John Lutz - Night kills

"Way you tell it, we part company and nobody's got a problem."

"Congratulations. You finally caught on."

Juan glanced at Joe Ray. "It don't sound like a bad deal."

"Don't shit yourself," Joe Ray said, staring at Coulter.

"Well, there is one more thing," Coulter said. "I want the meth money you've been raking in at Rodney's."

"What the hell is meth?" Joe Ray asked.

"What I can smell coming from that outbuilding over there, where you cook the stuff." Coulter shifted his weight. The Glock was getting heavy. "It still ain't a bad deal for you. That's a thirty-thousand-dollar truck, easy. You got that much meth money?"

The two men exchanged a sly look.

Coulter smiled. "I guess you do."

"I don't like the deal," Joe Ray said.

"Doesn't matter a bit. I drive away with rusty and the money; you stay here with your new truck. You call the law on me, they pick me up, and you're toast. Same thing the other way around. So we're both safe. That's the beauty of the proposition. We got no choice but to trust each another."

"You musta gave this a lotta thought," Juan said.

"Thinking happens to be my specialty," Coulter said. "That's why this deal's gonna work. Now, next thing happens is you two yokels lead me to where you got the money stashed."

"Ain't likely," said a woman's voice.

Coulter looked to where Cathy Lee from Rodney's Roadhouse was standing hip-shot near the corner of the shack. She must have come out a back door. She had on a stained gray robe, was barefoot, and her frizzy blond hair was flattened on one side as if she'd been sleeping on it. Her boobs were hanging halfway out, and she was holding a double-barreled shotgun. The effect was alarming.

"You boys don't watch the news," she said, motioning with her head toward a small satellite dish on the corner of the shack's tarpaper roof. "This is the guy killed all them people in New York."

"Killed people?" Juan said, looking at Coulter with new respect.

"The Torso Killer. He's probably the most wanted man in the country." Cathy Lee smiled at Coulter. "Ain't you just proud of yourself?"

Coulter couldn't stop staring at the shotgun.

"There'd be a reward out for him," Juan said. "Prob'ly a big one."

"I ain't interested in no reward," Joe Ray said. "What I'm interested in is burying him."

The shotgun wavered. It was a long gun. Heavy, for a woman. Coulter wondered, how strong and quick could she be, little country whore? And her eyes looked all red and swollen. She might have been napping and could still be half asleep.

She was holding the shotgun low now, its barrels at a forty-five-degree angle to the ground.

Her mistake. Coulter's only chance.

He'd barely started to bring the Glock to bear on Cathy Lee when the shotgun came up astoundingly fast and she fired.

He was on his back in the mud. The pain in his chest made him gasp. His heart started banging irregularly, like an engine running crazy on empty just before it quits.

Everything went spinning, and then everything went dark.

They say the last thing that goes when someone's dying is his hearing. Coulter heard distinctly the sucking sound of a boot sole in the mud, very near his head. Joe Ray's voice from high above:

"Both barrels. You surely made a mess here, Cathy Lee."

"My bad," Cathy Lee said.

Joe Ray, Juan, and Cathy Lee studied on it for a while, then decided not to bury Coulter nearby. He was, after all, the most wanted man in America. If the police traced him to the area, they'd eventually find the body. On the other hand, the meth guys and Cathy Lee sure couldn't say they'd killed him and try to claim any kind of reward. The farther away Joe Ray, Juan, and Cathy Lee stayed from the law, the better for them.

They decided to drive Coulter off some distance and dump his body, make it look like he was shot on the side of the road. Could be the law would think he was hitchhiking and some mean bastard drilled him for sport. That's if he was found before some gator dragged him off.

The Ford truck was another matter. You could tell that under all that dust and caked mud it was a cherry. They could have it painted another color. Joe Ray knew where he could get a "ghost truck" VIN from a similar-F-150 that was wrecked and in a salvage yard, and have the truck retitled. The truck wouldn't be legal, but it would be close.

Coulter they wanted no part of, but the truck was worth the risk.

The first thing in the morning, Victor drove the Chrysler over to a parking garage off Broadway. From there he walked the crowded, sunlit sidewalks to the offices of E-Bliss.org.

Now and then someone gave him a second glance. He needed a shave. He'd slept with his clothes on, on Gloria's sofa, and his usually razor-creased suit pants were wrinkled. The matching coat, which he'd draped over a chair back, was still neatly pressed. The effect was that the pants looked even baggier. That and the black stubble on his face made him look like a homeless person who'd rolled a rich banker after first getting him to remove his coat. This wasn't at all like Victor, not to care about his appearance.

Palmer Stone glanced up from the E-Bliss applications he was studying when Victor gave a perfunctory knock and walked into his office. Stone was working at his desk with his suit coat on, as was his custom, and was impeccably groomed. Always when someone walked into his office he looked like a captain of commerce interrupted in an important task involving world affairs. This morning, he was quite a contrast to Victor.

Stone laid down the printout he'd been holding. It was rife with information about a lonely, middle-aged widow in Queens.

"Victor! What on earth happened to you?"

"I tried to get in touch with Gloria yesterday afternoon and evening," Victor said, driving to the point, "and I couldn't. I spent the night in her apartment. She never came home."

Stone appeared alarmed at first, then thoughtful. "It isn't the first time, Victor."

"It is without me knowing where she was. We always knew-know-where the other one is. We've got this extra sense like we pick up each other's radio waves, and Palmer, she's not broadcasting."

"Victor, it's a little premature to think she's…gone."

"I've got a bad feeling, Palmer."

Stone swiveled to the side and leaned back in his chair, facing the window but obviously not looking outside. Victor and Gloria. He knew both of them well, but there were some aspects of their relationship that still puzzled him, made him wonder. But then, he never had a sister.

"You know Gloria," he said. "She's probably off on some adventure."

"She would've stayed in touch. When I called her cell number, her phone was turned off."

"Maybe she simply didn't want to be disturbed."

Victor started to pace, raking his fingers through his hair with each step. "I told you, Palmer, Gloria and I are on what you might say is the same wavelength. I've really got a hunch something's happened to her."

"Could be you're being an alarmist."

Stone didn't like what he was seeing here. More indication of instability in Victor. Gloria hadn't seemed upset when Stone had talked to her about her brother. On the other hand, she hadn't seemed surprised. There seemed no reason for Victor's consternation. He did know his sister was a lesbian with an active sex life, so why couldn't he accept the fact that she might right now be sleeping late in some ladylove's warm bed?

Victor clenched and unclenched his fists. "Listen, Palmer-"

But Stone raised a manicured forefinger for quiet as his phone rang. He snatched up the receiver.

Gloria, he hoped.

Victor paced and watched while the caller did most of the talking. Stone's mature, handsome features grew more and more set and pale.