Catherine Coulter: Split Second

“I guess you’re in control of my lifetime right now, Kirsten. I wasn’t the one who flipped the switch on your daddy. Take it easy, okay?”

She laughed again, then turned reflective. “You know, Coop, I always believed it would be nice to visit Daddy’s grave site, say some prayers, since I’ll bet no one else ever has. But he wasn’t buried, they cremated him. They fried him, then they burned him!”

Coop slowed a bit to let a sports car rocket past him. Too bad it wasn’t Savich’s Porsche. He shot a quick look in the rearview mirror. Traffic was getting thicker now, but there wasn’t any sign of a Porsche. Or a police car, for that matter. He had to be patient. He just had to stay alive.

He asked her, “What did they do with his ashes?”

“I couldn’t find out for sure. Some say his ashes were scattered in the Cascades, but I don’t believe that for a minute. They probably made it up, one of those media myths. Yeah, if anything, they threw away his ashes.”

She was angry now, breathing hard, and he didn’t want to get shot. He kept his voice low and calm. “You read all about your daddy on the Internet, right? That’s how you know all about him?”

She turned empty eyes to him. “Yeah, I’m an expert on my daddy, but it wasn’t the same thing as really knowing him, having him hug me, tell me how much he loved me, admired me. I thought about what he and I could have done together, and I got to where I’d ask him his advice, you know, should I put out the lights of that little bitch who disrespected me? Sometimes it was like he answered me; I’d see exactly what to do. But he wasn’t ever really there for me, thanks to my mother.” She paused for a moment, never looking away from him. “I’m thinking maybe we’ll go to Starke Prison, maybe hang out in Raiford; then again, maybe we won’t. I’ll figure it all out; I always do. I’m real lucky that way, lots of brain power. From my daddy, not my bitch of a mother.”

He gave her a smile. “I’ve never been to Starke Prison before. Maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

“You think some of those bozo guards are going to rescue you? Fat chance.” She grunted, shoved the SIG against his side again. “I’ll bet you the cell where they locked Daddy was cold and damp, and you couldn’t breathe right, you know?”

“No, I don’t know, and neither do you. Kirsten, you’re going to have to sleep soon, and so am I, or I might wreck us.”

“We’ll take our chances on that, Coop,” she said, looking at all the traffic around them. “We’re going to put some distance between us and that parking lot in Fort Grant. I wouldn’t want any of you feds getting lucky.”

“How could anyone know about this car?”

“It seems to me this Savich guy knows stuff he shouldn’t.”

That was true enough.

She was silent, never looking away from his face. “It was so weird, when I had Savich lined up in my sights, and then your girlfriend slammed into him. It doesn’t make any sense. He was standing there alone, none of you near him, asking for me to shoot him, and I did, but down he went, and my shot was high.”

“Kirsten, you simply missed him, okay? We all thought you’d want to get in his face when you killed him.”

She shrugged. “Shooting him seemed like a decent idea at the time. Hey, I know where I want to go. Did you know I’ve got a little sister? I figure she’s nearly thirty now.”

“Yes, I read about your half sister.”

“I don’t know where she is. When her mama took her away from Raiford way back in the mid-eighties, I’ll bet she changed her name. I always wondered what my sister is like, whether she knows who her daddy was, or whether her mama erased him like mine did?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “For your sister’s sake, I hope she did.”

His SIG slammed hard into his ribs, and he felt pain steal his breath. His hand jerked the steering wheel to the left. Kirsten jerked the steering wheel back, to the sounds of a dozen sharp car horns. “Watch your mouth, boy, if you don’t want me to put three bullets in your side.”

“If you do, I’ll kill both of us. I promise you that, Kirsten.”

“Yeah, you would try that, wouldn’t you? You’d kill both you and me for—what is it?—oh, yeah, the greater good.” Then in the next breath, she said, “I wish I could find out my half sister’s name. Her mama named her Mary Lou—boy, is that ever a stupid name. But like I said, I’ll bet she changed both their names when she left Raiford.

“I’d like to see how Mary Lou turned out, you know? Does she have four little kiddies, live in a dopey house in some stupid suburb, and have a boring accountant for a husband, like that Arnette Carpenter did? What a loss that guy was. I know that for a fact; I had drinks with him after I took care of his wife.”

Coop pictured Roy Carpenter as he’d seen him— was it only a week ago? —how devastated he looked three years after his wife’s murder at this psychopath’s hands, the deep abiding pain in his eyes. “Tell me about Arnette Carpenter.”

“Yeah? She was a talented little cow, conceited, full of herself, always lording it over me, adored that loser husband of hers.”

“Where did you bury her, Kirsten?”

Kirsten laughed. “A freebie for you, Coop. I planted her on the VA hospital grounds, under a huge old oak tree facing the ocean. A great view. Too bad she doesn’t care anymore.” She tapped her fingers against her leg, frowned. “You know, it kind of pisses me off that Daddy married that stupid woman but not my own mother.”

“I understand she worked with your father.”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe he worked with my mother, too; she wouldn’t tell me, wouldn’t even say how she met him. He must have known Mary Lou’s mother even before he knew my mom. Can you believe that weird Florida law, though—they allowed Daddy to declare in court they were married, and whoop-de-do, the deed was done. They even let him sleep with her in prison lots of times. So my little sister came along in 1982, four years after I did. I really want to find them both. Do you think I’ll like them?”

He kept quiet.

“Well, do you?”

“Sure. Why not?”

She chewed her bottom lip, the last of the dark red lipstick long gone. “I’ll bet you she’d tell me more than my mother ever told me, which is a big fat zero.”

“What would you like her to tell you? That he used a hacksaw to cut off people’s heads?”

She only shrugged. “Who cares? They were dead; they didn’t know.”

“Do you know he confessed to cremating one of his victims’ heads in his current girlfriend’s fireplace?”

His SIG jammed against his ribs again. He managed not to grunt in pain, but it hurt, really hurt.

“He was having some fun, that’s all, just a little fun, and like I said, what did those girls care? They were dead and gone.”

“How many women have you killed, Kirsten? I believe your daddy confessed to thirty-five.”

“After I drop-kick your butt out of here, Agent McKnight, that’ll be one less I’ll have to go.”

“Nah, I won’t count. I’m a guy.”

“You keep driving, you punk. I’ve got me a call to make.”

Coop watched her hit speed dial. Bruce Comafield was dead, so who was she calling?

She never took her eyes off him. “Yeah, it’s me. I wanted you to know I’m heading to Florida. Can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you from there. I’m having fun, got me a big FBI agent driving me. He’s my own personal chauffeur.”

She listened, then said, “Yeah, sure, I’ll be careful. Bye.”

“Who was that?”

“What do you care? I’ve got lots of friends.”

“At least there’ll be someone to scatter your ashes after you’re dead. Who was that?”