Flint began to stroke his beard, forgetting it had been cut off, so he rubbed his chin. “Don’t you have a wine cellar?”
Dr. Moody’s expression dimmed. He swallowed and said softly, “Yes, I do.”
“Let’s go down there and get a nice bottle,” Flint said, gesturing toward the door with the gun. “You pick it out.”
Dr. Moody then led him downstairs, through the basement, to a door at the back. It was a cold room with a musty smell.
Flint stood back and whistled. “That’s a nice selection of wine, Terrance. How many bottles have you got there?”
“Nearly four hundred, I believe.” Dr. Moody faced the racks, lifted a hand, and asked, “What would you prefer? Red or white?”
Flint shot him in reply.
Then he stood there for a long moment, letting his ears recover, studying the way the light reflected on the rows and rows of bottles. The pattern was pleasing to the eye.
Flint had tilted his head from side to side, interested in how the gleam on the bottles changed as he did so. Then he stepped back, watching Moody’s blood spill across the floor, appreciating how its ruby color contrasted
Next, he turns his attention to the files. She has moved to California, which will require—what?—a twelve-hour drive? It will take some planning, of course, but later, once Plan B is rolling . . .
He sucks his teeth.
He’ll want to spend more time reading through all this before destroying what he doesn’t want, so he shuffles pages back into their files, amazed at how much Dr. Moody has accumulated over the years, and chastened by how much he blabbed. Why had he ever talked about his father’s burial? And how could he have been so stupid as to mention Walter Wertz?
“Risky behavior, Daryl. Risky, risky, risky,” he says, mimicking Wertz’s voice.
Truth was, he’d been showing off for his shrink, watching the color spread up Moody’s neck. The old goat was turned on by it all, scribbling away in his notebook while his forehead glistened with that telltale sheen.
Flint locates a briefcase and fills it with Moody’s papers and notebooks.
What else? He looks around. The door to the safe is still wide open.
He smirks, recalling how Moody’s cranky behavior last night had turned quite reasonable once he’d revealed the gun. With a moment’s encouragement, Moody had shown him the safe, which was hidden behind a false front in the closet, just like in the movies.
After spinning the combination and opening the door, Dr. Moody had said, “You can just take the money and go. There’s nearly ten thousand dollars here. How’s that?”
“Are you sure? That’s a lot of money, Terrance,” Flint said, looking over Moody’s shoulder while stroking the man’s ear with the gun barrel’s tip.
“You can count it,” Moody said, his voice going up a notch. “I was planning on . . . never mind. Take it. It’s yours.”
“That’s generous of you. How about we leave it right there for the moment, and I’ll count it later.”
“And you can take my car,” Moody continued, speaking rapidly. “You could be over the border into Canada before dawn. The car has GPS, and I know a way you can get across without even a passport, no border guards, nothing but open road. You can simply disappear and no one will even know you were here.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Flint said, playing along. “And I sure appreciate your generosity.” He stepped back and lowered the handgun, grinning. “In fact, I think that kind of plan deserves a toast, don’t you?”
“Uh, sure. What’s your drink of choice? Vodka? Gin? I have a full bar, and I’d be happy to serve whatever you’d like.”
“Well, I’m not really in the mood for hard liquor.”
“Beer then? I’ve got some good pilsner.”
Flint began to stroke his beard, forgetting it had been cut off, so he rubbed his chin. “Don’t you have a wine cellar?”
Dr. Moody’s expression dimmed. He swallowed and said softly, “Yes, I do.”
“Let’s go down there and get a nice bottle,” Flint said, gesturing toward the door with the gun. “You pick it out.”
Dr. Moody then led him downstairs, through the basement, to a door at the back. It was a cold room with a musty smell.
Flint stood back and whistled. “That’s a nice selection of wine, Terrance. How many bottles have you got there?”
“Nearly four hundred, I believe.” Dr. Moody faced the racks, lifted a hand, and asked, “What would you prefer? Red or white?”
Flint shot him in reply.
Then he stood there for a long moment, letting his ears recover, studying the way the light reflected on the rows and rows of bottles. The pattern was pleasing to the eye.
Flint had tilted his head from side to side, interested in how the gleam on the bottles changed as he did so. Then he stepped back, watching Moody’s blood spill across the floor, appreciating how its ruby color contrasted
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