been willing to bet her original color was something closer to a strawberry blond. All she'd need to get it back would be a splash more red to put a little blush in her cheeks, until her natural color grew in. She could still carry it off, at least as successfully as Donna Hughes had.
At forty-five, Donna, whom Christopher had seduced away from a wealthy and unfaithful husband in Plano, Texas, a year before, had been the oldest of the strawberry blonds. Paula Ann Wisniewski had been one of the youngest.
Max sighed, thinking back. Paula Ann Wisniewski. Dumb as dirt, ugly as sin—except of course for that hair. It had gone well at first. He'd picked her up easily enough—she was a waitress at a Carrow's in Santa Barbara. Lonely, homely, ready to be swept off her feet. Not a virgin, but she'd never had her body worshiped sexually the way Christopher could, and certainly never had a man fall head over heels for her the way Christopher had.
But it was Max who'd come up with a new story about why the relationship had to remain a secret—he was a “Mystery Diner” for the Carrow's chain, and if it was learned he was dating a waitress, they'd both lose their jobs.
Within three days Paula Ann was willing to follow Christopher anywhere—not a personal record, but damn good. As usual, Maxwell had left a month's worth of supplies back at Scorned Ridge, so he decided to enjoy a little honeymoon on the way up, take the coastal route the whole way.
Things started going bad almost immediately. Paula Ann washomesick before they reached Pismo Beach, and whined all the way to Cambria. Finally, just south of Lucia, they pulled off the highway and followed a dirt fire trail a few hundred yards east to a turnout under a stand of redwood trees, beside a rushing stream.
There Christopher had romanced Paula Ann as only he could. Things were going well; then the stupid cow tried to stop him in the middle of the act. He thought she was being coy, that she wanted him to be more forceful. Then she freaked out big time. Bad mistake—Christopher couldn't handle fear. Max could, though—Max loved fear. It turned him on. And when Max was turned on, nothing short of impotence or premature ejaculation could discourage him. Then when it was over, she carried on as if he'd raped her.
When I rape you, you'll know it, Max wanted to reply. He would have killed her on the spot, but he'd always made it a cardinal rule never to leave a body behind, so instead he loaded her into the front seat and let Ish, the system's internal self helper and an unlicensed wizard of a therapist, deal with the hysterical girl for the next sixty miles.
Given enough time, Ish might have been able to mollify Paula Ann at least long enough to get her back to Scorned Ridge. A leisurely honeymoon drive, however, was definitely out of the question—Ish cut over on Highway 68 and headed east to join 101 in Salinas, intending to take 152 to Interstate 5: a faster and more direct route to Oregon. Unfortunately, while attempting to convince Paula that Max's mistake was both innocent and understandable, Ish's attention wandered briefly from the road, and he ended up running that red light near Laguna Seca.
Max took control of both the body and the wheel when the siren went off and the tricolor light bar of the white Sheriff's Department cruiser began flashing in the rearview mirror. Instead of pulling over immediately, he stepped on the gas in order to put a little distance between himself and the cruiser. It was never Max's intention to try to outrun the souped-up Crown Victoria in the sorry Chevy Celebrity—he was only trying to buy some time in which to have Kinch silence her. (Max could have done it himself, but why deprive Kinch of his only real pleasure?)
One last word from Paula as Kinch plunged the souvenir bowie knife Max had purchased for him at the Alamo gift shop the year before into her right lower abdomen, and drew it toward him in a downward, then upward arc. One
At forty-five, Donna, whom Christopher had seduced away from a wealthy and unfaithful husband in Plano, Texas, a year before, had been the oldest of the strawberry blonds. Paula Ann Wisniewski had been one of the youngest.
Max sighed, thinking back. Paula Ann Wisniewski. Dumb as dirt, ugly as sin—except of course for that hair. It had gone well at first. He'd picked her up easily enough—she was a waitress at a Carrow's in Santa Barbara. Lonely, homely, ready to be swept off her feet. Not a virgin, but she'd never had her body worshiped sexually the way Christopher could, and certainly never had a man fall head over heels for her the way Christopher had.
But it was Max who'd come up with a new story about why the relationship had to remain a secret—he was a “Mystery Diner” for the Carrow's chain, and if it was learned he was dating a waitress, they'd both lose their jobs.
Within three days Paula Ann was willing to follow Christopher anywhere—not a personal record, but damn good. As usual, Maxwell had left a month's worth of supplies back at Scorned Ridge, so he decided to enjoy a little honeymoon on the way up, take the coastal route the whole way.
Things started going bad almost immediately. Paula Ann washomesick before they reached Pismo Beach, and whined all the way to Cambria. Finally, just south of Lucia, they pulled off the highway and followed a dirt fire trail a few hundred yards east to a turnout under a stand of redwood trees, beside a rushing stream.
There Christopher had romanced Paula Ann as only he could. Things were going well; then the stupid cow tried to stop him in the middle of the act. He thought she was being coy, that she wanted him to be more forceful. Then she freaked out big time. Bad mistake—Christopher couldn't handle fear. Max could, though—Max loved fear. It turned him on. And when Max was turned on, nothing short of impotence or premature ejaculation could discourage him. Then when it was over, she carried on as if he'd raped her.
When I rape you, you'll know it, Max wanted to reply. He would have killed her on the spot, but he'd always made it a cardinal rule never to leave a body behind, so instead he loaded her into the front seat and let Ish, the system's internal self helper and an unlicensed wizard of a therapist, deal with the hysterical girl for the next sixty miles.
Given enough time, Ish might have been able to mollify Paula Ann at least long enough to get her back to Scorned Ridge. A leisurely honeymoon drive, however, was definitely out of the question—Ish cut over on Highway 68 and headed east to join 101 in Salinas, intending to take 152 to Interstate 5: a faster and more direct route to Oregon. Unfortunately, while attempting to convince Paula that Max's mistake was both innocent and understandable, Ish's attention wandered briefly from the road, and he ended up running that red light near Laguna Seca.
Max took control of both the body and the wheel when the siren went off and the tricolor light bar of the white Sheriff's Department cruiser began flashing in the rearview mirror. Instead of pulling over immediately, he stepped on the gas in order to put a little distance between himself and the cruiser. It was never Max's intention to try to outrun the souped-up Crown Victoria in the sorry Chevy Celebrity—he was only trying to buy some time in which to have Kinch silence her. (Max could have done it himself, but why deprive Kinch of his only real pleasure?)
One last word from Paula as Kinch plunged the souvenir bowie knife Max had purchased for him at the Alamo gift shop the year before into her right lower abdomen, and drew it toward him in a downward, then upward arc. One
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