took a long sniff of the interior—as expected, the stench of gasoline was gone, killed by the sanitizing wipes. Still, he plucked an aerosol can of odor-removing stuff from the glove compartment and sprayed the entire interior. This, he thought, was probably a precaution he didn’t need to take. But if he were to be stopped by a policeman for speeding or rolling through a stop sign or failing to yield the right of way or for any other simple reason, he didn’t want to smell like an arsonist.
Thinking through matters, seeing all the angles in advance, imagining each possible variable in a sea of possibilities was what Michael enjoyed almost more than everything else. It made his heart beat faster.
He put the truck in gear, pulled the cap down close to his eyes, and fiddled with a set of earphones attached to an iPod. Linda liked to make him special mixes of tunes for when he went off to do some of the grunt work associated with their business. On the MENU screen he saw a play list: Gasoline Music. This made him laugh out loud. He leaned back as something by Chris Whitley that had a nasty bit of steel guitar in it powered through the speakers. He listened to the singer hit a few strings. “… like a walking translation on a street of lies…” True enough, he thought as he pulled out of the abandoned warehouse parking lot. Linda always knew what he liked to hear.
In a plastic bag on the seat next to him was the credit card belonging to some woman named Riggins that he’d taken from Number 4’s wallet. One or two quick tasks on the road and in Boston and then he’d get back to Linda. The truck had warmed up and heat was pouring through the vents, wafting over him. It was still nasty cold and damp outside. He decided that their next Web broadcast should originate in Florida or Arizona. But that was getting ahead of the current series, which he knew was a mistake. Michael prided himself on a singularity of focus; once they were engaged, nothing got in the way, nothing was allowed to obstruct, derail, or distract from what they were doing. He believed any successful artist or businessman would say the same thing about his or her work projects. Can’t write a novel or compose a song, can’t swing an acquisition or expand an offering without complete devotion to the task at hand, he spoke inwardly to himself.
Linda knew the same.
It was why they loved each other so much.
He thought: I am incredibly lucky.
Michael settled in for the two-hour drive to the city. Back at the rental farmhouse she would have everything going. They were probably almost rich already he thought. But it wasn’t about the money for him or for her. The start of Series #4 excited him and he could feel overwhelmingly pleasant warmth coursing through his core, warmth far different from the heat coming through the truck system. It beat time to the music that filled the truck compartment.
6
Inside the black hood that covered her head, Jennifer’s entire world had narrowed to just what she could hear, what she could smell, and what she could taste and each of these senses was limited—by the pounding of her heart, the throbbing headache that lingered behind her temples, the claustrophobic darkness that enveloped her. She tried to calm herself but, beneath the silken black cloth, she sobbed uncontrollably, salty tears running down her cheeks, her throat dry and raw.
She wanted desperately to cry out for help although she knew none was close by. The word Mom slipped through her lips, but beyond the darkness she could see only her dead father standing just beyond her reach, as if he were outdoors and unable to hear her cries because they couldn’t quite penetrate some glass wall. For an instant she felt dizzy, as if she were teetering on a cliff’s edge, just able to keep her balance, with a strong gust of wind threatening her equilibrium.
She told herself, Jennifer, you’ve got to keep control …
She was unsure whether she spoke these words
Thinking through matters, seeing all the angles in advance, imagining each possible variable in a sea of possibilities was what Michael enjoyed almost more than everything else. It made his heart beat faster.
He put the truck in gear, pulled the cap down close to his eyes, and fiddled with a set of earphones attached to an iPod. Linda liked to make him special mixes of tunes for when he went off to do some of the grunt work associated with their business. On the MENU screen he saw a play list: Gasoline Music. This made him laugh out loud. He leaned back as something by Chris Whitley that had a nasty bit of steel guitar in it powered through the speakers. He listened to the singer hit a few strings. “… like a walking translation on a street of lies…” True enough, he thought as he pulled out of the abandoned warehouse parking lot. Linda always knew what he liked to hear.
In a plastic bag on the seat next to him was the credit card belonging to some woman named Riggins that he’d taken from Number 4’s wallet. One or two quick tasks on the road and in Boston and then he’d get back to Linda. The truck had warmed up and heat was pouring through the vents, wafting over him. It was still nasty cold and damp outside. He decided that their next Web broadcast should originate in Florida or Arizona. But that was getting ahead of the current series, which he knew was a mistake. Michael prided himself on a singularity of focus; once they were engaged, nothing got in the way, nothing was allowed to obstruct, derail, or distract from what they were doing. He believed any successful artist or businessman would say the same thing about his or her work projects. Can’t write a novel or compose a song, can’t swing an acquisition or expand an offering without complete devotion to the task at hand, he spoke inwardly to himself.
Linda knew the same.
It was why they loved each other so much.
He thought: I am incredibly lucky.
Michael settled in for the two-hour drive to the city. Back at the rental farmhouse she would have everything going. They were probably almost rich already he thought. But it wasn’t about the money for him or for her. The start of Series #4 excited him and he could feel overwhelmingly pleasant warmth coursing through his core, warmth far different from the heat coming through the truck system. It beat time to the music that filled the truck compartment.
6
Inside the black hood that covered her head, Jennifer’s entire world had narrowed to just what she could hear, what she could smell, and what she could taste and each of these senses was limited—by the pounding of her heart, the throbbing headache that lingered behind her temples, the claustrophobic darkness that enveloped her. She tried to calm herself but, beneath the silken black cloth, she sobbed uncontrollably, salty tears running down her cheeks, her throat dry and raw.
She wanted desperately to cry out for help although she knew none was close by. The word Mom slipped through her lips, but beyond the darkness she could see only her dead father standing just beyond her reach, as if he were outdoors and unable to hear her cries because they couldn’t quite penetrate some glass wall. For an instant she felt dizzy, as if she were teetering on a cliff’s edge, just able to keep her balance, with a strong gust of wind threatening her equilibrium.
She told herself, Jennifer, you’ve got to keep control …
She was unsure whether she spoke these words
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