Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Kirsten said, “You got a cook in the back?”

That broke the dam, and the complaints burst out of her. “The putz went home, sick to his stomach, he said, from stuffing down too many nachos last night watching a dorky football game. He made me stay even though all the regulars know I can’t cook and they won’t come in until he’s back.”

“I guess you made the coffee. It sucks.”

“Yeah, I did. Hey, it looks like you’ve got crappy taste, since you drank all of it. You want a refill?”

Kirsten had to laugh; the girl had a mouth on her. Like the redhead last night, like Suzzie with two z’s . This girl was pretty, fine-boned, with the greenest eyes Kirsten had ever seen. Nice, she thought, succulent, the way her daddy preferred them. Young, she thought, and probably dead broke. Kirsten bet she had a yearning to do a whole lot else that wasn’t this. Kirsten shook her head, put her palm over the top of her mug. “No coffee. Why aren’t you in school?”

“I graduated last May. I’m saving to get out of this dump. Hey, I’ll get you a piece of pie if you promise to give me a good tip.”

“What kind of pie, and who made it?”

“Strawberry. It’s fresh. Dave made it this morning before he got sick and went home. How about an extra-large tip for an extra-large piece?”

Kirsten smiled at her, a scary smile, but she didn’t know it. The girl took a step back and tried to mask her alarm with a shrug.

Kirsten said, “Sounds good to me.” It did, indeed. Kirsten realized she was starving, hadn’t eaten since—when? She couldn’t seem to remember. The past hours were a blur of panic and pain and rage. But life had to go on, that’s what her daddy would say, and so she’d eat a slice of strawberry pie, and then she’d see.

Ann Marie Slatter felt something cold slither through her when the weird woman smiled at her. The knife she was using to cut the strawberry pie slipped out of her nervous hands and dropped to the floor. She picked it up, wiped it on her apron. She gave the woman nearly a quarter of the pie, left only a sliver so Dave could complain about it when he came back, whenever that would be. He loved strawberry pie, particularly his own, and she knew he was looking forward to eating it when he got back.

“That big enough?”

“That’s very nice of you.” Kirsten cut a bite and ate it. Delicious. She ate steadily until it was gone. She sat back and rubbed her stomach. She said, “You won’t believe the size of the tip you’re going to get.”

Ann Marie shrugged again, tried to act blasé, but realized she was frightened to her bones. She wanted to run out the door and never see this woman again. She stared at the woman’s red hair, in thick, short spikes, and her face, it was dead white, like—something nagged at her, something just out of reach, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

The door to the diner opened, and Ann Marie was so relieved she nearly shouted with it.

Kirsten watched two older men stroll in, shrug out of their jackets, and slide into a booth. Hayseed farmers, one paunchy, the other skinny, both wearing faded jeans, flannel shirts, and boots older than she was. The bald guy, skinny as a windowpane, called out, “Hey, Annie, two coffees for Frank and me. I hear Dave’s living in the bathroom.” He said to Frank, all jowly, with a full head of stark white hair that looked weird with his dyed ink-black mustache, “I told Dave what those leftover nachos would do to him, but he ate a huge mound without stopping, even with the cheese cold and hanging in strings off his chin.”

Frank laughed.

Kirsten kept quiet, watched Ann Marie take them two mugs of coffee, these mugs not chipped, and the coffee was from a full pot in the back, nice and fresh, the little bitch.

The bald guy thanked Ann Marie. “Hey, I was telling Frank that the guy who was shacking up with Bundy’s daughter, you know, that crazy chick who’s killing women all over the country? He’s dead. The FBI shot him outside a bar in Baltimore. At least one of those crazies is dead and gone.”

Frank was stirring sugar in his coffee. “Talk about crazy—that guy had to be a lunatic to hook up with that nutty broad. As bad as her father, that’s what everybody says. Hey, what’s the guy’s name? The guy who was shacking up with her?”

Bald Guy said, “It’s something strange—I can’t remember.”

Kirsten said quietly, “His name was Bruce Comafield.”

“That’s right,” Frank said. “He worked for her step daddy, you know, that rich guy who wanted to run for Congress from California until it got out who his stepdaughter was?”

Bald Guy said, “Big surprise for him, I bet, both his stepdaughter and his aide. I’ll bet Stepdaddy’s glad the guy’s lights are out. What’s his name? Oh, yeah, Bruce.”

Kirsten couldn’t breathe. She watched the bald guy wag a skinny finger at Frank; why, she didn’t know.

She heard a soft keening sound, realized it was from her, from a wound deep inside her she thought she’d die of. Like Bruce had died.

She said to the two men, “That guy you’re talking about who was traveling with Bundy’s daughter? Bruce Comafield? Well, he wasn’t crazy.”

Both men were staring at her now. Ann Marie was, too. It came out of Ann Marie’s mouth in a wild burst—“I remember now, I’ve seen your photo. You’re her! Oh, sweet Jesus! You’re Bundy’s daughter! ”

Frank and Bald Guy froze.

Kirsten smiled at all of them as she rose slowly, reached into her leather jacket, and pulled out a small 340 S&W revolver. She shot Frank in the middle of his forehead; then, still smiling, she turned to Bald Guy, whose mouth was open to scream, but no sound came out, because she shot him in the heart. They both fell forward on the table, sending their coffee mugs flying, blood mixing with the coffee.

Ann Marie Slatter screamed and screamed, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, shock holding her frozen. Her eyes never left Kirsten’s face. She heard a whimper, didn’t even realize it was from her.

Kirsten studied her dispassionately. “Hey, kid, I left you a big tip. I hope you get out of this podunk town,” and she left.

Wesley Heights, Washington, D.C.

Thursday afternoon

Coop pulled into a parking slot in front of an older three-story redbrick building, beautifully landscaped with grass, bushes, and trees, already hunkering down now for the coming winter.

He looked over at Lucy, felt a slap of anger seeing the bandage over her temple, knowing too well she could be dead if the bullet had slanted only a bit inward. Her eyes were closed. He hoped she wasn’t still in pain. “Lucy? You awake?”

She opened her eyes and slowly turned her head to face him. She smiled. “Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry.” She looked around. “I’ve always loved this area. Did you know your neighborhood was developed in the 1920s, one of the first communities from a master plan in the country? So many beautiful properties here, you’re lucky.”

Coop said, “This building—I wanted to live here the first time I saw it four years ago.”

She said, “I want to go home, Coop.”

“One more time, kiddo—Savich ordered a guard for you until we get our heads around what happened. I’m not going to let you stay in that big house by yourself. Let me speak very slowly here, since your brain doesn’t seem to be plugged in—two guys, probably pros, tried to execute you today. Going home ain’t gonna happen.”

Lucy needed another pain pill onboard. It wasn’t only her head, it was all of her. Her muscles ached, and she had bruises everywhere. She felt exhausted, the aftermath of all the adrenaline that had rocketed through her.