lived. Draven wasnât sure yet whether heâd kill them, screw them up, or just leave them alone.
Maybe heâd let Gretchen decide.
âDo you want them dead or just messed up?â he asked.
She pondered it.
âDead,â she said. âIâve pictured it in my mind a hundred times. I donât know if thatâs such a good idea, though.â
Draven considered the pros and cons both ways.
âIt probably isnât,â he said. âAt least not right off the bat. But if we donât kill them, they canât know youâre involved.â
She exhaled and fidgeted in the seat.
âIâm not afraid of them,â she said.
âWell, you should be. Which one do you hate the most?â
She answered immediately.
âTwo Bits,â she said. âThe guy you flushed.â
âFine. Weâll start with him.â
They parked down the street from Two-Bitsâ crappy little rental house and drank Jack Daniels from Dravenâs flask in the dark as they waited for the asshole to return home.
Lightning crackled in the distance and then it rained.
Gretchen ran her finger down the scar on Dravenâs face.
âSo howâd you get this?â she asked.
He shrugged.
âHell if I know,â he said.
She kissed it.
âI like it,â she said.
He smiled.
âGood, because I donât think itâs going to wash off or anything.â He played with her hair. âWhat about you? You got any scars?â
âIâm not telling,â she said. âYou have to check for yourself.â
âCareful,â he said. âI will.â
She unbuttoned her blouse.
âDo it then.â
He laughed.
âItâs too dark,â he said. âI canât see anything.â
She took his hand and put it on her breast.
âJust feel for them, then.â
Not more than ten seconds later a headlight came down the street, jiggling and bobbing, unmistakably a motorcycle. Then the deep roar of the engine cut through the rain.
âCompany,â Draven said.
Draven waited until the asshole killed the engine and stepped off the bike. Then he walked out of the shadows and cut the jerk off before he reached the front door.
âYou pissed all over my carpet,â Draven said. âThat wasnât very nice.â
The biker tried to focus.
Too drunk to place him.
Then the confusion dropped off his face and he charged.
Even in the rain he smelled like alcohol and smoke.
Draven punched him in the face repeatedly until he fell to the ground. Then he straddled him and punched him another ten times, until his knuckles bled. The man withered under him, hardly able to even moan.
âThis is your only warning,â Draven said. âTell your friends too.â
He was standing up when a figure appeared.
Gretchen.
Carrying a rock in her right hand, the size of a softball.
She brought it down on the bikerâs head as hard as she could.
The guyâs skull cracked.
Then he gurgled and stopped moving.
âShit!â Draven said. âWhat are you doing?â
Gretchen just stood there, frozen.
He looked around.
Then grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the car.
âCome on!â he said.
She dropped the rock.
He stopped long enough to pick it up.
Ten miles away, out in the sticks, he threw it out the window.
19
DAY FOURâSEPTEMBER 8
THURSDAY MORNING
T effinger got up at his usual time, before dawn, even though he had been up half the night at Marilyn Blackâs bedside and the other half of the night fishing a head out of the gravesite down by the railroad spur.
Coffee.
He needed coffee.
Lots and lots of coffee.
He also needed a jog in the worst way but was too tired. So instead he showered, popped in his contacts, and ate a bowl of cereal in the Tundra as he drove to work. Being the first one there, as usual, he fired up the coffee machine and then headed over to his desk to see what
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