

### The Drive-By Wife

### A Dark Tale of Blackmail and Romantic Obsession

### Book 1

###

### by

### Mike Wells

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Mike Wells

<http://www.mikewellsbooks.com/>
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblances to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
NOVELS BY MIKE WELLS

Baby Talk

The Drive-By Wife

Lust, Money & Murder (series)

The Mysterious Disappearance of Kurt Kramer

Passion, Power & Sin (series)

Secrets of the Elusive Lover

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

Wild Child (series)

Prologue

Somewhere in the Midwestern United States, a lone tractor-trailer truck roared through the night, its twin chrome exhausts spewing diesel smoke.

The driver sported a snakeskin cowboy hat and matching snakeskin boots, and was clad head to toe in faded denim. As his weathered hand clutched the gearshift knob, four small faded tattoos were visible across the knuckles:

D-E-A-D.

A forlorn-sounding Grateful Dead tune emanated from the truck's interior speakers. The driver sang along with it, his lips moving behind his beard. The lyrics held special meaning for him.

He could see her now, clear as the lines on the road ahead of him. Her ethereal, feminine form hovered above the pavement. She was wearing a knee-length satin dress, black pumps, and silk gloves that came almost up to her elbows. She was beckoning to him, smiling, drawing him towards her.

Mesmerized by the vision, he drove onward, the massive tractor-trailer rig roaring into the night.

Book 1

Chapter 1.1

San Francisco, California

Two weeks later and a thousand miles away, another man sat behind the wheel of a high end BMW, gazing out the windshield.

He was wearing a tailored Brooks Brothers suit, a Valentino tie, and a pair of Allen Edmonds wing tips.

Allen Hunt was a 32 year old C.P.A. He was parked a few doors down from his own home, a majestic Victorian residence in Pacific Heights. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the master bedroom windows.

Every now and then he glimpsed his wife's shadow as it passed back and forth across the curtains. She was preparing to go out. In his mind, Allen carefully scripted what he was about to say to her, then picked up his phone and called his home number.

He saw his wife's shadow sweep across the curtains one more time as she went to pick up the handset on the nightstand.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hi, sweetie," Allen said, still watching the windows. "I'm afraid I have to work late again tonight."

"I have my French class. Remember?"

"Oh, I forgot. Your French class." Allen tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but he couldn't help it.

She didn't seem to notice. "I left you a tuna salad in the fridge."

"I'll probably just grab a burger on the way home."

"Suit yourself. Don't wait up—some of us will probably go out for drinks afterwards."

"Have a good time."

Cynthia hung up, and Allen scowled as he watched her shadow pass back across the curtains.

"French class, my ass," he muttered.

* * *

Moments later, Allen was following Cynthia as she headed down Fillmore Street in her Toyota.

When she failed to turn right, in the direction of the Fort Mason Center, where her adult education class supposedly met, Allen knew that his hunch had been right.

He followed her west through the Marina District. They were soon crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog had started pouring in, a sliding river of gray that engulfed all but the structure's illuminated rust-red towers. For a moment Allen panicked, thinking he might lose her in the heavy rush hour traffic. But when he reached the other side of the bridge and began to climb the hill, he emerged from the mist. He caught sight of the Toyota's taillights again, just before she entered the tunnel into Marin County.

That figures, Allen thought. Marin County was one of the most expensive parts of the entire United States. Pacific Heights, where Allen and Cynthia lived, was hardly a slum, but Marin paled it by comparison. The guy she was banging was probably rich and a little artsy, Allen mused angrily, the type with family money who didn't have to work at all.

Cynthia pulled off at the Mill Valley exit and drove towards the center of the quaint little town. She took a sharp left and began to head up Mount Tamalpais. Allen knew the road well. It snaked its way over the mountain and led to Stinson Beach, which—ironically—was where he and Cynthia had spent their honeymoon together, ten years ago.

About halfway up the mountain, Cynthia suddenly pulled over to the right side of the road. As he drove past her Toyota, he saw that she had parked it at the head of a hiking trail.

Allen waited until he rounded the next curve, then quickly pulled into a driveway and turned around. When he passed the hiking path again, he glimpsed his wife just as she was getting out of her car and stepping towards the trailhead.

Now he was confused. Where the hell was she going at this time of night on a hiking trail? While it was true that she enjoyed hiking, and sometimes she went for a long trek alone, she never hiked at night. Plus, she was dressed to the nines, in a leather jacket, short skirt, and high heels. Hardly the kind of outfit one wore hiking.

Allen quickly turned his car around again, parked at the trailhead, and got out. The trail ran behind a row of expensive contemporary homes.

He quickly walked over to the trailhead, glancing around in the darkness, trying to catch sight of his wife. Wisps of fog clung among the tops of the eucalyptus trees lining the path, gray patches illuminated by the lights of the houses on the right-hand side. Mansions was a better word. Sleek, wood and glass California contemporaries, all perched on the mountainside and affording prime views of the North Bay. Five million apiece, Allen guessed.

It finally occurred to him that his wife must have been meeting _him_ there, whoever he was. That was the only explanation.

The fog was so thick that Allen couldn't see much ahead. His wing tips slipped on the bed of pine needles that covered the path. He was already out of breath. He'd started his own accounting firm two years ago, since that time all he did was work, and he'd let himself get badly out of shape.

After Allen had trudged about one hundred yards, he thought he could see Cynthia. Yes. He could just make out her silhouette in the faint light from the back side of the houses.

At that instant, another figure emerged onto the path, from the right-hand side.

Enter the Lover, Allen thought.

He slowed a bit, puzzled. This was a strange way for two people to meet, out here in the dark on a hiking trail.

Then Allen noticed that there was something about the gait of the shadowy figure that he didn't like...

It was a man, Allen could tell that much, and whoever it was moved stealthily...

The figure seemed to be sneaking up behind Cynthia.

Allen had the distinct feeling the man intended to do his wife harm.

"Cynthia," he shouted, all thoughts of keeping himself hidden tossed aside.

He broke into a run and dashed up the path.

The man broke into a run, too.

"Cynthia, watch out!"

She was too far away to hear.

At that instant, Allen saw the figure rush up behind his wife and shove her to the ground.

"Hey," Allen screamed, now flying up the trail, adrenaline flooding his veins.

Cynthia let out a small yelp as the attacker threw himself on top of her. All Allen could see in the semi-dark was a flash of faded denim.

Allen dove headlong into the big man, knocking him on his side. He landed in the pine needles at the man's feet.

As Allen scrambled to get up, a foot slammed into the middle of his chest. He found himself on the ground again, this time partially in the woods, gasping for breath.

Cynthia screamed again. "Allen...Allen!"

He watched in horror as the big man rolled on top of her, this time trying to pry her legs apart with his knees. Cynthia was scratching and clawing at him—he was muttering something unintelligible. The man, whoever he was, seemed out of his mind.

Allen pushed himself to his feet. As he did so, his fingers brushed against a rock. A big rock. It was partially buried in the undergrowth. He quickly pried it free of the dirt.

He came at the attacker from behind.

The man seemed oblivious to Allen's approach, grunting and pawing at Cynthia while she struggled against him.

Grimacing, Allen slammed the rock into the back of the man's head with as much force as he could muster.

At first, the attacker merely seemed stunned. His torso wobbled as Cynthia scrambled out from underneath him, shaking. He collapsed in a kind of squatting position, on his knees. He slowly sank backwards, with his eyes closed. He finally came to rest with his back against the ground, his legs folded awkwardly underneath him.

Allen helped her to her feet.

"What...happened?" she said, in between gasps of breath.

"I hit him with a rock." Allen felt a swelling sense of victory—the man was big and tough, and Allen had stopped him cold. He grabbed Cynthia's hand. "Come on—we better get out of here before he comes around."

Allen tried to pull her away, but she hesitated. "Are you sure he's just—?"

"He's knocked out, that's all."

The man lay perfectly still. Now Allen was beginning to wonder himself. He cautiously moved closer, then squatted down and placed two fingers on the man's neck, just below the ear.

Allen could feel no pulse.

"He's dead," Allen whispered, swallowing. The feeling of victory faded and was replaced by a dark, unreal sensation, like he was having a bad dream and couldn't wake up. He'd killed the man. He'd actually killed the man.

"Oh my god," Cynthia said. "What—what are we going to do?"

Grunting, Allen rolled the body over, his nostrils flaring at the stench—the man reeked of a combination of perspiration, soured clothes, stale cigarette smoke, beer...

In the dim light Allen could see that he was dressed in torn blue jeans, a ratty flannel shirt, and an even rattier denim jacket.

Allen started rifling through the man's pockets, one by one. There was nothing on him but a small roll of money—perhaps thirty dollars, mostly in singles—and a little bag of white powder.

"What is it?" Cynthia said.

"Cocaine or something," Allen muttered. He felt something else at the bottom of the pocket and pulled it out.

A straight razor. Old, perhaps an antique. It had a pearl handle.

Allen quickly wiped his fingerprints off the razor and put it and everything else back into the man's pockets.

"We have to call the police," Cynthia said, her voice shaking.

Allen glanced dully up at her. "What?"

"We have to call the police, Allen."

He glanced up and down the dark, deserted trail. "Are you crazy? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble that would get us into?"

Cynthia blinked once, looking down at the body. "But—"

"No way are we calling the cops. If you think I'm giving up everything I've worked so hard for because of some..." Allen motioned vaguely to the man lying in front of them. "...bum, you better think again."

His mind raced ahead as he tried to decide what to do.

He hastily squatted again and went through the rest of the man's pockets. "He's got no wallet, no ID, no nothing." Allen looked up at his wife's ashen face. "He's a drifter, Cynthia. Nobody will miss him."

"But we can't just leave him—"

"Yes we can!"

Cynthia looked frantically up and down the trail. "What if someone heard?"

"Who would have heard?"

When she didn't answer, Allen eyed her suspiciously. "What were you doing up here—meeting somebody?"

Cynthia was in such a state of shock it seemed that it only now occurred to her that Allen had come out of nowhere.

She said, "What are _you_ doing here...did you follow me?"

Allen glanced up and down the deserted trail again and looked back at the body. She was right—it would be too risky to leave the body here for someone to stumble across...there might be evidence.

"Go home, Cynthia—I'll handle this."

"But—"

"I said go home!"

Cynthia stood there for a moment, shaking, watching him, her face pale in the muted light.

When it was clear he wasn't going to change his mind, she finally turned and unsteadily headed back down the trail.

Chapter 1.2

A few minutes later, Allen was slowly backing his BMW up the hiking trail, the lights turned off. The path was so narrow he was afraid one wheel might slide off into a gully—then he would be stuck there, with the man he had murdered only a hundred yards away.

When he reached the spot where he'd hidden the corpse, he stopped the car and turned off the engine. He pulled his flashlight from the glove compartment, then quietly opened the door and got out.

Looked up and down the hiking trail.

Listened.

The only sound he heard was the far off whoosh of the traffic on 101. The highway was barely visible through the woods, several miles away. Now, the fog had settled a little lower, with patches occasionally wafting across the trail, completely obscuring it from view. He was lucky this was a Tuesday night. He hadn't seen a soul up here.

Allen stepped through the brush, squatted, and grabbed the dead man's ankles. Just as he was about to start dragging the body towards the car, he heard a twig snap somewhere nearby.

He let go and slowly rose.

He strained to listen over the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears.

"Hello?" he said uneasily.

There was no response.

Allen stood perfectly still for a full minute, sweat running down to the small of his back.

Just some animal, he thought. A squirrel or a chipmunk.

Grunting, he squatted again and dragged the body out of the bushes, onto the trail, and around to the rear of his car. The man was heavy, must have weighed 300 pounds, but so tall that he didn't appear fat, just bulky.

Allen opened the trunk and began grappling with the cumbersome heap of flesh and bones, dragging the torso upwards, over the bumper...and finally into the cramped space. Crouching and using his shoulder for leverage, he finally managed to push the bulk of the corpse inside the car.

Rolling the body onto its side, Allen fought with the two thick legs, trying to fold them into a position so that the trunk lid would close. God, the man stinks, Allen thought. He held down a gag reflex, afraid he might puke.

The silence was broken by voices.

Allen whirled around, anxiously peering up the trail.

From the direction of the mountain, a flashlight beam arced back and forth through the fog. He heard laughter—teenage-sounding laughter.

Somebody was coming!

He turned back to the trunk and tried to close the lid, the dead man's knees or smelly sneakers blocking it each time. The body was too big for the trunk.

Allen roughly twisted one of the ankles, mashed the lid down. Heaving all his weight on the trunk lid, he finally forced it closed.

"Hey, there's a car down there." It was a girl's voice.

Allen rushed around to the driver's door and got inside. As he started the engine he could clearly see a flashlight beam behind him, but the kids were still obscured by fog.

"Hey, asshole, no cars on the hiking trail," a boy called out.

There was muffled laughter.

Allen snapped the car in gear and drove back down the narrow path with the headlights off, hoping that he had been far enough away that they could not make out his license plate number.

That was close. Too damn close.

Now he had to get the car off the trail and back onto the street without anybody else seeing him...

* * *

Cynthia was driving back across the Golden Gate Bridge, her whole body shaking.

Only one thought ran through her head, over and over again.

Allen killed a man.

We should have called the police, she thought. Allen was right—it would get them both in lots of trouble and probably turn into a scandal—but trying to cover it up would be even worse, she was sure of it.

Cynthia was so frightened that she had trouble keeping the car on the road. She could almost see the headlines splashed across the tabloids. PROMINENT SAN FRANCISCO ACCOUNTANT MURDERS HOMELESS MAN! When she thought about the details—the why and how—she shuddered: WIFE CLAIMS MAN ATTACKED HER WHILE EN ROUTE TO SECRET RENDEZVOUS WITH LOVER!

The fact was, she hadn't ever cheated on Allen—this was the first time she had even taken a baby step in that direction. And look what had happened! It served her right for even thinking about such a thing. It had been her mother's silly suggestion, to let Allen know she was still attractive and desirable to other men, so he would pay more attention to her, and she should have known better than to listen.

As Cynthia finally neared her house, her cell phone rang. She jumped, glancing over at her purse.

The police are already calling, she thought. Somebody saw us.

Keeping an eye on the road, she fumbled with her purse and pulled out the ringing phone. She glanced at the display.

Miles.

He was probably wondering where she was, why she hadn't yet shown up at his back gate. It had been his juvenile idea for her to come over to his house and enter through the back yard, from the hiking trail, for the sake of privacy. Now she was furious at herself for doing such a thing, and for giving Miles her number, and for listening to her mother's idiotic advice.

As her cell phone kept ringing, she wondered if the call would be logged by her service provider, even if she didn't answer it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! she thought. She pushed the button to cancel the call.

A horn blared.

Cynthia let out a little scream—she had veered into the other lane and was about to hit an oncoming car. She yanked the steering wheel to the right, barely missing it. The driver on her left was yelling at her, shaking his fist.

She wiped her sweat-slick hands on her skirt, and then glanced at herself in the rearview. She looked half out of her mind, her hair tousled, a wild cast in her eye.

_Just get home in one piece_ , she told herself, gripping the wheel tightly. _Just get home and let Allen handle this._

* * *

When Cynthia arrived at the house, she climbed the stairs that led from the garage and stopped short, staring at herself in the hallway mirror. Under the bright interior lights, she was even more appalled by her appearance—her face was pale and cheesy, her skirt ripped, her stockings torn. Her normally bright green eyes seemed strangely lifeless, her thick, black hair, which usually had a healthy sheen, was tousled and dull-looking...

She glanced down at her wool sweater, and she gasped.

A single pine needle was stuck to the material.

She plucked it between her still-trembling fingers, staring at it with horror.

It would be impossible for Allen and her to get away with this...she had read enough crime novels to know there were a million little details that forensic experts could find that would land them both in prison!

Fighting panic, Cynthia slipped out of her high heels and hugged them to her chest, then slowly walked up the stairs and into the bathroom. She carefully set the shoes down and then dropped the pine needle into the toilet and flushed it away. She padded back down both flights of stairs to the garage, checked the concrete floor for more pine needles...and looked inside her car. She found another one of the stiff brown slivers on the floor mat, under the accelerator pedal.

"Oh Jesus," she moaned.

Cynthia carried it back upstairs and flushed it down the toilet. She inspected both her shoes to make sure that they had not picked up any more debris from the hiking trail. She didn't think they had, but it was hard to know for sure—couldn't those forensics people even match the dirt from one location to another? She shuddered at the thought—it was terrifying.

She took off the rest of her soiled, tattered clothes and piled them on the love seat by the tub. Unable to stop shaking, she started a bath. She was freezing cold now. The muscles in her legs and arms were already aching from her struggle with the attacker, and her neck was sore—she could see ugly purple bruises in the mirror.

She poured in some bubble bath and lowered herself into tub until the suds came up to her chin. Her tremors sent ripples through the hot bathwater, making the small mountain of foam jiggle.

When the tub was full, she turned off the water and scrubbed herself from head to toe with lavender soap. The rancid smell of the man lingered...or at least she thought it did...

She had to calm down. She forced herself to do the breathing exercises she'd learned in her yoga class.

After a few minutes, her muscles began to loosen. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally—the fight with the attacker, and the terror of thinking that she was about to die, had sapped every last ounce of her energy.

She was lucky Allen had been there. If he hadn't followed her, she probably wouldn't be alive right now.

* * *

Cynthia heard the faint grinding sound of the automatic garage door opening two stories below.

Allen was home.

She sat up a little bit in the tub, the water only lukewarm now. Her mind had completely shut down—she had lapsed into a kind of daze. She was in shock, she dimly realized. She flipped on the hot water faucet with her toe just as Allen's footsteps creaked on the stairs.

At least, she hoped they were Allen's footsteps...

Cynthia sat up a little straighter. The police would have to knock first, wouldn't they?

There was a creak out in the hallway.

Cynthia's heart was in her throat. She couldn't breathe.

The bathroom door opened.

Allen was standing there, his face as pale as chalk. His suit was soiled and wrinkled, his hands dirty. She glanced down at his trousers—there was a crusty patch of what looked like dried blood above one pocket.

He quickly turned towards the sink, obscuring it from view, and started washing his hands.

Cynthia finally found her voice. "What did you—"

"He's in my trunk," Allen muttered, glancing up at her through the mirror. He seemed amazingly calm.

She shuddered. "Your _trunk_?"

"Yes, my trunk." There seemed to be an accusing tone in Allen's voice. He flipped off the water and turned to her, drying his hands on a towel. He motioned to her. "Do we have any jumbo garbage bags? I looked under the sink, but I couldn't find any."

Cynthia couldn't answer. This was all too grisly. And Allen's cool, pragmatic attitude made it all even worse...he behaved as if he was cleaning up after mowing the lawn.

"I said, do we have any large garbage bags?"

"Yes!"

"Where?"

"In the broom closet."

He glanced over at the pile of clothes on the love seat. "Is that everything you were wearing?

"Yes."

"All of it? Panties, bra, everything?"

"Yes, yes!"

Allen bent and scooped it all up, including the high heels.

Just as he turned away, one sheer black thigh high stocking fell to the floor.

Allen looked at the flimsy garment, then up at her face. He bent down and retrieved it. He said nothing.

"Allen, we have to call the police."

"It's too late to call the police, and you know it."

"We could explain everything...we could just tell the truth...that we both panicked because we were afraid of the repercussions...they would understand..."

The expression on Allen's face told her how ridiculous that sounded.

He pointed menacingly at her. "You're not to say a word about this to anyone. Not to your friends, and not to your mother. _Especially_ your mother. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Allen watched her for another second, and then carried the soiled clothes out the door.

Chapter 1.3

_No body, no crime_ , Allen kept telling himself.

He repeated this phrase over and over like a mantra.

No body, no crime.

He was in his BMW, driving on the interstate, heading southeast, towards Las Vegas.

He had dreamed up a good cover story for his trip and had called Cynthia a few minutes ago to tell her to memorize it. They had both come home from work at about six o'clock today. He showered, changed clothes and decided to drive up to Las Vegas to call on an important client there.

It so happened that to get to Las Vegas from San Francisco, you had to pass through the Mohave Desert...

Being an accountant, Allen had absolutely no experience with the disposal of dead bodies. But in a movie he'd seen, the bad guys had buried a corpse in the desert and gotten away with it. This seemed like a good idea. The sun and heat were harsh, and common sense said that a body would quickly decompose. And if buried in a remote enough place, it might be years before anyone found the remains.

He'd been careful to clean up everything each step of the way. After the attack, before he had gone to retrieve his car, he had made sure there was no sign of a struggle on the hiking trail. He had hurled the rock he'd clobbered the man with far into the woods. Fortunately, there had been very little blood, only a small cut on the back of the dead man's head.

Before he left the house, he'd changed into a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt. After he got rid of the body, he would change into a new set of clothes and burn the old ones, along with Cynthia's clothes, too.

The only other physical object he had to worry about was the shovel. Once he was finished with the burial task, he would simply wipe the implement completely clean of prints and ditch it somewhere.

No body, no crime.

Tomorrow he would call on Michael Hammersmith, a real client he had in Las Vegas. He had a great relationship with Michael, so he would spend a couple of hours there and make sure that a few of Michael's staff saw him there, too.

As he drove along, he kept trying to convince himself that all his actions were justified. He was sure it would have been a terrible mistake to call the police. His company, an upscale accounting firm, focused on servicing wealthy, conservative clients. If he was involved in any kind of scandal, it would destroy his business, which was just getting off the ground. People only trusted their financial information to those with squeaky-clean reputations.

He was certain that Cynthia's career and reputation would be destroyed, too. She worked for an old and respectable rare bookstore, which also served a wealthy and conservative clientele. He had no doubt that the snobby owner, Ms. Bartholomew, would fire Cynthia without hesitation if her name were splashed all over the newspapers.

Allen was once again convinced they had done the right thing by not calling the cops.

"No body, no crime," he repeated aloud, wiping the sweat from his brow. "No body, no crime."

* * *

After another hour of driving, Allen reached the Mohave Desert. He slowed a little, scanning the sandy, rocky terrain. There was nothing on either side of the interstate now but boulders and cactus plants. It looked like just the right kind of territory to get rid of a corpse.

A sign said CLIFTY – 5 MILES.

Allen glanced in his rearview and there was only one pair of headlights, a safe distance behind. It was almost one o'clock in the morning now, and the traffic was light.

He pulled into the right hand lane, slowing the car...but then was bothered by the headlights in the rearview, which had grown a lot brighter. The vehicle behind him was approaching fast. He prayed it wasn't a cop. He had been driving at five miles under the limit, using the cruise control to make certain he wasn't speeding. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over with a dead body in his trunk.

He kept looking in the rearview, watching the lights. They were coming up on him like a rocket.

Allen slowed down a little more—he was approaching the exit to Clifty, and he would miss it if he didn't turn in the next few seconds.

The headlights were bearing down on him now.

Coming right at him!

Allen was now only traveling about 30 mph and slowed a little more.

"Shit," he screamed, swerving onto the shoulder of the road.

For the next two seconds he was sure he was about to die—he saw the big, silver grill expanding in his rearview. At the last moment he realized it was a tractor trailer truck...

He cringed, waiting for the impact. He clearly thought: _I should jump into the floorboard_ , but his seatbelt was still fastened and he was unable to move.

The huge vehicle roared past, missing his car by inches, so close the wind blast rocked the BWM to and fro.

"Jesus," Allen gasped.

He watched the truck hurtle into the distance. There was no trailer attached, just a cab.

Allen was stunned. The idiot was coming down off amphetamines and fell asleep at the wheel, he thought.

He shakily pressed on the accelerator and soon was rolling down the exit ramp.

* * *

Allen drove out into the middle of the desert, turning onto smaller and smaller roads until he reached a dirt road that became less and less distinct and finally melded into the sand.

He made sure no one was following, glancing out the rearview several times. He even stopped the car and turned off lights and engine for a few moments to be absolutely certain.

He drove a little farther into the desolation and finally parked the car. He got out, the dry desert wind blowing through his hair, and looked around. There wasn't a manmade object in sight for miles around, not even a light—only the faintly glowing haze on the horizon from the nearest town. Clifty, he assumed.

This was the place.

Allen opened the trunk. Holding his breath to avoid inhaling the stench, he hoisted the heavy body over his shoulder, his legs trembling under the weight. He awkwardly grabbed the shovel and carried the corpse out deeper into the desert. Even though there was a brisk, cool breeze, he was soon sweating from the strain.

He chose a spot in the middle of a triangle made between two boulders and a cactus plant, and he collapsed, letting the body tumble into the sand. He made absolutely sure he memorized the exact location, just in case. The cactus plant had a silhouette that looked like a hitchhiker sticking out his thumb—it would be easy to find again, if he ever had to. When he got back in the car, he would jot down the GPS numbers, jumble them somehow to disguise them, and hide them somewhere.

Allen dug with the shovel for only a few minutes before it clanged against solid rock—the hole wasn't more than a couple of feet deep.

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and gazed over at the lifeless body. What I ought to do, he thought, is knock out all the man's teeth, chop off all his fingers, so that dental records and fingerprints could not be used to identify the body, and bury them all in different places.

But he didn't have the stomach for anything like that. He was an accountant, for god's sake.

Anyway, who would ever miss this lowlife drifter?

Allen glanced back at the sloppy, shallow grave. During the day, the intense desert heat would quickly decompose the body. In a matter of a few short weeks nothing would be left but a dry skeleton. Who the hell would come out to this godforsaken place and discover it? Nobody.

Allen glanced up at the heavens—he had never seen the night sky from the middle of the desert before. The sight was truly spectacular, the stars like diamonds scattered across a black cloth. He paused, trying to lose himself in the view, and trying to get his mind off the horror of what he was doing tonight. It was impossible.

He finally forced himself to look back at the dead body. The man who had tried to rape his wife and who he had been forced to kill.

He dropped the shovel and then angrily kicked the corpse into the hole, watching the arms and legs flail as it rolled over itself.

Picking up the flashlight, he shined it downwards. The body had landed sideways in the shallow grave, the arms bent and extended together in a way that made it seem like he was praying.

"You _better_ pray for your soul, you son-of-a-bitch."

With no further adieu, Allen tossed the first shovelful of sand over the dead man's face.

A few minutes later, he arrived back at the car, utterly drained of energy. After he climbed inside, he just sat there for a long time, staring straight ahead through the windshield, thinking about the gravity of what he'd just done.

Chapter 1.4

Three Months Later

Allen was sitting at the dining table, eating a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast he had just made for himself. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and had a Louis Vuitton striped tie draped back over his shoulder, so as not to get it dirty. He was relaxed, reading a copy of the _Examiner._

Cynthia dragged herself into the kitchen. She was in her housecoat and fuzzy slippers. In the three months that had passed since the fateful attack on the hiking trail, she might have aged ten years. There were bags under her eyes, and her skin was pale. She'd lost at least ten pounds.

Allen watched out of the corner of his eye as she shakily poured herself a cup of coffee. He thought he caught her giving him a resentful glance. It was probably because he looked fresh and invigorated—and felt that way, too—while she looked...well, like death warmed over.

He was determined not to let her ruin his chipper mood.

She sat down at the table, clutching the cup to warm her hands. "This time, he was chasing me. He was trying to get inside the house."

Allen sighed. "Cynthia..."

"I wish these stupid dreams would stop." She sipped her coffee, staring into space. "I don't think I can stand much more of—"

Allen slammed his hand on the table. "God damn it, Cynthia, the man is _dead_!"

"I know that."

"I buried him with my own two hands, for Christ sake!"

"Stop yelling at me,"

"I'm not yelling," Allen yelled.

"And do you have to be so morbid?"

"Yes I think I do. It's the only way to get through to you. He's _gone_ , Cynthia, and he's not coming back."

She just sat there, tears rolling down her cheeks. Allen studied her haggard features. He had gotten her a prescription for tranquilizers from a quack over in Oakland. "Have you been taking your pills?"

"Yes," she said, but not very convincingly. He knew she didn't like being on medication. "If there was just someone I could talk to about this—"

"There's no one except me." Every time she said this, it scared Allen. "Maybe you should take an extra pill before you go to bed."

"I don't want to be addicted to tranquilizers, Allen. It's hard enough for me to wake up in the morning as it is."

He motioned to her thin form. "You'd feel better if you ate something. You look terrible."

"Thanks a lot," she muttered.

"What do you expect? You can't exist on air. Your body needs nourishment."

Cynthia slowly rose and opened the cupboard. She wearily pulled down a box of cereal.

As Allen watched her, he did feel sympathetic. She was a sensitive soul, which was one of the reasons he loved her. "Look, honey...I'm sorry I yelled at you, but there hasn't been one word about this guy on the news or anywhere else, for three entire months. I scoured every newspaper, every website until my fingers were practically bleeding—"

"I _know_ , Allen."

"Then why can't you just accept the fact that we got away with it?"

Cynthia sat back down at the table, poured milk over her cereal, and slowly started eating.

"Well?" he said impatiently.

"The man had a family, Allen."

"Not that again," Allen groaned.

"Well, he did. And we just dumped him in the—"

"If his damn family cared so much about him, why did they let him go around raping women?"

"You're yelling again," Cynthia said.

"I'm not yelling!"

"Yes you are!"

"I'm going to work," Allen snapped, and he abruptly rose from the table. When he reached the kitchen door, he turned and pointed angrily at his wife. "If you don't get your act together, you're going to blow this whole thing, and we're both going to prison. Is that what you want?"

* * *

Bartholomew's Rare Books was located in North Beach. It was easy for Cynthia to get there by cable car, but these days she felt so nervous she usually drove. If she didn't stop having the nightmares, she was afraid she might have a total breakdown. She knew it was irrational and that the man was dead, like Allen said, but the dreams kept coming just the same.

He was following her, watching her, stalking her...

She was beginning to think she was becoming a paranoid schizophrenic.

Allen kept telling her it was all due to guilt, that if she could only come to terms that they were _justified_ in choosing to do what they did, her nightmares would stop.

Cynthia wasn't so sure. The situation reminded her of the _The Telltale Heart_ , the short story by Edgar Allen Poe. There, the murderer dismembers his victim's body and buries the pieces under his house. As the police start to investigate, he thinks he hears the sound of the heart beating under the floorboards, which grows louder and louder in his ears until he finally confesses.

The story scared the hell out of Cynthia as a teenager, and now it seemed like it was coming true, in her own life.

She had trouble finding a parking space. She was fifteen minutes late to work.

* * *

When Cynthia stepped in the door of the bookshop, she spotted Gale Bartholomew sitting behind the main counter, reading the latest copy of the _Rare Books News_. The old woman didn't look up, and Cynthia slipped back to the employee restroom to make sure she was presentable.

Cynthia Hunt was tall and slim, with a model-like figure. She had long, shapely legs, but her best feature was her luxuriant, jet black hair. She wore it now in a shoulder-length bob. Today she was wearing a conservative business suit with a tailored look that gave it a touch of elegance. She saved money in many different ways, but the one thing she didn't scrimp on was clothes.

Cynthia looked more closely at her face in the mirror. Normally she didn't wear much makeup—only mascara and lip gloss—but today she touched up under her eyes. She had a milk-white complexion, which she was proud of, but it accentuated any shadows on her face....and today she had plenty. Due to the recurring dreams, she hadn't slept soundly in weeks.

Finally satisfied with her appearance, she braced herself to deal with Ms. Bartholomew for another day. She stepped back out into the main area of the bookshop.

"Good morning," Cynthia said. "Sorry I'm late. I—"

"You mixed up two orders yesterday," the elderly woman said. She peered at Cynthia over her reading glasses. "Important orders. One of the customers was furious. His book went to Phoenix instead of—"

"I'm sorry." Cynthia could already sense one of her headaches coming on. "I'll straighten it out."

"I have a hard enough time running things without Richard here." Richard was Gale's brother and business partner. They had decided to start a second shop in the Bloomsbury District of London, and Richard was over in England, preparing for the grand opening.

"I'm sorry, Gale, I really am. It won't happen again, I promise."

The older woman sighed. Cynthia had never been the most organized employee in the world, but her vast knowledge of literature more than made up for it. She had loved to read ever since she was a child, had devoured more books than anyone she knew. To top it off, she had majored in Honors English at the University of California at Berkeley. Her knowledge of books and literature far exceeded either that of Gale or her brother, and this expertise made her invaluable to the shop. She was also more adept at handling problem customers than either of the two owners—she had always been good with people.

Gale studied Cynthia's face more closely. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Darling, if you ever want to talk about your domestic problems—"

"I'm fine, really," Cynthia said, smiling with a centeredness she did not feel. She had been attributing her absent-mindedness to marital friction, a concept with which Ms. Bartholomew was well-acquainted. The woman was now on her fourth husband.

"I hope things improve soon," Gale said, with a hint of a threat in her voice.

"They will," Cynthia said. "We're just going through a rough spot right now."

* * *

The morning passed slowly for Cynthia. She spent most of it straightening out the mix up with the orders and doing a lot of paperwork.

When she went to lunch she kept having the feeling that she was being watched and followed. Sheer paranoia, she told herself. Maybe if she cut back on the tranquilizers the unpleasant feeling would go away.

Just after she returned from lunch, the bell over the front door jingled.

When Cynthia saw who had just come into the shop, she froze.

It was Miles Mercer.

He was standing just inside the foyer, a satchel in his hand, glancing around.

She had not heard from him since the night she'd been attacked. He kept trying to call her and she had finally blocked his number.

How had he located her? He didn't know anything except her first name and that she worked in a bookstore.

Cynthia squatted between two rows of bookcases, hoping that either Ms. Bartholomew or the part-time afternoon clerk would go to greet him. She picked a random book off the bottom shelf and then peeked over the top of the bookcase.

Miles spotted her and smiled.

Cynthia shot him a look that she hoped said, _Get the hell out of here._

Ms. Bartholomew limped up to him, using her cane for support.

"May I help you?" she said.

Miles glanced at Cynthia, and then looked at Gale. He said smoothly, "I was wondering if you had a second edition copy of _Catcher in the Rye_...?"

Cynthia quickly stepped over to Miles and spoke before her boss had a chance. "Yes, I believe we do. If you'll follow me..."

Ms. Bartholomew looked a bit puzzled as Cynthia led Miles to the back room, where the rare editions were kept.

As soon as they entered, Cynthia hissed, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Miles was wearing a tan corduroy sport coat and an open linen shirt that showed too much chest hair. From his expression, it was clear that he hadn't just wandered into the shop. There was the boyish smirk on his face that had seemed so alluring back in the French class.

"I wanted to see you. Is that a crime?"

"Well, I don't want to see _you_ ," Cynthia whispered angrily. "I want you out of here right now."

"I've been to practically every bookstore in the Bay Area trying to track you down."

"What do I care?"

Miles looked hurt, but tried not to show it. He has no business barging into my life like this, Cynthia thought. They had both been in the French class together and she had made the mistake of flirting with him, but nothing more.

"What happened to you that night?" Miles said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Why didn't you show up at my house? And why did you block my number on your phone?"

"Shhh! Don't you understand simple English? I. Don't. Want. To. See. You." She hoped if she was mean enough to him, he would go away.

Miles studied her face, looking more puzzled that hurt. "Well, if that's the way you feel about it..."

"It's exactly the way I feel about it."

"Fine," he said coldly, and turned and headed out of the store.

Cynthia crouched behind the shelves, pretending to arrange books. She heard the bell above the door jingle as he left.

Ms. Bartholomew appeared a moment later. "Is everything all right?" The look on her face said that she hadn't been fooled.

"Everything's fine," Cynthia said, composing herself. She decided it was best to explain. "He's a pest from my French class, can't get it into his head that I'm married."

The old woman nodded. "That's understandable. You're a very attractive girl." She glanced down at Cynthia's long, slim legs. "But you really ought to eat more, dear—you've gotten too thin."
Chapter 1.5

Allen Hunt was sitting at his desk on the 14th floor of a swanky office building with rent he couldn't afford to pay, trying to prepare for a meeting with an important new prospective client that he couldn't afford to lose.

His business had gone to hell since the "incident" on the hiking trail, as he thought of it, but in the past few weeks it was beginning to recover a little bit. For the first month he hadn't gotten anything done and had lost three important clients—he was so scared and stressed that he just couldn't keep his mind on his work.

Then, about the time he was starting to believe they had actually gotten away with it, Cynthia started having the nightmares. The business was back on track, now, but he was constantly worrying about the future.

The main cause of this anxiety was Cynthia's mental state. It seemed to him that she was getting worse, not better. Something told him that if things didn't change, she might crack and spill the whole story to someone.

Allen had been tempted to remind her it was her fault that it had happened in the first place, in an effort to use pressure to make her get over it. He had no doubt she was having an affair at the time she was attacked, or at least was about to start one. The thigh-high stockings she was wearing that night was all the evidence he needed. Allen would have loved to know the details of that little rendezvous, but Cynthia had become so unstable after the attack that he was afraid to bring up the subject, afraid it would cause her to go to pieces.

But pressuring her to get over a problem wouldn't work, it never did. It just made things worse.

* * *

Instead of working, like he should have been, Allen spent most of the afternoon fretting, trying to figure out some gentler way he could help Cynthia get over this.

He kept coming up blank.

At about 5 p.m., he decided that, for once, he would try to get home at a reasonable hour. Maybe that would cheer her up. He would cook dinner for her, too, something he hadn't done for her in a long time. She always enjoyed that.

Chapter 1.6

Allen pulled into the driveway just after six. He came up the stairs from the garage with a smile on his face. He was carrying his briefcase in one hand and a bag from the organic supermarket in the other.

When he stepped into the living room, he found Cynthia sitting on the couch, her arms crossed. She was still wearing her business suit from work.

"Hi, honey. How was your—"

"I want a gun," she said flatly.

Allen's smile faded. "You want—what?"

"A gun."

He glanced around the living room and down the hallway, as if he expected to see someone else who was responsible for this strange behavior. "What's gotten into you?"

"I want a gun, Allen! You're never here at night anymore. I want to keep one in the house to protect myself."

"What do you mean, I'm never here anymore?" He glanced at his watch. "It's just after six and I'm standing right in front of you. I'm going to cook you dinner."

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "You're never here, Allen, and you know it. This is the first time you've been home before nine o'clock in...I can't even remember how long it's been—ever since you started your business. I want a gun, dammit. I don't know much about guns, so I want you to buy one for me."

Allen slowly set down the grocery bag. "Cindy, do you really think having a gun in the house is a good idea?"

"Yes I do. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, what if you accidentally shot someone, for example? Me, or your mother?"

"I would never pull the trigger unless I was completely cornered by...by whoever was after me."

Allen sighed. It was pointless to tell her for the 100th time that the man that terrified her so much was dead and buried. "Can we discuss this over dinner?"

"No, we can't. I want a _gun_ , Allen. If you don't buy one for me, I'll buy one myself."

Chapter 1.7

Early on a Tuesday morning two weeks later, Allen and Cynthia met at the Alameda Gun Club, in the outskirts of Oakland. Allen had researched the facility—it had an outdoor shooting range and was deserted most weekday mornings. He and Cynthia drove there separately so that when they were finished, they could both head to work.

When Allen saw Cynthia's Toyota pull up to the entrance, Allen waived out the window to her. She followed him into the parking lot.

There were no other vehicles in sight. There was a lengthy row of concrete benches covered with a rusty metal roof. Targets were scattered about in the grass and, farther away, bunkers and more targets, metal ones, swinging in the breeze.

They both got out of their cars. Cynthia opened her trunk and pulled out the plastic bag from the gun shop. Allen had helped her choose the pistol, but it was registered in her name. "You're the one who wants the gun, not me," he'd told her, when the clerk handed them the application. There had been a ten day waiting period while it went through the police check.

Allen and Cynthia walked silently down to the benches. It was a clear spring day, the grass bright green in the early morning sunlight. There was a fresh smell of pollen in the air.

"Let me see it," Allen muttered, taking the bag from her. The weapon was a Beretta, a small pistol that the clerk in the store had recommended as being "good for a woman."

The gun was still in its box. Allen took it out, hefted it, and handed it to his wife.

"It seems smaller than it did in the store," she said.

"It's a good pistol for a woman," he said, echoing the salesman's words. The truth was, even though he had grown up in a rough Oakland neighborhood, he knew very little about guns. But Cynthia didn't know that.

"Let me show you how to load it," he said, with a glance behind them. He was glad nobody else was around to witness his bumbling "lesson" in marksmanship. Allen opened another, smaller box, which held the ammunition, and he showed Cynthia how to fill the clip with bullets. This process was a bit clumsy for her, as her fingernails were just long enough to get in the way.

"So what do I do now?" she said, awkwardly wielding the weapon.

"Whoa," Allen said, pushing her hand down. "First of all, you don't aim it at me."

Cynthia smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

Allen pulled the other accessories from the bag, the earmuffs and safety glasses. "You have to put these on," he said, motioning to a sign behind them. EYE AND EAR PROTECTION MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES.

Cynthia set the gun down on the bench. Just as she was about to put on the glasses, an engine roared from behind them, rudely interrupting the tranquility of the morning.

She and Allen turned around to look.

A huge truck had rolled into the parking lot. It was the cab of a tractor-trailer truck, but no trailer was attached to the back. Two chrome exhaust pipes extended from either side of the vehicle, spewing smoke, the truck's massive chrome grille glittering in the early morning sunlight.

The truck pulled up on one end of the lot, perhaps 50 feet from Cynthia's car. There was a disturbing image on the side of the driver's door. It was an air brushed picture of a gibbering skull crowned with pink roses.

Allen glanced at Cynthia—she'd noticed it, too.

They both watched the truck's door open.

First there were only two cowboy boots, protruding from faded denim trousers. A heavily-bearded man stepped down from the cab and onto the gravel, hitching his belt. He unlocked a compartment behind the cab, and then dragged out two duffel bags. They looked heavy. They made a dull clinking sound as he hoisted them over his shoulders.

He took a step towards the benches directly in front of his vehicle, and he noticed Cynthia and Allen watching him.

He smiled and tipped his cowboy hat. "Howdy." His teeth looked brown.

Cynthia said hello, but Allen gave only a slight nod.

The man set the two duffel bags onto a bench not too far from theirs. He proceeded to unload what looked like a small arsenal from the bags—pistols, revolvers, and several rifles that were in pieces.

The trucker started assembling one of the rifles. His beard was big and bushy, covering so much of his face that his expression was hard to read.

"Great," Allen muttered, now feeling self-conscious and unsure of himself.

He helped Cynthia put on the safety glasses and the ear muffs.

"Okay, now what?" she said, speaking much louder than she normally did.

Allen glanced uneasily over at the truck driver, then said, "Stand with your feet behind that line there."

"Like this?"

"Yes. Now, hold the gun steady...and aim it at one of the targets."

"Which one?"

"Doesn't matter." Allen could sense the trucker watching now, with what he imagined was amusement. He tried to ignore the feeling. "Okay...now pull the trigger."

Cynthia pulled. "Nothing happens—it's stuck or something."

"Oh, the safety is on." Allen reached over and clicked it off. "Now you can shoot it."

Cynthia squeezed again. The gun suddenly made a pop, jumping in her hand.

The bullet completely missed the target she had aimed at.

"Ya'll don't know much about guns, do ya?"

Allen glanced at the trucker, and so did Cynthia.

"Excuse me?" Allen said.

"I say, ya'll don't know much about guns, do ya?" Smirking behind his beard, the trucker lumbered towards them.

"Perfect," Allen muttered.

Cynthia slipped off the earmuffs as the huge man stepped up to them. He was wearing a wide brown belt with a Jack Daniels logo on it.

"You ain't standin' right," he said to Cynthia, "and you ain't holdin' the gun right when you fire, neither." He had a thick Southern accent, saying "right" like "rat" and "fire" like "far."

His jeans and jacket were faded with dirt. The boots and hat were both made of some kind of reptile skin, perhaps snakeskin. Up close, he seemed even bigger than he had at a distance, a few inches taller than Allen, and much beefier. He was, Allen realized, about the same height, weight and build as the man who had attacked Cynthia. Allen glanced at her, wondering if she'd noticed this and expecting her to be afraid, but she seemed more taken aback than anything else.

"You got to stand with your legs more far apart, like this, darlin', give you a stable base, see?" The trucker demonstrated, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

Cynthia tried it, imitating him.

"That's good. Now, you got to hold the gun with both yer hands, like this here." He moved around behind her, and, suddenly, she was caught between both his arms as they encircled her. He clasped his big paws over her hands and helped her raise the gun. His beard was pressed into the back of her neck. Now Allen noticed that he smelled bad.

Cynthia glanced uneasily at Allen. She looked like a small child embraced by some crazy redneck version of Santa Claus.

"When you aim," the trucker went on, his lips close Cynthia's ear, "you got to keep the gun real steady—"

"Get your hands off my wife," Allen blurted.

The truck driver became perfectly still.

"Allen..." Cynthia said, alarmed.

The man's bearlike head slowly turn towards Allen, his whiskers brushing across the back of Cynthia's neck.

"I said, get your hands off my wife."

A long few seconds passed. The only sound was the whisper of a breeze through the treetops.

The man's paws finally dropped away from Cynthia.

"I didn't mean nothin'," he said.

The trucker just stood there, staring at Allen, expressionless. He finally turned and sauntered back towards his arsenal.

Allen and Cynthia both watched as he assembled another one of his rifles. He kept his head down, his eyes obscured by the brim of his cowboy hat. He was scowling.

"I don't think he meant anything," Cynthia whispered. "He was just trying to help."

"Well, I don't like the way he was 'helping' you," Allen said, but he was already having second thoughts about what he'd just said.

"Maybe you should apologize."

"For what?"

"Are you sure it's a good idea to have a man like that mad at us?

Allen considered this for a moment, then decided she was probably right. Maybe he was just trying to help, after all.

Allen slowly stepped over to the truck driver, forcing a smile. "Sorry about that, buddy," he said awkwardly. "I'm just a little touchy today."

The bearded man looked up at Allen. Slowly, a grin appeared behind the shaggy beard, the pulled-back lips showing the brown teeth again. "No offense taken, partner." Glancing at Cynthia, he said, "I'm pretty possessive about my own wimmin, too." He offered Allen his hand. "Name's Billy."

The man's grip was rough, his palm calloused. With reluctance, Allen introduced himself, and he introduced Cynthia.

Billy tilted his cowboy hat at her. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Allen turned and he and Cynthia headed back to their bench in a way that he hoped told the trucker their interaction was complete.

"Hey," Billy called to Allen. "If ya don't mind me askin', what'd you go and buy a little pea-shooter like that for?" He motioned to the Beretta in Cynthia's hand. "Why, a little thang like that wouldn't stop nobody, specially a big ol' boy like me. Just make him mad. Like a bee stang."

Cynthia glanced at Allen.

"That's not true," Allen whispered to her.

She eyed the small pistol doubtfully.

Billy scooped up some metal gun parts and walked back over to them. He spread the pieces out on their bench. "This is what ya need." He picked up a gun barrel and another component and snapped them together. Allen noticed four small, faded black tattoos on the fingers of his right hand...it looked like there was a D, an E, and A, and another D.

Allen glanced at Cynthia—she had noticed them, too.

"This here's an AK-47 assault rifle," Billy said proudly, snapping the stock onto the barrel. "Simple as can be. They teach nine year old girls to put 'em together in places like Nicaragua and like that." He snapped a fat clip into place and grinned behind his beard. "Watch this."

He aimed at something out on the range.

BOOM!

Cynthia jumped at the explosion—compared to the little Beretta, it sounded like a bomb blast.

A second later there was a faint _ping_. One of the metal targets was swinging back and forth.

Billy fired off several more rounds.

BOOM!...ping!

BOOM!...ping!

BOOM!... ping!

The trucker glanced over at them, smiling with his stained teeth. "This baby will do more'n put a bee under somebody's bonnet, I guarantee ya,"

Allen and Cynthia looked at each other.

Billy glanced around the deserted gun range, then came closer. In a confidential tone, he said, "I can sell you one a these real cheap."

"No thanks," Allen said.

"Cain't beat the price. No registration, no serial numbers—everthang's been filed off."

"We really don't need a rifle," Allen said. "Now if you don't mind..."

* * *

Allen and Cynthia only remained at the gun range another few minutes. Once Cynthia fired off a dozen rounds and began to feel at least somewhat comfortable shooting the gun, she told Allen she wanted to leave—the truck driver was still making her nervous, and though Allen wouldn't admit it, he was unnerved, too.

As Allen loaded everything back in his trunk, they both watched as Billy fired more shots at the metal targets, the air filled with pings and explosions.

Allen said, "It's nutcases like him that make me want more gun control."

Chapter 1.8

Two weeks later, Allen found himself jostled out of a peaceful sleep by his wife.

"Allen, wake up!" Cynthia whispered.

Allen was aware of her cold foot digging into his calf. "Go back to sleep," he mumbled.

"Wake up! I heard something downstairs."

"You're just dreaming, Cynthia. _Sleep_."

"I heard a sound, Allen, I know I did."

He groaned. "I'm _so_ damned tired, honey...can't you just go back to sleep? You were only dreaming."

"Listen," she whispered, grabbing his shoulder.

"For god's sake," he muttered, slowly sitting up in bed. He forced himself awake and listened, staring at the cracked bedroom door. The only thing he could hear now was the sound of Cynthia's breathing.

"Please go check?" she begged. " _Please_?"

Allen sighed and groggily rolled out of the bed. "If it will make you feel better." He was thirsty, anyway, and a little hungry—he could use a cold glass of milk and maybe a sandwich.

Leaving the light off, he pulled his robe from the back of the bathroom door.

"Take the gun," Cynthia whispered.

Allen rolled his eyes, but when she thrust the small weapon into his hand, he took it. He slipped it into his robe pocket.

"Be careful," Cynthia whispered as he went out the door.

When he reached the staircase, he slowed...he could see that the kitchen light was on, which was a little strange. Not the big overhead light, but the little one that was built into the stove. It gave off a soft, yellowish glare. He usually made sure that it was off, too—

He heard a sound. A light metallic _clink_.

It had come from the kitchen.

Allen's heart began to pound. He hadn't imagined the noise—it was real.

Listening more closely, he thought he could hear a faint, repetitive swishing sound, like someone cleaning a window.

Somebody was in the kitchen!

Allen felt adrenaline rushing into his veins and tried not to panic, telling himself that there must be some other explanation. The swishing sound was odd. A burglar would be searching the place, quietly opening cabinets and drawers...but whoever was in the kitchen was doing something entirely different.

Swish-swish-swish...click.

Allen stood there, listening, his throat dry. Pulling the Beretta from his pocket, he pointed it down the stairs and cautiously took another step. The wood gave a loud creak.

Allen froze, listening now with every fiber of his being. The repetitive swishing sound continued, uninterrupted.

He took another step...then another, continuing on until he reached the landing in the living room. He pressed himself up against the wall that the room shared with the kitchen. As he inched his way towards the kitchen door, the strange sounds continued.

Without breathing, he continued to creep forward, cautiously peering around the doorjamb...

The refrigerator came into view...

The upper kitchen cabinets...

The countertop and sink...

Now Allen could see part of the dinette table.

A pair of legs was visible under the table, casually outstretched...

They were clad in faded denim, the feet, in snakeskin cowboy boots.

The intruder came into full view. It was the truck driver from the shooting range! Billy, or whatever his name was. Allen could not believe his eyes. The big man was just sitting casually at the dinette table in their kitchen, as if he owned the place. There was a disassembled rifle spread out on the table in front of him. He seemed absorbed in his work, running an oily rag up and down a detached gun barrel—that's what was making the swishing sound.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" Allen demanded, pointing the gun at him.

Billy looked up, unsurprised. He smiled behind his beard. "Just cleanin' my gun."

"If you don't get the hell out of here right now, I'm calling the police!"

"I don't think so."

"You don't _think_ so?" Allen said incredulously. He couldn't believe the man's boldness.

_He must be nuts_ , Allen thought.

Allen glanced over at the telephone on the counter. Keeping the gun pointed at Billy, he slowly moved towards it.

The truck driver did not react, just sat there rubbing the rag up and down the gun barrel, the D-E-A-D tattoos barely visible in the dim light.

Allen cautiously picked up the phone.

"You ain't gonna call the law, Allen. You may as well quit yer play-actin'."

With his left hand, Allen punched the "9" button with his thumb.

Billy glanced past Allen, at the door to the living room. Tipping his hat, he said, "Howdy, ma'am. Mighty nice to see you again."

Allen glanced over his shoulder—Cynthia was standing there in the doorway, in her bathrobe. Her face had gone as pale as the florescent light. She was staring wide-eyed at the intruder.

"Go back upstairs," Allen snapped at her.

She just stood there, paralyzed.

Allen turned back to Billy. "If you don't get out of my house right now, I'm calling the cops. I'm serious. Do you understand me?"

Billy didn't respond.

Allen punched the "1" key on the telephone.

Billy chuckled, and he glanced at Cynthia. "He's good, ain't he? Just like one a them actors on tee-vee."

Allen's thumb hesitated over the "1" key.

"You ain't gonna call the law, Allen. You and me, we got some bidness to discuss."

"Business? What the hell are you talking about?"

Billy looked evenly at him. "You killed my brother, Allen."
Chapter 1.9

Allen had a terrible, sinking feeling. He stood there staring at the truck driver. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh yes you do. You know 'zactly what I'm talkin' about. You hit him over the head with a rock, and then took him out to the desert and buried him." Billy paused. "I know right where you buried him, too."

Allen looked at Cynthia. He remembered the sound he'd heard in the woods off the hiking trail...and the truck that bore down on him when he was driving out to the desert.

He slowly hung up the phone.

"How much do you want?" Allen said weakly.

Billy looked confused. "How much what?"

"Money. How much?"

The trucker looked at Cynthia, then back at Allen. His expression was hard to read, but he seemed surprised. "I don't want yer money, Allen."

Allen frowned, confused. "Then what the do you want?"

Billy glanced at Cynthia, then back at Allen. "You think you can kill my brother, my only livin' kin, and just give me some money and I'll just go away?" Billy slowly shook his head. "Life don't work that way, Allen. You ought to know better."

Allen looked at Cynthia again—she was terrified, still standing in the doorway, hugging herself, staring wide-eyed at the truck driver.

Allen looked back at Billy. "I didn't have any choice but to kill the guy—he was trying to rape my wife."

"Oh yes you did, Allen. You always have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you have to hit him so hard with that rock? You coulda stopped him some other way."

"What other way?"

Billy shrugged.

Now Allen was getting suspicious. "If you were there, and this man was really your brother—"

"Oh, he was my brother, all right. My only livin' kin."

"Then why didn't you stop him yourself?"

Billy shrugged again. "I was too far away. Time I got there, it was all over."

Allen said, "Look, there's no way to bring this guy back, _if_ he's your brother. How much do you want?"

Billy fingered one of the gun parts, now looking a little nervous. He lay his tattooed hand flat on the table. After a moment, he said, "It's like this, Allen. After you done what you done, I started follerin' ya'll around—" he glanced at Cynthia "—both of ya. Watchin, thinkin', watchin, thinkin'. And you know what come to me after a while?" Billy pointed a thick finger at Allen. "You got _everthang_." He glanced around the kitchen. "This big, fancy house... shiny, expensive car in the garage... you even got your own bidness, Allen." He looked admiringly at Cynthia. "And, the most important thang, you got yourself a beautiful, lovin' wife..."

"What's your point?" Allen said uneasily. He didn't like the way Billy was looking at Cynthia.

"What do I got?" Billy continued, as if Allen hadn't spoken. "Me? I got nothin'. I don't even got a fambly no more. I admit my brother was no count, hardly even a human bein'...but he was all I had."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Allen said, with no feeling whatsoever.

Billy narrowed his eyes at Allen. "You took my only livin' kin away from me, Allen. That's my point. You shoulda called the po-lice. That was the right and proper thang to do."

Allen was still pointing the gun at Billy. "Just tell us what you want, goddam it!"

The big trucker shifted in the chair. "You know what the worst thing about guys like you is, Allen? You don't _appreciate_ what you got. You take everthang for granted, like a spoiled child..." Billy nodded at Cynthia. " _Especially_ her."

"Look you son-of-a-bitch—"

"Allen," Cynthia gasped.

Billy raised his eyebrows. To Cynthia, he said, "Does he always use language like that around you? Surely a fine lady like you must find it objectionable."

Allen blinked, rage growing inside him.

Billy glanced at Cynthia and said, "I got nothin' against you, darlin'. I know you wanted to call the po-lice right off, heard you say so up on that hikin' trail." He motioned to Allen. "But you wouldn't listen to yer wife, would ya? That's how you got yourself into this mess."

"Get the hell out of my house," Allen screamed, moving towards Billy, pointing the gun straight at the man's forehead.

"Allen, please calm down," Cynthia said shrilly. To Billy, in a trembling voice, she said, "Can you please just tell us what you want?"

The trucker watched her a moment, tapping one of his thick thumbs on the tabletop. "Okay." An odd, faraway look came into his eyes. "It's like this, see. I've been a loner all my life, you know...on the road all the time...always movin' from one place to another..."

"I think I'm going to cry," Allen said.

"Allen," Cynthia hissed.

"The thang I've wanted," Billy continued, without taking his eyes off of Cynthia, "more than anythang else in this world...is to have me a beautiful, lovin' wife." He smiled at Cynthia, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. "A beautiful, lovin' wife, waitin' for me to come home."

Cynthia glanced uneasily at Allen.

Billy fidgeted again, tapping his thumb on the table. It was hard to tell through all the facial hair, but he seemed to be blushing. He glanced down at Cynthia's bare feet, then back up at her face. "What I was thinkin' was...see, I pass through Frisco ever two weeks, and..." Billy paused, licking his lips, his thick beard twitching as he did so. "I could just stop by here..."

"And what?" Allen said in a deadpan tone.

Cynthia had gone completely pale.

Billy kept looking at her, tapping his thumb on the table. Speaking to her, he said, "I was thinkin', we could, you know, could kinda play-act that this was my house, and that this was my kitchen, and that you was my wife. You could cook me dinner, we could talk some, you know, and then we could go in the livin' room and watch some tee-vee,..."

"And then?" Allen said, his voice like a cold stone.

Still looking at Cynthia, Billy blushed up to his ears. "Well...you know, then-we'-go-to-sleep-and-I'd-get-up-early-the-next-mornin'-and-leave." He spoke so fast that all the words ran together.

Allen stared at the man for a good 30 seconds. "You want to _fuck_ my wife?"

Now Allen could see that Billy's face turned red behind his whiskers. "Hey, I didn't say nothin' like that!"

"Is that what you're telling me, you inbred piece of trailer trash—you want to come over here and _fuck_ my wife?"

Allen moved even closer, until the tip of the Beretta touched Billy's forehead.

"Allen," Cynthia screamed.

"You best stay calm, partner," Billy said. He gave Allen a dark, menacing stare. "You're puttin' words in my mouth." His eyes cut over to Cynthia. "And not very nice words, neither.

"Get the hell out of our house," Allen screamed.

Billy didn't budge. His and Allen's eyes were locked, the gun against his forehead.

"Get out," Allen bellowed again, his voice cracking with fury.

Billy nodded slowly. "All right, all right. I'll leave." He slowly rose from the table. He began gathering up his rifle parts and sliding them into his duffel bag. When he finished, he donned his snakeskin cowboy hat and said, "I'll give ya'll some time to think it over."

Allen was so incensed he couldn't speak.

Billy reached into his jeans pocket. Allen flinched, ready to fire the pistol, but the trucker only pulled a folded piece of paper.

Tossing it on the table, he said, "There's some stuff I wrote down about how I want things to go when I come back. I'll be here exactly one week from today, Tuesday, at six p.m. sharp." He pointed a thick finger at Allen. " _You_ can't be here."

He swaggered to the back door, slinging the clinking duffel bag over his shoulder, the floor creaking under his bulk. "If ya'll don't comply, I'm callin' the law and I'm tellin' 'em everthang." He pointed at Allen. "Unlike you, I ain't got nothin' to lose."

He smiled at Cynthia, tipping his hat at her. "Evening', ma'am."

Chapter 1.10

A few minutes later, Allen was ranting and raving, pacing up and down the floor of the kitchen in his bathrobe, calling Billy obscene names, a few of which Cynthia had never heard before.

She was sitting at the table, still wearing her robe, numbly staring at the strange note the man had left.

"That goddam crazy nutcase," Allen yelled. "Does he really think I'm just going to stand aside and let him come in here and...Jesus Christ? I can't believe..."

Cynthia had stopped listening. She had read through the instructions Billy had left on the piece of paper, and she was flabbergasted. It was hard to make out some of the words in the note. The paper was dirty, the folds worn, the sentences written in a childish scrawl, in ink of varying colors. Billy had evidently been working on it for a long time. Some phrases were scratched out, substitutions made.

The first paragraph described the meal he wanted Cynthia to cook for him:

Fried chicken, Southern style. Green beans. Corn on the cob. Okra or collard greens. Gravy (made from chicken grease). Cornbread (the real kind, made from bacon dripings).

"How the hell did he get in here, anyway?" Allen said, and he started inspecting the doorjamb.

"What difference does it make how he got in?" Cynthia screamed.

Allen stopped his rant. He stood there in his robe, staring at her. "What do you mean?"

"What are we going to _do_ , Allen?"

He ran his hand through his hair, his face haggard. "I don't know..."

Cynthia looked back at the badly scribbled note. "Cornbread," she muttered. "I have no clue how to make that."

Allen's gaze shifted from the note back to her face. "You're not actually thinking of going along with—"

"What choice do we have? It's either that or turn ourselves in to police and tell them everything first, before he has a chance to."

Allen shook his head. "No way. No way are we going to let that inbred gorilla make us turn ourselves in to the police. I don't believe a word the man said. I don't think he's the brother of the guy who attacked you."

"They were both about the same size and build. Their clothes are even similar—"

"I don't care—he's lying." Allen started pacing the floor again. "How could he have followed me home from the hiking trail that night, and then out to the desert, without me knowing it? I was _careful_ , Cynthia."

"I don't know, Allen."

He looked at her accusingly. "Did you tell anybody what happened?"

"No!"

"You're sure...?"

"Allen, I haven't told one, single solitary soul, I swear."

"Well, this scumbag found out about what happened, somehow—maybe he was just walking along the hiking trail that night—and now he's trying to take advantage. That's all there is to it."

"Even if you're right, I don't see how it changes anything. He can still go to the police and tell them what happened. So we have to tell them first, voluntarily. It will make us look much less guilty."

Allen stared at her as if she had lost her mind. "Do you have any idea what would happen if we turned ourselves in now, after all this time has passed?" Before she could answer, he said, "They'll lock us up and throw away the keys, Cynthia. Both of us. How long do you think you would last in prison?"

"But that man on the trail attacked me—"

"We have no witnesses to verify that, not a shred of evidence that he tried to rape you. Even if a jury believed that part, they would still say I used 'excessive force.' I can hear it now. 'Boo hoo hoo, the poor, helpless homeless man was murdered by these two ruthless, money-hungry yuppies!' We live in the most liberal, bleeding-heart part of the country, Cynthia, and you know it. A San Francisco jury would crucify us. I'll be convicted of manslaughter, not to mention destroying evidence and all kinds of other crimes. You'll be charged as an accomplice. My life here will be over, and so will yours. If and when we ever get out of jail, we'll have to move somewhere else, probably to another country, and start again from scratch."

Cynthia sat there a long time, thinking. "It still seems like we could hire a good lawyer and claim self defense..."

Allen shrugged. "With what? A lawyer good enough to pull that off would cost a fortune. Plus, even if he could manage to keep both of us out of jail, we'd still be ruined from the scandal."

They were quiet for a moment.

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Cynthia said.

Allen's gaze shifted from her face to the Beretta, which was lying on the dinette table. His expression was cold.

"No, Allen. Don't even think about it."

"He's the only loose end, Cynthia. We eliminate him—" Allen snapped his fingers "—and the problem is solved."

"No, Allen!"

He motioned to her. "Think about it. Who else would the man have told about this?"

"Allen—"

"When you blackmail somebody, you don't go blabbering about it—you keep it absolutely secret. We know the guy is a loner—that much of his story I believe. Who would he tell about this weird blackmail scheme? If he were married or had a girlfriend, he wouldn't want to play this sick game with you of...'drive-by wife' or whatever you want to call it, in the first place. Would he?"

"Probably not, but—"

"It's the only way, Cynthia." Allen looked back at the gun.

She stared at her husband, appalled. "I can't believe you're standing there uttering these words. My god, Allen! Haven't you learned your lesson yet? We should have gone to the police in the first place. Doing what you're talking about is...is... _unthinkable_. It's nothing but cold-blooded m...I can't even say the word, and I can't believe you're even suggesting it."

Allen just stood there, watching her. "Look, try not to react so emotionally— it would be very simple. When he comes back over here, like he says he's going to do next Tuesday night, you make him his goddam fried chicken and cornbread or whatever the hell he wants, and you pretend we're going along with his plan." Allen motioned to the broom closet. "I'll be hiding in there. When he sits down to eat I'll jump out and pop a cap in his head."

"Pop a—"

"I'll shoot him, Cynthia!"

"I know what it means!" She stared at him as if he were not her husband, but a total stranger, even more unfamiliar than Billy. He had never acted this way before.

Rising from the table, she said, "You need to get a grip on yourself, Allen. You're not thinking straight."

Hoping not to agitate him any further, she slowly reached over and picked up the gun, then slipped it in her robe pocket. "I'm going upstairs now. We'll talk about this tomorrow, when both our heads are clearer. Okay?"

She waited for him to give some sort of acknowledgement.

He did not answer.

Chapter 1.11

The following Tuesday, Cynthia was sitting upstairs at her vanity, rereading Billy's instructions for what must have been the 20th time, mentally preparing for his visit. It was almost three o'clock in the afternoon. Allen would be home in another half hour.

Fortunately, the morning after Billy had shown up in their kitchen, Allen came to his senses. Once he had calmed down and discussed things rationally with Cynthia, he agreed that killing Billy would be nothing but cold-blooded, premeditated murder. He claimed he wasn't even capable of that, no matter what he'd said the night before. Cynthia had her doubts about the latter, but she was relieved that he had changed his mind.

Through their discussions, they had arrived at an alternate approach. Cynthia was good with people, and Allen suggested that they let Billy come over, as he requested, but only for dinner. She would get to know him a little bit and—hopefully—make him see that what he was demanding of her, and of Allen, was simply too much to ask of any husband and wife. Allen had scraped together $10,000 from his business accounts. Cynthia would offer the money as compensation for them not calling the police after Billy's brother had been killed.

"Don't apologize for me killing his brother," Allen said. "I was defending my wife, and that guy got what he deserved. I admit that we should have called the cops afterwards, but that's the only thing we did wrong. So the ten grand is to compensate for his brother not getting a proper funeral and all that."

Cynthia wasn't sure if this plan would work or not. "He said we couldn't just pay him off."

"Look, honey," Allen said, "put yourself in his place. He's got two choices—go to the police or take the money. If he goes to the police, we can charge him with blackmail—"

"Are you sure we have enough evidence?"

"That paper right there is all the evidence we need," Allen said, pointing to the note Billy left.

She still wasn't convinced. But Allen pointed out that they didn't have anything to lose by trying to pay him off. If it didn't work, then they agreed they would have no choice but to go to the police.

Of course, Allen wasn't about to actually leave Cynthia alone in the house when Billy came back. He was going to hide in a closet, with the Beretta, and burst out if anything went wrong. Allen had promised to leave the gun unloaded—they both agreed that just wielding it would be enough to drive Billy away, like it had last time.

Now, she was surprised to find that she was not as afraid of Billy as she thought she would be. Of course knowing that Allen would be there, only a few feet away, ready to jump out and protect her, made her feel fairly secure. But there was something pathetic and almost childlike about Billy when he talked about wanting a home and a wife. She thought he might be a good man, at heart, who was driven to the extreme of blackmail out of sheer loneliness and isolation. She had read that truck drivers lived terribly lonely existences. If it was true that the man Allen had killed was Billy's brother and "only kin," as he claimed, then it would be natural for Billy to be grieving now and to seek out a kind of family closeness with someone.

Cynthia picked up his note and read it again. After his "dinner menu," there was a kind of script that dictated exactly what they would say to each other when he came in the door.

Hi, darling, Im home! How are you?

Im fine, honey! How are you?

All tuckerred out from the rode. I missed you so much!

I missed you too sweetheart!

I been thinking about you all week!

Cynthia wondered if it might be a kind of caricature of how Billy thought happily married people behaved, the way they talked to each other at home. The scene reminded her of some old, black and white TV show from the 1960s, like _Leave it to Beaver_ or _Father Knows Best_. The perfect family. The perfect husband and wife. The perfect relationships.

With his beard and cowboy hat, it was hard to guess Billy's age, but she thought he was in his late 40's or early 50's, which would have made him a young boy at the time those shows were popular.

It was painful for Cynthia to read the dialogue, particularly when she considered it in contrast to her own unsatisfying marriage. She and Allen hardly exchanged two words now—by the time he got home from work, he was too exhausted to talk, or she was already fast asleep.

Below the section of stilted dialogue was a summary of how Billy expected her to dress when he visited, and how to wear her hair and makeup. The description sounded like a middle class American woman from the Sixties.

_Wear one a them sumer dresses—yeller—with black high hels, and brown stokings—them kind with the lines up the back and them garter-things hold them. Straight hair._ He had written "big hair" but had put a question mark above it, as if he was not sure of the term. _Pretty jewelry. Lavandar perfume. Red lipstik and fingernails (matching). Long eyelashes_. She wasn't sure if he meant false eyelashes or extensions. She assumed false eyelashes, as they were popular in the Sixties, too.

It was like an outfit one would wear to a costume party.

The last line of Billy's scrawled note said:

Wear one of them long, white nitegowns thats plain but kind of frilly in places.

This was where Cynthia's feelings changed, and as she read the words, she shuddered with trepidation. She might not be afraid of him now, sitting here by herself in the sanctity of her own bedroom, but if she ever found herself in the situation of having to give him everything he wanted...well, that was even more terrifying than the nightmares she'd had.

She glanced at her watch and quickly started putting on the false eyelashes.

Allen would be here soon, and they both had to be fully prepared for Billy's arrival.

* * *

"Hurry up," Allen hissed from downstairs. "It's almost five-thirty."

"I'm coming," Cynthia hissed back.

Dinner was almost prepared, and Cynthia was sitting at her vanity again, putting the final touches on her makeup. She hadn't worn false eyelashes since she was 14, and her eyelids kept sticking together.

Wobbling on the three-inch high heels, Cynthia rose and stepped in front of the full length mirror to look at herself. She had put together the outfit Billy wanted her to wear by scouring second-hand clothing stores the last few days. The only garment she could find that remotely fit Billy's description was a garish canary "yeller" dress. The jewelry that accompanied this item was a pearl necklace, the stones far too large to be real; pearl earrings that more or less matched; and a plain gold bracelet that had been floating around in her top drawer for years, which she thought had once belonged to her college roommate.

Worst of all was her hair. She had teased it up "big" and then used copious amounts of hair spray to hold it in place.

Cynthia applied the lipstick—bright red, matching her nails—as Billy had requested. She pressed her lips together and stepped back from the mirror to get the full view.

She did not recognize the stranger looking back at her. _Hideous_ was the only word she could think of to describe herself.

She was terrified. Now, she didn't know if she could go through with this.

"Cynthia, come down here," Allen called again. "It's getting late."

"I said I'm coming."

Cynthia took a step towards the hallway and hesitated, glancing at the nightstand drawer. It wasn't that she didn't trust Allen, but...

She quietly stepped over and opened it to check the box of ammunition.

She counted the remaining bullets. There were 14 left in the box, all sitting upright in their little styrofoam holder. She and Allen had used 16 at the gun range. All 30 bullets were accounted for.

So the Beretta had to be empty.

She put the box back in the drawer and shut it.

* * *

When Cynthia reached the bottom of the stairs, Allen was squatting next to the guest bedroom door. He had been hiding in the little corner all afternoon. It was one of the only places in the house that could not be seen from any window.

He was wearing jeans, loafers, and a sweatshirt. He had sneaked away from work at lunch and left his car in the parking garage downtown in case Billy was watching. Disguising himself with a Dodger's baseball cap and sunglasses, he had taken a taxi to a corner a few blocks away from the house, and then entered through the back yard, the same way Billy would enter in just a few more minutes.

"Well?" Cynthia whispered self-consciously, as she walked up to him. Her ankles wobbled in the high heels as they clicked across the hardwood floor.

Allen was staring, his mouth agape. He couldn't help laughing.

"You look like Dolly Parton without the boobs."

"Thanks a lot," she said, her face flushing.

"Sorry. We only have another half hour," he whispered. "I better get into position."

He crawled into the kitchen on his hands and knees, staying low, even though all the curtains in the house were closed tight.

Cynthia crinkled her nose—there was an acrid odor in the air.

"I think your cornbread is burning," Allen muttered.

* * *

At precisely 6 p.m., there was a knock at the back door.

Cynthia was standing at the stove, wearing an apron over the absurd outfit. She had just plucked the last piece of chicken from the frying pan and she placed it in the little wicker basket with the others.

Now she was a nervous wreck. She was so scared her pulse was racing. The dryness in her throat wouldn't go away.

As she took off the apron, she took a deep breath to steady herself. She stepped over to the door. She pulled the curtain back and peered through the window. It was already dark outside, but she could see the silhouette of a cowboy hat in the dim light.

She took another deep breath, steeled herself, and unlocked the door.

The first thing she noticed was that Billy had changed his appearance. The stringy hair looked like it had been cut quite a bit, and it was slicked back. The beard was no longer bushy, but neatly trimmed. He had on a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans that both looked brand new.

"Hi, darlin', I'm home!"

Cynthia was so surprised by the change that she momentarily forgot her lines.

Billy patiently waited for her to speak.

"Oh... um, hi honey," she said awkwardly. She swallowed, willing herself to sound halfway sincere. "I missed you so much!"

"I missed you, too."

Billy cautiously entered the kitchen, glancing around nervously.

"I'll-I'll bet you're beat from the road," she said, the pitch of her voice higher than she meant it to be.

"I been thinkin' about you all week."

She tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. "How about a nice, cold beer...sweetheart?" It was difficult to add the last word.

"That'll be just fine, honey."

Cynthia shut the door behind him, aware of sweat running down her scalp.

When she turned around, Billy moved startlingly close to her. Looking into her eyes, he said, "He ain't here, is he?"

"No," Cynthia said quickly.

Billy did not look away—he just kept peering into her eyes. Her heart seemed to stop. She somehow managed to meet his gaze. He peered up at her hair, then down at the pearl necklace, her dress, her legs and high heels.

He finally smiled, revealing the brown teeth. "You sure are a sight for sore eyes..."

"Th-thank you."

Billy frowned slightly, and then pressed his lips together. Though she hadn't meant to, she realized that she must have given a slight cringe at his unsightly smile. She was a little ashamed of herself for that—she hoped she hadn't hurt his feelings.

Making an effort to stay atop the shoes, Cynthia stepped to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Budweiser. When she popped the top and handed it to him, she felt like she was living in a rundown trailer. "Why don't you sit down and make yourself comfortable, honey?"

That was her last line in the script he had written, thank goodness. Yet in the next instant she found herself even tenser—as difficult as it was to recite the lines, it had been a good crutch. From here on out, she would have to ad lib. She had no idea how to make small talk with this strange man—they were from two completely different worlds—or how to broach the subject of paying him the $10,000 to go away.

This whole plan suddenly seemed like a bad idea. A terrible idea!

Cynthia willed herself not to look over at the broom closet. What if Billy decided to search the house?

He was still glancing suspiciously around the kitchen. He peered through the door that led to the living room.

Cynthia still had the beer can in her hand—she pulled a glass from the cupboard.

"Don't need no glass, thanks," Billy said, taking the can from her. He sipped a big gulp, his gaze roaming over her body. "This sure does hit the spot." Taking another sip, he turned towards the living room. "I think before we eat I'll watch me a little tee-vee."

Cynthia was suddenly gripped with panic—she didn't want to leave the kitchen. "But your food will get cold...don't you want to eat now?"

"Naw, fried chicken is just as good cold. Better, even." Billy looked more closely at the table. Cynthia had set two places, using their best dishes and tableware. One of the plates was empty—it was right in front of the broom closet, the back of the chair only two feet from the door. The other plate was adjacent to it, with servings of tofu and salad on it

"What is that stuff?" he said, peering at her plate.

"That's my dinner. I-I'm afraid I don't care much for fried chicken."

"Healthy eatin'?" he said, with a knowing grin. "Well, it suits you just fine."

"Th-thank you," she said again.

Billy knocked back more beer and wiped his mouth on his wrist. "You don't want nothin' to drink? Maybe some wine? I'm thinkin' a classy girl like you probly don't care much for beer..."

"Maybe with dinner," Cynthia said hopefully, thinking it might change his mind about watching television.

Billy only nodded. He looked past her, at the door to the living room, and lumbered towards it. He slowed as he approached the threshold, cautiously stepping across as if he thought he might be assaulted. When that didn't happen, he looked relieved.

He glanced back at her. "Come set with me."

Cynthia hesitated—she supposed she had no choice but to go along with whatever he wanted.

"Don't be a-scared," Billy said, motioning to her. "I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"I'm not scared," Cynthia lied. She stepped ahead of him into the living room.

Billy followed her and settled on the leather couch, the frame popping under his weight. "Just set down right here," he said, his big paw patting the cushion next to him.

She stepped around the coffee table and sat down on the other end of the couch, as far from him as possible.

He looked disappointed. He picked up the remote control and said, "How do ya turn this thing...ah, I see."

The TV set came to life. He started flipping through the channels and settled on a _Road Runner_ cartoon.

He immediately became absorbed with the antics on the TV screen. Coyote was pulling on a rope that was slung over the top of an outcrop, huffing and puffing, raising a huge anvil above the road. Billy giggled. Road Runner was racing along in the distance, rapidly approaching. Coyote hid behind a boulder, waiting. Just before the bird reached the spot, the outcropping above broke off and both it and the anvil came crashing down on the coyote, flatting him. Road Runner came to an abrupt stop in front of the gaping hole in the ground—gave a _beep_ - _beep_ —and then dashed around it, continuing on his way.

Chuckling, Billy said, "That darn coyote don't never learn, does he?"

"No," Cynthia said, trying to keep her voice even. She noticed a fragrance in the air, then realized that he smelled of pine soap, as if he had just bathed. She couldn't help but feel flattered that he had gone to so much effort for her.

She looked down at the creepy D-E-A-D tattoos above his knuckles. He could not have been more out of place in their elegantly-furnished living room.

He glanced around again, peering at a vase, original oil paintings on the wall, and a small nude statue, a Rodin reproduction, atop the antique coffee table.

"This house belonged to my grandfather," Cynthia said, half-blurting it out. She didn't know why she'd told him that—just to fill the empty space.

"I know that," Billy said, smiling. "Your grandpa willed it to your ma, but she lets you live here long as you pay the property taxes and keep it up. Right?"

Cynthia was taken aback. "How did you—"

"Checkin' deeds and tax records and like that. Not bein' nosey, you understand, just wantin' to know who I'm d...well, to know more about you, I mean."

He had almost said "who I'm dealin' with," Cynthia was sure. That was a good sign, wasn't it? That he thought of this as a deal...

He sipped his beer and glanced at her again. "Was you two close?"

"Excuse me?"

"You and your grandpa. Was you two close?"

"Oh. Yes. We were close. I loved him very much."

Billy looked down at her legs, sipping from the can. She shifted uneasily on the couch.

He glanced up at her face, then back down at her knees. "You didn't wear them garter-thangs, like I ast ya."

"What?" she said.

"Them's panty-hose, ain't they?"

Cynthia swallowed. "Yes."

"I wrote what you should wear them garter-thangs."

"I-I know you did, but I didn't have time to go shopping for lingerie...it's hard to find in the right size." She hoped he would believe the lie. "I'll wear stockings next time. I-I promise."

Billy nodded, giving her legs another glance...a longing glance, she thought.

"Billy...there's something I need to...discuss with you."

He tilted his head at her. "What's that?"

Cynthia swallowed. "Don't....don't you want a real relationship?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." She motioned to her dress. "This isn't natural for me. This outfit, the way I'm acting..."

"It don't matter," he said dismissively, taking a sip of his beer. "You're doin' just fine, darlin'."

"I know, but...what I mean is, wouldn't it be better if you were with a woman who was..." She wanted to say "who was really like this" but was afraid that would insult him. "...who—"

Billy suddenly rose from couch.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"Just lookin' around. You don't mind, do ya?"

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped inside the library and flipped on the light. Scanning the shelves of the walnut-paneled room, he said, "Gosh, sure is a lot of books in here."

Cynthia rose from the couch and went to the doorway, but kept her distance.

Billy was reading titles, silently moving his lips as he did so. "Hey, _Tom Sawyer_!"

His big hand snatched the volume off the shelf—it was a signed, second edition copy. "I read this one time...back in the fifth grade." He grinned at Cynthia, but then his smile disappeared. "I _can_ read, ya know—don't look so surprised.

He started turning pages in the book, peering at the engravings. He gave an affectionate grin. "I seen the movie, too—watched it I don't know how many times on tee-vee." He looked at the cover again. "Gosh, this sure looks old..." Turning to the title, page, he gasped. "Well, I'll be." He looked at Cynthia in amazement. "Mark Twain...he signed this book _hisself_!"

"Yes," Cynthia said. She couldn't help being a little touched by this.

Billy loosened his grip on the novel, holding it more gingerly now, with only his fingertips, as if it were sacred. "You got this through your work, I'll bet," he said, glancing at her.

So he knew about her job at Bartholomew's, too. She supposed that wasn't much of a surprise. "No. Actually, my grandfather left it to me."

"Worth a lot of money, I'll bet...."

"A little."

Billy chuckled when he saw the look on her face. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna steal it." He turned a few more pages and stopped on a picture that showed Tom Sawyer and his little girlfriend, Becky, about to go inside the cave with the rest of the children.

Billy smiled in a boyish way. "That was my favorite part, when they got lost together in that cave..." He looked up at Cynthia. There was a dreamy look in his eye.

She didn't know what to do—it made her uncomfortable.

"I was wonderin'," Billy said softly. "Would you mind if I called you Cindy?" Behind all the whiskers, he seemed to be blushing.

"That's fine," she said, swallowing. It was strangely disturbing to see this big, burly truck driver act like an insecure teenage boy on prom night.

He gazed at her for a long moment. "You know, you look an awful lot like my mamma. When she was young, I mean. In a pitcher I got of her."

Cynthia tried to smile. They looked at each other awkwardly.

Now the idea of paying him off seemed impossible. He was infatuated with her—she was sure he wouldn't accept that.

Billy carefully closed the Mark Twain book and slid it back in its place on the shelf. He lumbered back out into the living room, passing close to her, and peered over at the stairway.

He gazed at Cynthia as if to say he knew where it led—to the master bedroom.

"Are you ready to eat now?" she blurted.

"Well, yeah." He patted his gut. "I am gettin' kinda hungry, now that ya mention it."

* * *

Billy stood aside and followed Cynthia towards the kitchen. As she approached the door, something on the floor caught her eye.

Her heart leaped into in her throat.

A single, shiny bullet lay on the hardwood, just under the door that led to the guest bedroom.

It was in the exact spot where Allen had been hiding all afternoon.

Allen had lied to her—he had bought more bullets, and the gun was loaded!

"What's wrong?" Billy said.

Cynthia had come to a complete stop, blocking his view of the bullet.

She put her hand on her stomach. "I...I'm feeling a little sick, that's all."

Billy looked at her sympathetically. "Aw, you're just nervous, that's all." He gently took her hand. "You don't need to be afraid of me, I done told ya. I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"You promise?" she said, looking up into his eyes. As she did so, she covered the bullet with the toe of her shoe.

"Of course I promise," he said. He put his big paw on her shoulder. "Now you just relax and we'll have us a pleasant' dinner. The cornbread smells awful good."

"I-I think I burned it."

"I'm sure it'll be tasty, just the same."

As she began to take a step forward, she wobbled purposefully in the high heels and quickly squatted, as if she had almost fallen.

"Hey, careful," Billy said, steadying her with his hand. He chuckled. "You ain't used to them shoes, are ya, darlin'?"

"No, I guess not."

In a flash, she snatched the bullet off the floor, palming it in her hand.

"You didn't turn your ankle, did ya?"

"No, I'm fine," she said, standing again.

"Want me to take a look?"

"No, I'm fine, really."

When they reached the kitchen door, he said, "You go ahead," and waited while she entered. He cautiously followed her into the room, glancing around uneasily as if he expected to find Allen waiting there.

Cynthia turned towards the stove and slipped the bullet down into her bra.

Billy looked around the kitchen. He motioned to the wine rack. "I'll bet you'd like some wine now, wouldn't ya?"

"Well...yes."

"What kind?" he said, fingering the bottles.

"Red," she said, barely able to keep her voice even. Allen had lied to her! He was planning to kill Billy.

"Red," Billy muttered, pulling out one bottle, then another. "This one red enough for ya?"

"It's fine." Cynthia glanced over at the broom closet, so jittery she thought she might faint.

Billy pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and flipped it open. As he cut around the top of the wine bottle, Cynthia found herself looking at the tattoos on his knuckles again, and she looked away.

"There's an opener in the—"

"Don't need no fancy opener," Billy said, setting the bottle on the counter. Holding it with one hand, he plunged the blade deeply into the cork, as if stabbing with a dagger. With one mighty twist, he wrenched the cork free. He pulled the cork off the blade, folded up the knife and slipped it into his pocket.

Moving mechanically, Cynthia retrieved a wine glass from the cupboard. Billy poured it for her, his arm brushing against her shoulder as he did so. He gave her the glass, his hand as steady as a rock.

Cynthia took a sip, hardly able to taste it, or to swallow it.

"So?" he said.

"It's g-good," she managed. She glanced over at his dinette chair. She couldn't let him sit down with his back to the closet. She had to stop this atrocity.

"You just have a seat and try to relax," Billy said, gently taking hold of her elbow. "You're nervous as a bird." He guided her over to the table and pulled out the chair for her. "You just set down and drink your wine—I'll fix my own plate."

"But—"

"Just set down, now."

Cynthia slowly settled into the chair, her body rigid as steel. Billy picked up both plates and went over to the stove.

She stared at the broom closet door, unable to think of any way to diffuse the situation.

"Mmm...this chicken looks good," Billy said from across the room. "I know you don't care for it, but what about some of these vegetables?" He chuckled. "You like okra?"

"Y-yes."

"I'm surprised. Real surprised. City folk don't usually care for it." She could hear the spoon clicking as he filled both dishes with food.

"Hey, this cornbread's just fine. I like it like this, a little burned around the edges. That's just the way my momma used to make it. You want some?"

"No thank you."

"You sure? Nothin' beats good cornbread."

"Yes, I'm sure," Cynthia said weakly, staring helplessly at the door to the broom closet.

Billy came back across the kitchen, the floor creaking with each step. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears as he set the plate in front of her.

He set his own plate on the table and pulled out his chair again, the legs scraping on the floor.

This man doesn't deserve to die, Cynthia thought desperately. He was just a poor country bumpkin, crudely trying to get his needs met in the only way he knew.

How could Allen have betrayed her like this?

Behind Billy, the broom closet opened just a crack. Cynthia thought she could see Allen's eye in the slit.

Billy started to seat himself.

Cynthia's arm shot forward, knocking over her wine glass.

It crashed to the floor.

"That was clumsy of me," she blurted, shoving her own chair back as Billy jumped out of his. She glanced at the closet door—it snapped closed.

She bent down to pick up the broken pieces. One of the shards pricked her finger.

Billy squatted beside her and grabbed her wrist. "Don't do that!"

A drop of bright red blood appeared on her fingertip.

"You hurt yourself," Billy said, in a hush. He took her hand into both of his, cradling it like it was the most delicate thing in the world. "Better wash it out."

As he led her to the sink, she glanced over her shoulder at the broom closet again—the door was still closed. Allen was furious with her, she was sure.

Billy turned on the faucet, adjusted the water temperature, and gingerly held her finger under the stream. He then tore off a paper towel and wrapped it around the tip, using the utmost care. "You oughn't to pick up broken glass," he said. "You hands are as soft as a baby's."

Billy turned to the broken glass on the floor, and the spilled bottle of wine.

"Where's your broom?" he said.

"What?" Cynthia said.

"Where do you keep your broom?" Billy glanced over at the closet. "In there?"

Cynthia opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Billy frowned at her suspiciously and glanced over at the closet. He cautiously moved towards it. Just as he reached for the handle, Cynthia yelled, "Don't—!"

The door flew open.

Allen lurched out and slammed into Billy.

There was a gunshot.

Cynthia screamed.

Dishes shattered in the cupboard on the far side of the sink.

Allen and Billy were suddenly locked in hand-to-hand combat. Allen was desperately trying to aim the gun at Billy's face, but Billy had hold of his wrist and was twisting hard. Cynthia watched in horror as the two men struggled for a few dreadful seconds, the trucker snarling, Allen grunting, each trying to gain leverage over the other.

Cynthia backed away, terrified that she might get shot if the gun went off again.

Billy slowly forced Allen's shaking arm downwards until the pistol was pointed at the floor. In a flash, Billy kneed Allen in the stomach. Allen gasped and doubled over. Billy snatched the pistol away.

"We had a deal," Billy shouted. He grabbed Allen's arm, twisted it, and slammed Allen face down onto the floor. Grimacing, Billy ground his knee into Allen's spine and pulled both arms backwards.

"Don't hurt him," Cynthia cried.

"We had a deal," Billy bellowed again.

"Please don't hurt him!"

"Aw, I ain't gonna hurt him," Billy muttered, panting from the exertion. Keeping Allen pinned to the floor, he slipped the Beretta into his back pocket, and yanked the thick Jack Daniel's belt from his jeans. As if roping a calf, Billy deftly wound the belt around Allen's wrists, secured it, then grabbed Allen by the collar. Using both arms, he hoisted Allen into the air, kicked the dinette chair towards them, and then slammed Allen down into it.

"We had a _deal_ ," Billy yelled again.

He started pacing the floor in front of Allen, breathing hard.

Allen was slumped forward in the chair, his hair hanging in his face, looking up at Billy with an expression of pure loathing.

"We didn't...have...any deal, you son-of-a-bitch," Allen said, still gasping from the blow to the stomach. His nose was bleeding, his lips red and sticky.

Billy paced back and forth, and he stopped and looked at both of them. "I can understand Allen lyin' to me, but you?" He pointed a thick finger at her. "You lied right to my face."

"I'm sorry," she said, crying now.

Looking exasperated, Billy paced the floor again, peering from her face to Allen's. "Do you think I'm just some dumb ol' redneck who don't know straight up? You think just 'cause I'm ignorant I'm too stupid to figger out thangs and protect myself?"

Neither Cynthia nor Allen answered.

Billy looked down at Allen and shouted, "Do you have any idear what will happen if any harm comes to me? Do ya?"

Allen merely glowered at him.

"Well, I'll tell ya what'll happen. I got me a P.O. box, see? There's a letter sittin' in that box, all addressed and stamped and ready to mail. You know who that letter's addressed to?"

Allen didn't respond.

"The Fedral Bureau of Investigation, that's who. I wrote down everything you done, Allen. I wrote down when you done it, how you done it...I even got a map that shows zactly where you buried my brother's body."

Allen flinched.

"And you know what happens if I ain't around at the first of the month to pay the rent on that box? The postmaster'll empty it, that's what. 'Cause that's the law. And when he sees that letter all stamped and addressed and ready to mail to the FBI, why, he'll mail it. That's the law, too."

Billy let this information sink in, glancing at Cynthia, then back down at Allen. "So you can ferget any silly idears you got about getting' rid of me, because none of 'ems gonna work." He snickered at Allen, as if he thought he had been grossly underestimated. "I ain't gonna go away, partner, not till I git what I want."

Billy picked his cowboy hat up from the table and squarely donned it. "I'll be back here one week from tonight, and I'll be back here the next week, and the next..." he looked evenly at Cynthia "...until I'm satisfied. You understand what I'm sayin'?"

He turned and opened the door. He pointed at Allen. "I'm only givin' ya'll one more chance." He looked at Cynthia again. "Both of ya'll. You don't do what I say, I'm going to the po-lice. Like I said, I ain't got nothin' to lose."

He opened the back door.

This time, he did not tip his hat at Cynthia.

Chapter 1.12

"You lied to me," Cynthia screamed.

"I did not," Allen yelled back. "I was just going to scare him."

"You were not! You looked into my eyes and told me a deliberate, bald-faced lie."

Allen wiped his bloody nose on the sleeve of his sweater. "I was going to _make_ him take the damn money, and get out. That's all."

"You planned to _kill_ him, and you know it. And it would have been too late for me to do anything about it."

"I wasn't going to kill him," Allen muttered, but he didn't sound very convincing.

"I'm going to the police right now," Cynthia said, and she turned towards the door.

Allen grabbed her wrist. "Oh, no you're not."

"Oh, yes I am." She tried to twist herself free. "Let go of me," she screamed.

They scuffled for a few seconds, and then Cynthia kicked Allen in the shin. Allen let go, staggering backwards, blood still dripping down from his nose.

"I can't believe you would rat your own husband out to the cops!"

Cynthia ignored him, walking through the door and out into the living room, looking for her purse—where the hell was it?

"This is the thanks I get for saving your life?" Allen said, following her.

"If you hadn't been spying on me, you wouldn't be involved in the first place."

"If I hadn't been spying on you, you wouldn't even be alive right now."

Cynthia glanced around the living room—where the hell was her purse? She was so angry and upset she couldn't think straight.

She went upstairs and finally found it, then came back down, nearly falling on one of the steps in the wobbly high heels.

Allen stood there in the living room, watching her. "Are you really going to go to the police dressed like that? They'll think you're some kind of nut."

Cynthia hesitated, looking down at her outfit. "You lied to me, Allen—"

"I'm telling you—for the tenth time—I had no intention of killing the man. At least not consciously. I was going to do exactly what we agreed on. You're the one who screwed this up—you didn't even bring up the subject of paying him off."

"Yes I did, when we were in here," she said, motioning to the couch. "You didn't hear."

"You broke that wine glass on purpose."

"I didn't break it on purpose," she said, though she knew she didn't sound very convincing, either.

"Look," Allen said, "you screwed up, and so did I. Yes, I should have just told you I wanted to have a loaded gun to face that guy, but I knew you wouldn't have gone along with it."

"No, I wouldn't have."

"He's barely even afraid of that gun when it's loaded! You heard what he called it at the shooting range—a 'pea shooter.'"

They just stood there, looking at each other.

"Please, honey, let's just calm down and think this through rationally, figure out what to do next."

* * *

A few minutes later Allen was kneeling on the kitchen counter, his head inside the upper cabinet, trying to dig the stray bullet out of the wood with a screwdriver.

Cynthia was sitting at the dinette table, watching him. She had changed out of her garish outfit, taken off her makeup, and was now wearing her bathrobe. She was still angry—no matter what Allen said, she didn't believe that he had only intended to make Billy take the money and go away. And she was even angrier that he was using the fact that he had saved her life as a way to control her, to keep her from going to the police.

He seemed to think he was such a "good" husband because he had protected her up on the hiking trail, as if that one selfless act cancelled out all his previous transgressions.

"You know, Allen, if you were really a good husband, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place." She said this almost without forethought, thinking out loud.

Allen became still. He backed his head out of the cupboard, banging it on the upper shelf, and turned around. "What did you say?" He had two pieces of paper towel stuffed in his nose, the bloody ends protruding from his nostrils. He looked ridiculous.

"A truly good husband would have gone to the police right off, and turned himself in. He would have taken all the blame for what happened. To protect his wife's reputation, he would have told the police he was hiking alone, that a man came out of the woods and asked him for money, and then attacked him. He would have claimed that he had no choice but to kill to defend himself. And he would have explained that because he was scared and shaken up afterwards, and afraid of the public scandal, that he decided to bury the man and not report it to the police."

Allen nodded a few times, as if it all made perfect sense. "I see. So what you're saying is, I should have sacrificed my entire career to protect my cheating, unfaithful wife."

Cynthia recoiled. "I wasn't cheating on you!"

"Don't deny it, Cynthia. I _know_ you were cheating on me."

"I was not cheating."

"Well...then you were seriously thinking about it. Come on, admit it, Cynthia. We're being completely honest with each other now. So let's get it out in the open."

"The world isn't as black and white as you make it out to be, Allen. Yes, I admit I've toyed with the idea, but I have _never_ cheated on you. Toying with an idea and acting on it are two different things."

"Well, I've _never_ cheated on you, either. Not to mention the fact that I _killed_ a guy just to protect you."

Cynthia didn't respond to this. She knew it was true.

After a moment, Allen said, "Who was he, anyway, some guy you met in your French class?"

"It's none of your business."

"None of my...I'm your _husband_ , in case you forgot."

"And I'm your wife, in case you forgot. When is the last time we had sex, Allen. Can you even remember?"

Allen didn't answer.

With tears in her eyes, she said, "At least he thinks I'm beautiful. At least he thinks I'm still attractive."

"Who?"

"Billy," she said, wiping her eyes.

Allen watched her for a long moment.

"I'm tired of talking about this," he muttered, and started digging with the screwdriver again.

Chapter 1.13

Allen didn't come to bed that night. Cynthia assumed he slept downstairs in the guest bedroom, which is what he often did when they fought. It had become such a frequent occurrence that he kept an extra suit and set of toiletries there so he wouldn't have to come up to the master bedroom and face her when getting ready for work.

By the time the first light of dawn illuminated the curtains, Cynthia had made a decision. If Allen didn't find some way out of this hellish situation by the end of today, she was going to the police. Period. She would tell them everything, and she was prepared to live with the consequences. She loved her job at Bartholomew's, and she would probably lose it, but anything was better than living in this constant state of stress, worrying about the dead man and his crazy truck driver brother. She wanted an end to it. Even if it meant having a criminal record. Even if it meant going to jail, if it came to that.

Cynthia glanced at the empty side of the bed, then rose and put on her robe. She now noticed the smell of burned toast in the air—Allen must have made breakfast for himself, something else he always did when they had a fight.

She slowly went downstairs, dreading seeing Allen again, and delivering her ultimatum to him.

When she went into the kitchen, she found him standing at the counter, dressed in his blue suit, rummaging through one of the drawers.

His left hand was extended in the air. In his fingers was a pencil with an empty Budweiser can dangling from it.

"I need to put this in a plastic bag," he said, glancing at her.

She looked at the can—it must have been the one that Billy had drunk from. "Why? What are you going to do with it?"

"I owe you an apology, Cynthia. We've been going about this all wrong. I realized it in the middle of the night. We need to take care of this guy _legally_."

"Legally? What do you mean?"

"First find me a plastic bag for this, will you? We need to be careful with it."

Cynthia went to the cabinet and pulled out a medium sized ziplock bag. She held it open for him. Allen dropped the can inside, and she secured it.

"We need to wrap that up, too," Allen said, motioning to Billy's Jack Daniels belt. He had left it behind, and it was coiled up on the kitchen table. "Our prints are all over it now, but some of his might be, too, maybe on the buckle."

When both items were bagged, Allen put them in his briefcase.

"What are you going to do?" she said. "Hire a private detect— "

"Great minds think alike," Allen said, smiling at her. He hurriedly glanced at his watch. "I've got to run or I'll be late—I'm meeting him at ten. I'll fill you in when I get home tonight."

He hesitated but leaned over and kissed her goodbye. "Trust me, Cynthia—this is what we should have done in the first place. It will fix everything."

* * *

An hour later, Allen was driving his BMW slowly along a side street in a rundown area of Oakland. He squinted through the car windows at the numbers on the buildings, trying to find the address where the private investigator's office was located.

Coming back to Oakland always brought back bad memories. It also triggered Allen's worst fears. He had been born and raised in this hellhole, and he had scratched and clawed his way out. He considered it a miracle that he had actually gotten into UC Berkeley and graduated from there, and had met a classy, well-raised girl like Cynthia in the bargain. Sometimes he felt like an imposter, living in Pacific Heights and owning his own fledgling accounting firm. Deep down, he was always afraid he would be found out and "sent back" to this god-awful place. He knew the fear was irrational but he couldn't help it. He only came back to Oakland when he had something "low" to do, like getting prescriptions for tranquilizers or buying untraceable bullets for the Beretta.

Allen finally spotted the building he was looking for. It was a small, dilapidated office complex, arranged in a U shape with a little courtyard in front. He pressed the accelerator and continued on—he didn't want anyone to notice his car.

He purposefully parked several blocks away and walked back. As he strolled along in his Brooks Brothers suit, carrying his Armani briefcase, he thought, _you've come a long way, baby_. The shabby little courtyard was littered with paper cups and cigarette butts. According to the marquee, the office he was looking for was on the second floor—Suite 2C.

Allen trotted up stairs and walked down a little breezeway. He soon reached a door marked B.R. DRAKE, P.I.

Allen tried the door handle, but it was locked. He rapped a few times on the paint-chipped wood.

"Come in," a man's voice barked.

"It's locked," Allen called back.

After a few seconds there was a click and the door opened. The man who answered was square-jawed and balding, with a heavily lined face. He did not smile.

"Mr. Drake?" Allen said.

"Mr. Jones...?"

They shook hands and sized each other up. Allen guessed Drake was about 50 years old. He was dressed in a cheap white shirt, his tie loosened, faint sweat stains under the armpits.

Drake was regarding Allen a little suspiciously. He glanced again at the expensive suit, the polished wingtips, and the sleek briefcase, and then led Allen inside. There was an unoccupied receptionist's desk, which Allen guessed was just for show, and a door that opened to another room, which they entered. The cramped space was paneled in dark, drab wood. It reeked of stale cigar smoke and coffee. All the furniture was cheap fiberboard stuff, papers and files scattered and stacked everywhere.

Drake was hungry, just like Allen had guessed. Last night he had spent a lot of time researching private detectives in the Bay Area, and Brad Drake seemed perfect. After 20 years on the Oakland police force he had only recently started his agency.

The P.I. offered Allen a seat in the only available place in the room, an imitation leather chair directly across from his desk. Drake settled down into his own chair, the springs squeaking.

"So," he began, "on the phone you told me you wanted someone found..."

"That's right."

Drake picked up a pencil and poised it over a yellow legal pad. "Name?"

"Billy."

Drake wrote this down and waited, but Allen didn't say anything else.

"That's it? Billy?"

"I don't know the man's last name. I'm not even sure if that's his first name. But he shouldn't be that hard to find. He's a truck driver, has a blue-colored cab with a Grateful Dead logo painted on it."

"Grateful Dead...?"

Allen pulled a piece of paper from his jacket with a printout, showing the gibbering skull crowned with roses. He had thought it had looked familiar when he had seen it on Billy's truck. He had found it on the Internet, the exact picture, from one of the group's album covers. "It's airbrushed on the door, I think. Just the picture, no words."

Drake studied the image and looked up at Allen. "Mr. Jones, may I ask why you want to find this man?"

Allen shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I think my wife is having an affair with him."

"I see." Drake made a note. Allen felt a little guilty telling this lie, but he needed some solid-sounding reason. It was actually Cynthia's words which gave him the idea.

At least he thinks I'm beautiful. At least he thinks I'm still attractive.

This had made Allen feel jealous, although he was disgusted with himself feeling that way about some uneducated, smelly country bumpkin.

"Physical description?" Drake asked.

"Huge. Maybe six three, at least two hundred fifty pounds."

"Uh-huh..." Drake made another note.

"Longish brown hair, scraggly beard. Speaks with a thick Southern drawl. Uses terrible, sixth-grade level English."

"Right..."

"Wears a snakeskin cowboy hat, with matching boots. Loves guns, probably an NRA member. Has four tattoos on the knuckles of his right hand...D-E-A-D..."

Drake had stopped writing. He was sitting there smirking at Allen.

"What?" Allen said.

"You really expect me to believe this?"

"Believe what?"

The detective motioned to Allen's expensive suit. "That a man like you has a wife who would be interested in a character like him?"

"Believe whatever you want," Allen said defensively. "It's true."

"Uh-huh," Drake said.

"I have no idea where my wife met this low life or why she's attracted to him. He comes over to the house when I'm out of town." Allen shrugged. "Who the hell knows what goes on in women's minds?"

Drake still looked skeptical.

"Anyway," Allen said, "I don't see what business that is of yours. I want this man found, and your website says you track people down."

"It's my business if you plan on causing him harm after I've found him."

"What gives you the idea that I'm planning to cause him harm?"

"For one thing, Mr. _Jones_ , you haven't given me your real name. And you called me from a pay phone."

"So? I want discretion. I hold an important position in the business community."

"Maybe so, but I don't take anonymous clients." Drake rose. "This meeting is over."

Allen remained seated. He was prepared for this. He opened his briefcase, pulled out a thick envelope, and plopped it down on Drake's desk.

The P.I. glanced down at it. He looked Allen over again, glancing at the Rolex watch, which Allen had purposefully let peek out from under his gold cuff-linked sleeve.

"How much is there?"

"Five grand," Allen said flatly. "In advance." It was half the money they had planned to give Billy.

Allen saw a flicker of greed in Drake's eyes. He sat back down.

"I don't know if I can find this character or not." He looked at his notepad and motioned to Allen as he spoke. "Guy named Billy—maybe—with a Grateful Dead logo on the door of his truck cab—maybe airbrushed on. Do you have any idea how many tractor trailer trucks are registered in the United States?"

"I've got more than that," Allen said, with a smile. He pulled the plastic bags with the beer can and Jack Daniels belt out of his briefcase and set them on Drake's desk. "His fingerprints are on those."

* * *

Cynthia came home from work that afternoon feeling a little better. Allen had called her just before work and told her that all had gone well, and that he would pick up some Chinese takeout on the way home and tell her all about his meeting with the P.I. over dinner.

Although Allen hadn't told her exactly what he planned to do, Cynthia thought she had figured it out. He was hiring the private eye to dig up dirt on Billy so they would have something to threaten him back with. Billy was selling guns illegally, so who knew what else he might be involved in? He might even be wanted by the police right now.

The only thing that bothered Cynthia was what Allen would tell the P.I.—who was Billy to them and why did they want him tracked down?

She had been thinking about it all day, she had not been able to come up with a good cover story...and yet she was sure there was no private investigator on earth whom Allen would trust enough with the truth.

When Allen got home with the Chinese food, he dished it out of the cartons and started telling her about the meeting. While shoveling noodles into his mouth with the chopsticks, Allen explained his anonymous arrangement and that Drake would have Billy's prints run through the criminal databases by friends he still had at the Oakland Police Department. Allen spoke with great confidence about Drake's abilities, and was a bit cocky about how he'd handled the man.

Cynthia was glad he was confident, but this also made her wary—if there was one thing she had learned about Allen in their ten years of marriage, it was that when he acted overconfident about his plans, they often went wrong.

"Once we find out who this asshole really is," Allen went on, "we can make him go away. I'll bet he has a criminal record as long as his beard."

Cynthia watched Allen for a moment. She picked up an egg roll and took a bite. "So how much did you have to pay this detective?"

Allen avoided her eyes. "A lot."

"How much?"

"More than I planned."

"How much, Allen?"

When he told her, she gasped. "Five thousand _dollars_?"

"No, Cynthia, Russian rubles."

"This isn't funny, Allen! Five thousand dollars is a lot of money."

"We were going to pay Billy ten."

"Yes, but that was to put an end to this madness."

"I had no choice, Cynthia. Drake wouldn't have taken the case, otherwise. Not from an anonymous client."

Today, Cynthia had become more concerned about their financial situation. She had checked their bank balance and she didn't see how they would pay the bills at the end of the month.

"Don't worry," Allen assured her. "I've got some new clients lined up. A couple of them are on the verge of signing."

His business hadn't made a dime since he'd started it. Every time he came close to making a profit, he would hire another employee. He also spent far too much money trying to impress his clients, in Cynthia's humble opinion. He seemed more concerned with how big and successful his firm appeared rather than actually making money with it. Michael Hammersmith was really his only good client—Michael had his own accounting firm in Las Vegas and was subcontracting a lot of work to Allen.

She really didn't think Allen was cut out to be a business owner. She thought he liked the idea of having his own business far more than he liked actually running it. Nor did she think he was very good at it. Prior to starting it, he had worked at a big accounting firm and had done very well there, steadily climbing the ladder...and yet he managed to get home by six o'clock most nights and had weekends free.

They ate in silence for a while. Cynthia watched him carefully—he still wouldn't look her in the eye. He was hiding something.

"What kind of story did you give this detective?" she finally said.

"Don't worry. I came up with a good cover."

"What 'cover'?"

Allen shrugged, chewing on a dumpling. "What difference does it make? He bought it. That's all the matters."

"Allen, what did you tell the detective?"

He sighed. "If you have to know, I told him you and Billy were having an affair."

Cynthia's mouth dropped open. "You _what_?"

"Just calm down, Cynthia. I knew you would react like this, but it was the only option."

"You said Billy and I were having an _affair_?"

"Drake is a perfect stranger to us, for god's sake. He doesn't know who I am, or who you are. What difference does it make what I told him?"

"It makes a lot of difference to me!"

"Stop reacting so emotionally," Allen said. "You're behaving just like a woman."

"I _am_ a woman. Which is something you seemed to have forgotten."

"Cynthia—"

"How could you drag me into this again?" she yelled, throwing the remains of her egg roll across the kitchen. She pointed at the doorway. "You stood right there this morning and said, "Trust me, honey." And then what do you do? You get me involved even deeper in this mess!"

"That's ridiculous. How can what I told Drake get you involved 'deeper' in anything? It's not even true."

"Why did you have to tell him I was having an affair with Billy? Why, Allen? _Why_?"

"Are you deaf?" Allen shouted. "He wouldn't take the case otherwise!"

Allen rose from the table and grabbed his plate. "I'm finishing my dinner in the living room."

* * *

An hour later, Cynthia lay on the bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling. Allen was still in the living room, watching some stupid baseball game on TV. She could hear the sounds of an announcer and an occasionally cheering crowd.

She was furious with him. Not only for what he'd told the detective, but with his coarse treatment of her in general. He'd been indifferent to her feelings for a long time, but since the first night Billy had shown up in their kitchen, his callousness had grown worse.

Oddly, Billy's last visit had made a strong emotional impression on her. She found herself thinking about it often. What struck her was the way he had treated her. Billy may have been rough, ignorant and uncultured, but he knew how to treat a woman—it had made Cynthia feel truly feminine, and she hadn't felt like that in a long time. The written-out dialogue she'd had to recite was ridiculous, of course, as well as the way he'd told her to dress, yet his attentiveness to her, and especially the concern he had shown when she cut her finger, had moved her.

_Maybe I should leave Allen_ , she thought. Most women would have probably already done it.

He had become a hopeless workaholic, a walking cliché, the husband that gets so caught up in his career that he ignores the people he loves.

But her relationship with Allen was complicated, and they had been married a long time. "You don't throw away ten years of marriage over this kind of thing, darling," her mother kept advising her. "You'll just end up with another Allen."

"But he's changed, mom. He's not the same man I married."

"You've changed, too, honey. You're not the same woman he married, either."

Cynthia thought her mother might be right, but on the other hand, she felt Allen had changed in a way that she could never accommodate. Back when they had met in college, they had so much in common, spent so much time together, seeing movies, reading the same books, hiking, camping, and just plain talking to each other. They were not just lovers—they were best friends.

Now all Allen did was work. He was letting his body and health go as well, never getting enough sleep, staying in a constant state of stress. It seemed to her that all he cared about anymore was how successful he was in business.

As Cynthia lay there on the bed, she began to ask herself why she was so concerned about turning him into the police. He had pressured her into conspiring with him to bury the body, and had nearly tricked her into helping him murder Billy last night. All to save his own skin, to preserve his precious career...

In a split second, Cynthia made a decision.

She rose and went down the stairs.

"Allen?" she said, stopping in the middle of the staircase.

"What?" he muttered, without even looking at her. He was sitting on the couch, his stocking feet propped up on the table, munching on potato chips and staring at the TV screen.

"You and your detective have exactly one week to solve this problem."

Allen slowly turned his head, staring at her. "What do you mean?"

"If you two don't track Billy down and stop him from coming back by next Monday night, I'm going to the police."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Allen. Monday night. If you haven't stopped him from coming back here by then, I'm turning myself in to the police and let the consequences be damned."

"You can't do that without turning me in, too!"

A tremor of guilt passed through Cynthia, but she didn't respond.

She went back upstairs, shaking—it had taken all her nerve to talk to Allen this way, but her mind was made up.

* * *

The following day, Allen took a late lunch and drove across town to a restaurant on Fisherman's Wharf. On the way back, he pulled into a gas station and parked near a pay phone. There weren't too many pay phones left anymore—they were hard to find.

An obese middle-aged man was blabbing away on it, smoking a cigarette while he talked, looking as if he might stand there for hours. While he waited, the words Cynthia had uttered on the stairs last night kept coming back to him—they had been echoing in his mind all day. _You heard me, Allen. Monday night. If you haven't stopped him from coming back here by then, I'm turning myself in to the police and let the consequences be damned._

It was hard for him to believe that she would really rat out her own husband to the cops, and that she was willing to face the destructive scandal that would result from telling them the truth. It was the tone of her voice that bothered him...when Cynthia spoke in that shaky, cold manner, he knew she wasn't fooling around.

Allen impatiently waited three or four more minutes while the overweight guy continued to jabber on the pay phone. He finally climbed out of his BMW, prepared to tell the man to hurry his fat ass up.

The man noticed Allen glaring at him, finally ended the call and walked away.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Allen stepped up to the phone, dropped in the required coins, and called Drake's cell number.

The P.I. answered on the first ring. "Drake."

"It's me," Allen said.

There was a silence. "Who's me?" he said guardedly.

"Mr. Jones," Allen said.

"Oh. Hello there."

"Any progress?"

"Not much. Unfortunately, I was only able to pull one partial print off the beer can, and the belt buckle was useless. All the prints were badly smeared."

"But you ran them through the database, right?"

"Of course not. The partial would just trigger thousands of matches, wouldn't be of any help."

"Damn," Allen muttered.

"You need to get this guy to pick up a clean water glass, with smooth sides, and be very careful when you put it in the—"

"I'll be happy to ask him to do that next time he's over at my house banging my wife," Allen said sarcastically.

"I'm not a miracle worker, Mr. Jones. You've given me very little to go on."

Now a pimply-faced kid had approached the phone booth and was hanging back, watching Allen, looking annoyed.

"So where do we go from here?" Drake said, after a brief silence. "Can you manage to get some more prints or not?"

Allen felt panicky. Cynthia's threat from last night came back to him.

"Look, Drake, you _find_ the son-of-a-bitch, that's where we go from here."

"And how would you suggest I do that? Search the whole Unites States for a truck driver who might be named Billy?"

Allen forced himself to calm down. "I told you about the tattoos on his fingers. That has to be unusual."

"It's something, but not much. If we had prints and he had a criminal record—"

"How many trucks can there be with a Grateful Dead logo airbrushed on the driver's door. Surely there's not many—"

"I've got some news for you about that. Turns out you can buy magnetic signs especially for trucks that fit snug against the metal—independent truck drivers change them based on who they're carrying for. He may not display that Grateful Dead picture very often."

Shit, Allen thought.

Drake was quiet for a moment. "This man will be a hard person to find unless you can get me some more information to work with."

"Look, you get your ass out to the truck stops and start asking around!"

"Who the hell do you think you are? I'm not your personal slave. I have other clients, not just you."

Allen doubted Drake had many who dumped envelopes stuffed with $5,000 on his desk, but he didn't say anything.

The pimply-faced kid was approaching the phone booth. "Will you be much longer?"

Allen covered the mouthpiece. "Wait your goddam turn."

The boy backed away and slunk over to the side of the gas station.

"Something wrong?" Drake said.

"No, some kid, I'm at a pay phone..."

"Look, Mr. 'Jones,' if you ask me, this whole case stinks. Your anonymity, and this fairy tale about this guy and your wife having an affair—"

"It's the truth," Allen said.

Drake said, "Let me ask you something—how do you have all this information about his truck? Do you really expect me to believe this guy drives that big, loud, smoke-belching vehicle over to your house? I don't know where you live, but—"

"He parks it somewhere nearby, comes on foot."

"You know the color of the truck, but not the model?"

"I followed him at night—I couldn't see anything but the color."

"And no license plate...not even the state?"

"No."

"This case stinks," Drake said again.

"Well, you were happy enough to take my money." Allen paused. "You want to give it back now?"

Drake didn't respond.

Allen got a grip on his temper. He needed a softer approach. "Look, Drake, I know you're a damn good P.I. or I wouldn't have hired you. Just put on your thinking cap and find this man, that's all I ask."

"The easiest way is for me to tail him next time he comes over to your—"

"No," Allen said firmly. Drake had already suggested this.

"Well, if you want me to go out and beat the bushes, it's going to cost more."

"More?" Allen said incredulously.

"I'll need to spread some cash around. NRA types, truckers...these are a rough, tight knit bunch."

Allen bit his tongue. He felt like Drake was trying to take advantage of him. "How much more?"

"Five grand. In advance, before I do any more work. Your insisting on being anonymous puts me in a vulnerable spot—you could just disappear for all I know."

"I'm not going to disapp—"

"And I need more info to go on, if you want to speed this up." Drake paused. "That truck color concerns me—are you sure it was blue? Some men can't tell their blues from greens."

"It was blue," Allen muttered, thinking about the money. Ten thousand dollars! He would have to get the second five thousand from Cynthia, from her savings account—he had put the other five grand back in his business account. He couldn't make payroll next week, otherwise.

Cynthia's savings account contained the only cash he had access to.

"Do we have a deal, or not, Mr. Jones?"

Chapter 1.14

When Cynthia heard the garage door grinding open downstairs, she was in the living room, doing her yoga exercises.

It was the first time she had done any yoga since she had been attacked. She simply hadn't felt like exercising until now. Her firm decision to go to the police unless Allen tracked down Billy by Monday night had actually empowered her, made her feel like she was finally taking more control of her life. It felt wonderful to stretch all her muscles again—it was as if three months of tension were draining away all at once.

When Allen came up from the garage, he looked surprised. He set down his briefcase, shifting from one foot to another. Though he was trying to smile, she could tell he was irritable.

"How about a drink?" he said.

"I'm exercising," she said, her voice straining as she slowly came back out of the _asana_ and stood upright.

"I can see that. I meant when you're done."

"No thanks."

Allen stepped over to the bar and started making one for himself.

Cynthia breathed slowly in and out a few times and gradually sat down on the mat, cross legged.

"I'm happy to see you exercising again," Allen said, though he didn't sound happy at all. He sat down on the couch, the ice clicking in his glass. Loosened his tie. "Are you sure you don't want me to make you a drink?"

"I'm sure."

He gazed at her a moment, swirling the ice in his glass. "Cynthia, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"Really?" she said, unsurprised.

"Drake couldn't get any complete prints off the beer can or belt buckle, unfortunately. But he can still track down Billy, it's not a problem."

Cynthia sighed. This sounded like another Allen Hunt failed plan. "And exactly what will Drake do when he tracks Billy down?"

Allen shrugged. "I don't know. But I'm sure the scumbag is involved in some shady business. Drake will make sure he leaves us alone, don't worry."

Cynthia was alarmed. "Allen, if Brad Drake is going to hurt Billy—"

"He's not going to hurt Billy," Allen muttered, "although I wish he would. When he finds the scumbag, I'm sure he'll dig up plenty of dirt he can use to scare the guy away."

Cynthia had her doubts. Drake only had five more days to accomplish this feat.

"The problem is," Allen went on, "Drake needs more information." Allen sipped his drink and motioned to her with the glass. "You didn't happen to notice the license plate on the truck when it pulled up at the shooting range, did you? I know you didn't pay any attention to the number. But did you notice the color of the tag, or state?"

Cynthia thought back, trying to remember. "No, I didn't notice."

"What about the color of the truck itself?"

"Teal," she said without hesitation.

"Teal?" Allen started laughing. "We're not talking about an evening gown, Cynthia."

She wiped her forehead with the towel. "Well, what color do you think it was?"

"Blue..." Allen said, almost as a question.

"It was blue- _green_. Which is teal, for your information."

Allen looked at her as if she were dense. "Do you really think that illiterate dumbass would write 'teal' on his vehicle registration form?"

Cynthia was getting tired of Allen constantly calling Billy names. "I don't think he's as stupid as you think he is."

Allen stared at her. "Why are you defending that ape? Ever since he came over here and you made him dinner, you act like you feel sorry for him."

"I do feel sorry for him. He's...pathetic, Allen. That's the only word for it."

"My god, he's not a hurt puppy dog, Cynthia. Why do you always do that? You feel sorry for people who don't deserve one shred of pity."

"Everyone doesn't have the same opportunities as we have, Allen."

"You're telling _me_ that? Jesus...I came from a poor background, too, but you don't see me going around blackmailing people. I earned my way out of that Oakland hell hole the hard way. Billy is filth, Cynthia—he'd kill you without thinking twice about it."

"I don't believe he's as dangerous as you make him out to be."

"Oh, you don't, do you?"

"I think I could handle him. He's just terribly lonely and isolated. He's trying to get his emotional needs met using the only clumsy ways he knows."

"Emotional needs," Allen muttered, swirling the ice in his glass. "Let me ask you something, Cindy. If you came across a sick rattlesnake in the woods, would you take it home and nurse it back to health?"

"He's not a reptile, Allen, he's a human being. And so was his brother."

"I still don't believe that guy on the hiking trail was his brother."

"Well, I believe it."

"Why?"

Cynthia shrugged. "Call it a gut feeling."

Allen didn't argue with her on this point—he knew she was a better judge of people than he was, though he wouldn't admit it.

"On top of that," he said, "I don't believe Billy has any post office box with a letter to the F.B.I. in it, either. Everything that sneaky bastard told us is crap. He's just trying to bluff us."

"Well, I don't see why your expensive detective can't track Billy down using what he has now. We're paying him an awful lot of money—"

"He doesn't have enough info, damn it," Allen shouted.

"Don't talk to me like that."

"Well, don't blame it on Brad Drake—you and I should have been more observant." Allen paused, running his hand through his hair. "Look, we have to work together on this, Cindy. Didn't Billy say anything else when you were in the living room...anything that might be useful?"

Cynthia looked over at the couch where they'd been sitting, trying to remember their conversation. "No...I don't think so. He told me he checked the property deed on this house...I know he likes _Tom Sawyer_... I know his mother made him cornbread, all of which I realize is totally useless. I already told you everything he said that's of any value, Allen."

"Look, Drake is good, but he's not a miracle worker." Allen looked at her pleadingly. "If we can't give him more information, we _have_ to give him more money."

Cynthia stared at her husband. " _More_ money? You must be joking."

"It's either more money or more information. Without something tangible to go on, he's got to find Billy the hard way. Which means driving the hell all over the western United States, going to truck stops and asking around, offering people money for leads—it's time-consuming and expensive." Allen hesitated, looking sheepishly at her. "I hate to ask you this...but I don't suppose you would consider taking some money out of your savings account..."

Cynthia was breathing hard now, and it wasn't because of the yoga.

"How much more does this damn detective want?" she said, through gritted teeth.

"Five thousand. He said he won't do any more work until he gets it, either, because he thinks I could just disappear. We're paying for anonymity, Cynthia. That's why he's charging us so much."

"Well, it sounds to me like he's trying to take advantage."

Allen shrugged. "What choice do we have? If you think about it, ten grand is a bargain. If Billy decided to take money instead of...what he wants from you, I'm sure he would ask for a lot more than a measly ten grand."

"What happened to the other five thousand from the cash we were going to pay off Billy with?"

"I had to put it back in the company, Cynthia. If Michael Hammersmith hadn't given me an advance on the work I'm doing for him, I wouldn't have been able to make payroll."

Chapter 1.15

_A measly ten grand_ , Cynthia kept thinking, as she drove to her bank the next day.

After mulling it over all night, she had come to the conclusion that she would give Allen the money he asked for. Why not? She had already lent him $9,500 to start his business. She was sure he would end up with all of her money in the end, one way or another. Then the draining process would be complete.

Even though it had been against her better judgment all along, Cynthia couldn't help giving him money. She'd been raised to be supportive of the man she married. She'd also come from a relatively wealthy family, where money wasn't considered as important as relationships. So when her husband asked her for it, she felt she had to give it to him.

The bank teller handed Cynthia 50 crisp $100 bills. She asked for an envelope to put it in.

When Allen arrived, she gave him the money without saying a word.

"Thanks," he said, looking at her sheepishly.

They just stood there in the bank lobby, gaping at each other.

Cynthia said, "I sure hope your faith in this Brad Drake pays off. Because if this doesn't work, you know exactly what I'm going to do. I won't be talked out of it again, Allen."

She turned on her heels and left.

Chapter 1.16

The day after Allen had given Brad Drake the second $5,000, the P.I. was staking out a truck stop near Barstow, California, at the junction of Interstates 40 and 15. It was one of the most likely places someone who regularly drove a truck to California from the Eastern U.S. would stop to eat and gas up.

Drake had now asked at least 30 different drivers if they knew this mysterious "Billy" with the snakeskin hat and boots and the morbid tattoos on his fingers. So far, nobody seemed acquainted with such a character, and Drake's instincts told him that they were being straight. Drake had spent most of his life dealing with criminals, and had a pretty good idea when someone was lying, especially when he could catch the person off guard.

Now he was sitting in his car, slowly eating a burger and fries, watching the parking lot. He was dressed casually, not unlike most of the drivers—jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and sunglasses. The dark glasses were not to hide his identity, but rather, his eyes. In the same way that his lifetime of experience worked for him, it also worked against him. Most savvy truckers could see a "cop" look in Drake's heavily lined face the instant they laid eyes on him.

This prompted Drake to consider changing his approach. His story so far had been that the man he was looking for, Billy, was his cousin, and that the two of them had inherited a little money from their uncle, and he needed his cousin's signature on some papers to get his share. He'd handed the more forthcoming prospects a $20 bill, promising that he would pay them another $100 if they could give him Billy's home address, cell number, or exact whereabouts.

Of course, Drake had to dole out the money carefully or he would eat up all the profit in this case. Since his client, Mr. "Jones," seemed to think that Billy sold unregistered firearms, he concentrated on truckers who looked like they might be into guns—some of them had National Rifle Association stickers on their trucks, or their gear bags.

Drake didn't really buy the story that his mysterious client had given him—he sensed there was more to it than what he'd been told—but he needed the money. Anyway, he would not supply any details of the truck driver's identity until he was completely satisfied that his mysterious client would not try to harm the man in some way.

Drake was biting into a cold French fry when he spotted an old, run down Chevy pulling up at the restaurant. When he saw the two bumper stickers on the back, he sat up straighter.

One was a picture of a Confederate soldier with the slogan, "FORGET? HELL NO!" and the other was a GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE, PEOPLE KILL PEOPLE sticker.

A short, scruffy blond man climbed out. He locked the door, and then tromped down the sidewalk, dragging both feet when he walked.

Drake quietly got out of his car. Hanging back, he discreetly followed the scruffy character into the interior of the restaurant. When the blond man passed one table, someone said, "Hey, Skeeter," and he replied, "How's it going?" but kept shuffling along, finally sitting at a table in the corner by himself.

Drake went into the restroom, killed a couple of minutes, and came back out. Now, a guy in jeans and greasy long hair was standing near Skeeter, talking. As Drake passed by it sounded like they were shooting the breeze about deer hunting. Skeeter had a thick Southern drawl.

Drake went back out to his car and waited. After about 45 minutes, Skeeter came shuffling back outside, his hands in his pockets, heading towards his Chevy.

Drake was prepared to try the new approach. He got out of his car, as if he had just arrived, and casually walked towards the restaurant, looking down at the sidewalk. When he reached Skeeter, he glanced up, but then did a double take.

"Hey, Skeeter," he said off-handedly.

Skeeter turned around, frowning.

"Isn't your name Skeeter?" Drake said, as if surprised.

"Yeah," Skeeter said suspiciously. "We know each other?"

"I met you a while back somewhere...a gun show, I think."

"No."

"Oh...maybe you're a friend of Billy's?"

Skeeter wasn't buying it. "See you," he said, turning.

"Wait," Drake said hastily, moving up alongside him. "I'm looking to buy some gear, you know what I mean?"

"No, sir," Skeeter said, walking a little faster.

"Come on, man, don't act like that. We got to stick together."

Skeeter slowed a little. "You look like a BATF out of hell."

BATF was the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

"You gotta be kidding, man. I'd like to see every one of those BATFs strung up by their balls."

"Yeah?" Skeeter said, stopping at the door of his Chevy.

Drake glanced around, as if he was afraid of being seen. "Look, I'll be honest, I got a record, I can't buy anything legit, I have to buy unregistered stuff. Reason I'm here, I'm lookin' for a guy calls himself Billy who sold me an AK-47 a while back. You know him?"

"No." Skeeter broke eye contact.

_There it was_ —that split-second glint of recognition.

"You sure? Wears a snakeskin cowboy hat, got four tattoos on his knuckles—" Drake pointed to his own hand. "D-E-A-D."

Skeeter chuckled. "That's a trip. Don't know nobody like that."

"Well, if you can put me in touch with him," Drake said, glancing around again, "I'll make it worth your while." He pulled out his wallet and peeled off a $20 bill.

Skeeter showed more interest.

Drake offered the money, and Skeeter took it, though hesitantly.

"You put me in touch with him, there's another hundred in it for you." Drake pulled a piece of paper with his cell number on it. "Just tell him to call this number and ask for Frank."

Skeeter took the paper, glancing around. He quickly got in his car and drove off without saying another word.

Drake climbed back in his own car, and chuckled. "Promising young man," he commented to himself. "Very promising."

* * *

The next day, Skeeter Wooten sauntered into a big truck stop near Fresno.

It was lunchtime, with the usual bustling waitresses, clatter of dishes and shouts from the fry cooks. All the stools along the front counter were filled with pot-bellied truckers.

Skeeter sauntered down the row of truck drivers and stopped beside one who was clad completely in denim, with a snakeskin hat and matching boots.

There was a brief exchange, and Skeeter handed the big man the piece of paper with the phone numbers on it.

"Might a been BATF, but I'm not sure. Thought you'd want to know."

"Thank ya, Skeet," the big man said. "I appreciate it."

Chapter 1.17

The day before Billy was due to return, and the day of Cynthia's deadline—Monday—Allen left for work early, and he was gone by the time she woke up. The last 24 hours had been draining and tense for her, but she was still resolved in her decision about going to the police.

Ms. Bartholomew came into the shop in an industrious mood that morning, deciding she wanted to rearrange the books in the poetry section for no particular reason other than they would "look better" the new way. She and Cynthia spent most of the day on this project, letting the part-time clerk handle the walk-in customers, while they took shelves apart, moved them around, and put them back together.

Ms. Bartholomew complained, as she had been lately, that she and her brother were both overworked and how hard it was to find good employees, like Cynthia. Apparently Richard was also having a difficult time getting the London shop going, saying that he thought it was even harder to find good workers in the UK than in the States. The two had actually offered Cynthia the chance to move to London and help open the new shop, but she had turned it down, knowing that Allen could not possibly move there, not with his own business. She hadn't even told Allen about it.

Cynthia supposed it didn't matter now, because she was sure this would be her last day of her career in the books business in San Francisco or London or anywhere else, unless you could call stamping out metal license plates at the state prison "publishing." From the scant progress report Allen had gotten from Drake last night, she was almost sure the P.I. had not tracked Billy down, which meant that she would turn herself in to the police tonight. She was prepared—she already had Billy's note tucked away in her purse.

She came home covered in dust and grit from moving bookcases. Before she could get in the shower, she heard the garage door grinding open.

Allen was home.

She turned off the shower faucet and went back downstairs, arriving at the landing about the time Allen came up from the garage.

Cynthia knew she'd been right about the outcome as soon as she saw the pale, haggard look on his face.

She turned back and started up the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Allen said.

"To take a shower."

"Just wait a minute—can I at least talk to you about this?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Come on, Cindy. Drake and I made some real progress today. I want to tell you about it before you make any rash decisions."

She stopped and turned around, looking down the stairs at him. "I'm hardly making a 'rash' decision—I've been thinking about it nonstop for the past five days."

"But we've made progress—"

"I'm not interested in 'progress,' Allen. Either you and Drake tracked Billy down and stopped him from coming over here tomorrow night, or you didn't. Which is it?"

"Would you just sit down," he said, motioning to the couch. "Let me explain. Please? Then you can do what you want. I promise I won't try to stop you."

Cynthia debated a moment, wondering if she should bother with this charade or not. She was sure he was just stalling and would try to talk her out of what she'd already decided.

The pleading look on her husband's face eventually got the better of her. She came back down the stairs and seated herself on the couch, her arms crossed. "Okay, I'm listening." She glanced at her watch. "You have exactly two minutes."

"Drake and I worked out a sure-fire way to track Billy down, but we need your help to do it."

Cynthia frowned. "My help? What are you talking about?"

"Just bear with me," Allen said. He pulled something from his suit pocket and dangled something in front of her. "Do you know what this is?"

It was a watch. It looked expensive. The timepiece had a sleek white face with an intricately braided silver band.

"It just looks like an ordinary watch to me."

Allen smiled. "It's a lot more than an ordinary watch." He squatted beside her and snapped it around her wrist.

"Now push on the stem," he said.

"Why?"

"Just do it, Cindy."

She depressed the little knob. Somewhere nearby, there was a faint beeping sound.

Allen reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a key chain, the beeping growing much louder. The chain was made of the same intricately braided silver as the watch.

"It's a panic button," he explained. "When you push the stem on the watch, this alarm goes off. It has a range of two hundred feet. If anything happens, or you feel afraid, all you have to do is push it. Drake and I will be in here in seconds."

Cynthia frowned. "Excuse me?"

Allen didn't answer—there was an odd, slightly guilty look on his face.

The scenario he was outlining slowly dawned on her. "What are you saying...you expect me to... _stay_ here with him? All night?"

"No, no, no, not all night—like last time. I'm sure you can get him to leave after dinner. Then Drake can follow him and track him down. It's the best way, Cynthia."

She abruptly stood and headed up the stairs. She couldn't believe his nerve.

"Wait, Cynthia, I'm not finished."

"Oh yes you are."

"You said you weren't afraid of him," Allen yelled. "You said he was just lonely and isolated and misunderstood..."

Cynthia was too furious to respond. She went into the bedroom and stripped off her sweater, then went into the bathroom. As she turned the shower back on, she saw only red. Allen Hunt was despicable. He was actually prepared to use his own wife as _bait_ to catch this maniac.

She was so agitated she could barely stay under the stream of hot water. She quickly lathered herself up, rinsed off, and stepped back out of the stall.

Allen was standing in the bathroom door.

"Cynthia, be reasonable. All I'm asking you to do is—"

"I can't believe you would use me like...like a worm on a fishing hook to catch this man."

She brushed passed him, her shoulder bumping his chest as she went into the bedroom and began to get dressed.

"You _said_ you didn't think he was dangerous. I just thought—"

Cynthia whirled around. "You just thought what? That maybe I'd sleep with him so you can get yourself out of this jam?"

"Jesus Christ, I didn't say anything like that."

"Ha! You think I can just feed him his fried chicken and cornbread and he'll burp and leave? He sat right there in the kitchen said he wanted to spend the night—"

"I've got a solution worked out for that, if you'd just calm down and listen."

This should be good, she thought. "What solution?"

"Simple. You tell him you're on your period, that he can't spend the night...that it would be too..." Allen searched for a word. "I hate to put it like this, but too messy."

Cynthia frowned. "You're joking..."

Allen looked pleadingly at her. "Think about it, honey. This guy is incredibly old fashioned. His values are practically Victorian. The way he acted when he was here...? If you tell him you're on your per—"

"You disgust me," Cynthia spat. "Get out of my sight—you don't care about me at all anymore."

"You're wrong. I—I love you."

She couldn't help laughing. "There's only one thing in this world that you love anymore, Allen, and that's yourself." She donned a fresh blouse and quickly buttoned it up, then pulled on some clean slacks.

"That's not true, Cynthia. If I didn't care about you I wouldn't have bothered to protect you on the hiking trail...I wouldn't have even followed you there in the first place."

She was no longer listening. "You know what really gets me, Allen? When that man attacked, and slammed me down on the ground and nearly choked me to death, you never even asked if I was all right."

Allen looked surprised. He silently watched her put on her socks. "I'm sure I did, Cindy..."

"You did not. Even when you saw me in the bathtub, when my neck was swollen and bruised and my legs were scratched up, you didn't ask."

"Well, if I didn't, it was only because I was too shaken up myself. I'd just killed a man, for God's sake..."

Cynthia looked at herself in the mirror and brushed her hair out a little—it would dry on the way to the police station. She squatted and picked up her shoes.

"I don't see what you're getting so high and mighty about, anyway," Allen muttered. "What's the difference? Spending the night with this truck driver, or the guy you were going to meet up on the hiking trail." He shrugged. "Same thing."

Cynthia moved towards the door, but Allen eased over before she reached it and blocked it.

"Get out of my way," she growled.

"Why should I? Why should I let you go turn me in to the cops?"

"I said get out of my way."

They were in standoff, glaring at each other. Allen opened his mouth to say something else, but then finally stepped aside, feigning graciousness. "Fine. You want to destroy both our lives, go ahead."

* * *

As Cynthia descended the stairs, she thought Allen was actually going to let her leave.

Then she heard him following behind her.

When she climbed into her Toyota, Allen rushed up from behind and grabbed the door handle.

"Let go," she snarled, trying to pull the door closed.

"Just stop and think this through before you make a complete fool of yourself. That's all I ask."

"Let go of the damn door!" she said, and she started the engine.

"Do you really think the police are going to believe your harebrained story?"

Cynthia reached up to the sun visor and pushed the remote control button for the garage door. In the rearview, she watched as it began to rise. "Get out of the way, Allen, or I'll take you with me, I swear I will." She pushed down on the clutch and shifted into reverse.

"So what exactly are you going to say to the cops? Have you actually thought about it? 'My husband killed a guy, buried him in the desert, and now his scumbag brother is blackmailing us?'"

"Couldn't have summed it up better myself." Cynthia yanked on the car door, but he still wouldn't release his grip. "Let go, Allen!"

"You'd actually rat me out to the police, after I saved your life?"

"I'm sick of letting you manipulate me with that, Allen." She glared at him, and the mere sight of his face filled her with disgust. "And speaking of rats—using me like a piece of cheese to catch this man...you're _far_ lower than Billy ever could be. Now let go of the door."

Allen wouldn't budge. "What concrete evidence do you have that I committed a crime?"

"Let go of the goddam door, you bastard!"

"What _evidence_ have you got, Cynthia? Think about it. Did it occur to you that you have no idea where the body is buried?"

Cynthia hesitated, gunning the accelerator, the engine's roar echoing through the garage. "There's other evidence."

"Oh? Like what? The dirty clothes I was wearing that night? All burned up, Cynthia. The clothes you were wearing, all ripped and torn? Burned to ashes along with mine." Allen jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his BMW. "The blood that leaked into my trunk? All washed away now."

She let her foot off the gas, feeling panicky. There had to be more evidence. There had to be...

Allen said, "I guess you could go up to the hiking trail and try to find the rock I used to hit the guy with—probably it's still there somewhere. I wiped it off and threw into the woods." Allen dropped his hand from the car door handle. "So, if you want to go to the police and make a complete fool out of yourself, Cynthia, be my guest."

She kept her foot on the accelerator, but now her mind was flitting from one thought to the next, trying to think of some proof she had.

"I've got that note from Billy," she said. It was in her purse.

"Note?" Allen said. "That note means nothing. What is it? A piece of paper with a recipe for cornbread and a description of a Dolly Parton costume? There's nothing in it that proves he was blackmailing anybody."

"But you said it was evidence."

"I hadn't thought it through," Allen said, looking away.

"You bastard," she hissed, and tried to shut the door again, but he held onto it.

"You better rethink this, Cynthia. To the police, you'll just be another nutcase, one of dozens who wander in every day with crazy stories about their husbands and wives and neighbors." Allen motioned to her. "Do you know the first question they'll ask you, after you tell them this fantastic-sounding story?"

Cynthia didn't answer, but wondered what he was going to say.

"'Ma'am, are you on any medication?'" Allen gave a knowing smile.

"I haven't taken any of those pills in weeks!"

"Your prescription is on record, Cynthia."

Now she wondered if he had suggested getting the prescription as a way of protecting himself.

"You sneaky, conniving son of a bitch..."

Allen's smiled disappeared. "Me? _I'm_ the bad guy here? You cheat on your husband—"

"I told you a hundred times, I didn't ch—"

"—and he saves your life, and then you want to betray him to the police?" Allen's expression became cold, almost sadistic. "You do that, goddamn you Cynthia, and I'll not only make you look like a whore who cheats on her husband, but a freakin' basket case, too!" Allen spoke in mock embarrassment as if he were talking to the police. "'Don't ask me what she's talking about, officer—she gets like this when she stops taking her meds.' Persist with the story, Cynthia, and I'll have you put away for observation. I'm not going to jail because of you."

Allen slammed the car door shut, looking at her through the window.

"Now turn off the engine and get back in the house before you get carbon monoxide poisoning."

(End of Book 1)

To purchase The Drive-By Wife, Book 2, please click  here.

### A LETTER TO MY READERS

Hello, Dear Reader!

I hope you enjoyed this book. I write in a variety of genres—thrillers & suspense, romance, young adult, and horror. As I say on my website, my goal has always been to write novels that are so engaging and entertaining that you can't stop reading after a couple of pages—"unputdownable" novels. You can read all my book descriptions and read/download free chapters at www.mikewellsbooks.com. Be sure and sign up to my  VIP Reader List (free) so you'll receive news about upcoming books and giveaways.

Also, if you enjoyed this book, I would greatly appreciate your help with spreading the word about what I have to offer. Positive word-of-mouth for independent authors like me is crucial. Please pass this book along to your family and friends—give it to anyone who you think would enjoy it.

I always welcome comments about my books—please feel free to give feedback via email (mike@mikewellsbooks.com) or via my website/blog. Book reviews are also appreciated.

Thanks for reading and have a great day!

Mike Wells

P.S. Please follow me on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads.

### About the Author

Mike Wells is an American bestselling author of over 20 thriller and suspense novels, including _Lust, Money & Murde_r and _Passion, Power & Sin_. He is also known for his young adult books, such as _The Mysterious Disappearance of Kurt Kramer_ , _The Wrong Side of the Tracks_ , and _Wild Child_ , which are used by English teachers in high schools and colleges worldwide. Formerly a screenwriter, Wells has a fast-paced, cinematic writing style. His work is often compared to that of the late Sidney Sheldon, with strong and inspiring female heroes, tightly-written scenes, engaging action/dialogue, and numerous plot twists. He currently lives in Europe and has taught in the Creative Writing program at the University of Oxford.

### Acknowledgements

Editor

Anna Wells

Copy Editor

Janice E. Spina

Technical Advisors

Farsheed Ferdowsi, Randy Frost, Luba Pravotorova, and Brian Smith

Proofreaders

Sarah Irene Gannon, Jacqueline Homa and Dax Tucker

Beta Readers

Tammie Dewhirst, Christine King-Raggio, Rowan Russell and Felicia Rogers

