CHAPTER

44

Vance Coury’s silver hair caught moonlight. A black leather headband held it in place. The musk of his aftershave managed to seep through the scorched air.

He shined the flashlight in my face, shifted the beam to Bill, lowered it and held it at an angle that brightened the forest floor. As the white spots cleared from my eyes, I made out the rectangle in his right hand. Columnar snout. Machine pistol.

He said, “Up.” Businesslike. Tying up loose ends.

He wore light-colored, grease-stained mechanics overalls—outfitted for messy work. Something flashed around his neck—probably the same gold chain I’d seen at the garage.

I got to my feet. My head still rang from the explosion.

“Walk.” He motioned to his right, back to the clearing.

“What about him?” I said.

“Oh, yeah, him.” He leveled the pistol downward, peppered Bill’s frame with a burst that nearly cut the blind man in two.

The fragments of Bill’s corpse bucked and flopped and were still.

Coury said, “Any more questions?”

He marched me out of the forest. A pile of cinders, snarls of electrical conduit, random stacks of bricks, and twisted metal chairs were the remnants of the little green house. That and something contorted and charred, lashed and duct-taped to a chair.

“Playing with matches,” I said. “Bet you liked that as a kid.”

“Walk.”

I stepped onto the gravel path. Keeping my head straight but moving my eyes back and forth. Nacho Vargas’s corpse remained where it had fallen. No sign of Aimee or Bert.

A cloud of musk hit my nostrils, sickly sweet as a Sacher torte. Coury, walking close behind me.

“Where we going?” I said.

“Walk.”

“Walk where?”

“Shut up.”

“Where are we going?”

Silence.

Ten steps later, I tried again. “Where we going?”

He said, “You are really stupid.”

“Think so?” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the short man’s silver gun and wheeling fast.

Inertia caused him to pitch forward, and we nearly collided. He tried to step back, free the machine pistol, but couldn’t get enough room to maneuver. Stumbled.

He hadn’t bothered to pat me down. Overconfident rich kid who’d never grown up. All those years of getting away with bad stuff.

The little silver gun shot forward, as if of its own accord. Coury’s goatee spread as his mouth opened in surprise.

I focused on his tonsils, shot three times, hit with every bullet.

I took his machine pistol and pocketed the silver gun, scurried off the gravel, found refuge behind a sycamore. Waited.

Nothing.

Stepping on greenery to muffle my footsteps, I inched forward, heading toward the road. Wondering who and what awaited me there.

I’d been overconfident, too, thinking Vargas and the small man had made up the entire army. Too important a job for a pair of thugs.