Part 19 (2/2)
”Might not be so bad,” she said.
”What?” Scott asked.
”Starting over.”
”Better than the alternative,” said Dukane.
”Don't worry about it, Lacey.”
”She better worry about it,” Hoffman said. ”You all better. Only way I stayed alive, this long, is'cause I'm invisible.”
”There is another solution,” Dukane said.
”Yeah? I'd like to hear it.”
”Kill Laveda.”
Hoffman made a single, husky laugh. ”Sure thing. You saw how easy it is to kill me? All those f.u.c.kin' bullets and here I am, like nothing happened? Well, Laveda made me that way. And next to her, I'm nothing. I bet I don't have a tenth of her powers. You're crazy if you think you can kill...”
”d.a.m.n,” Dukane muttered. ”There's a car behind us. No headlights. About half a mile back.”
”How long's it been there?”
”I just spotted it. The moon caught its winds.h.i.+eld, I think. Could've been on our tail since Tucson.”
”I thought you said we were clear.”
”Thought we were.”
Looking over her shoulder, Lacey glanced at the grotesque, eyeless face of Hoffman and felt the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kle. She quickly turned her attention to the rear window. She saw the red glow of their own taillights, the pale moonlit strip of road, but no other car. ”I don't see it,” she said.
”It's there.”
”Police?” Scott asked.
”Cops wouldn't run blind.”
”You guys gotta do something,” Hoffman said. He sounded scared. ”They got us spotted, they'll start coming out of the f.u.c.kin' woodwork.”
”Not much woodwork around here,” Dukane said.
”You got no idea, man. No idea. You think we've got guys in the cops, we've got'em everywhere. Every f.u.c.kin' corner of the country. Man, I'm top priority. There ain't nothing they won't do to nail my a.s.s. They'll swarm us. We'll be dead meat in an hour.”
”Calm down.”
”You gotta get this paint off me!”
”Shut up. Scott, cut the lights as we round this bend, then swing off the road. See if we can't lose'em.”
As the headlights died, Lacey faced front and grabbed her door handle. The car swerved to the left and sped off the road, lurching over the rough ground, slamming down a cactus that stood in the way like a man with upraised arms, bounding over hillocks and landing hard, finally careening down the steep side of a gully. Lacey threw a hand against the dash as the car slid to a stop.
”Watch Hoffman,” Dukane said, and leapt from the car.
”I ain't going nowhere.”
Lacey saw Dukane scramble to the top of the gully and sprawl flat. She opened the glove compartment. With trembling hands, she took out a cigarette and lit it. She inhaled deeply, held the smoke inside, and slowly blew it out.
Hoffman coughed. ”Bad for your health,” he said. Then he laughed softly. ”Not that it matters. None of us gonna live long enough for cancer.”
”Shut up,” Scott said.
She was nearly down to the filter by the time Dukane returned.
”It went by,” he said through the window.
”It'll be back,” said Hoffman. ”The f.u.c.kers are psychic.”
Ignoring him, Dukane stepped to the front of the car and crouched down. ”Oh s.h.i.+t,” he muttered. ”I thought so. Broken axle.”
”What'll we do?” Scott asked.
”Walk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.
They traveled parallel to the road, well away from it so they wouldn't be spotted if a car should pa.s.s. They only saw the road, themselves, when they sometimes reached higher ground.
Scott carried both attache cases. Dukane, pistol in hand, walked behind Hoffman. Lacey stayed close to Scott, her eyes on the rough ground.
A long time had pa.s.sed since Lacey's last hike in the desert. She remembered that time clearly. She was with Brian. They left his car by the road, and walked for nearly an hour in the fresh warmth of early morning. He took photos with his Polaroid: of cacti, of wildflowers, of lizards, of Lacey. They drank wine and ate cheese. The heat and alcohol made her tipsy. When she got tipsy, she got h.o.r.n.y. They stripped and took pictures of each other, and that turned her on even more, and finally they spread their clothes on the burning ground and made love.
She looked at Scott, walking slightly ahead and to her right. His s.h.i.+rt clung to his back with sweat. His wallet made a bulge over his left b.u.t.tock. She remembered the feel of him during those seconds when they embraced in the hotel room. If only they hadn't been interrupted...
Three years, now, since she'd taken a man in her arms, into her body.
Except for Hoffman.
He doesn't count.
She felt his hardness plundering her, and her excitement turned into an icy knot of revulsion. She watched him walking beside Dukane, the back of his head silver in the moonlight, his hands cuffed behind him. He looked undamaged. Why hadn't the bullets killed him, d.a.m.n it? She should've grabbed Scott's gun, when they had him down, and pumped a few rounds into his head.
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