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Back We Were Killers Once Save as PDF
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

With Gloria’s approval, Beaufort had subsequently adopted a dog from the local shelter. There were lots of pit bull mixes that no one wanted, but he chose a three-legged dog with scruffy fur and big eyebrows. The assistant at the shelter told him it was a mix between a poodle and a schnauzer—a shnoodle named Achilles. They were so glad someone wanted that dog they treated Beaufort like a saint. No one suspects a man walking a small dog, especially if the dog’s name is Achilles, especially if the dog has only three legs. Beaufort had never had a dog before, but when he brought it home Gloria looked at him like he was a saint, too. He didn’t realize what points the thing would score. When all this was over he wouldn’t just dump the dog somewhere, he’d take it back to the pound. Or if they really got along, then he’d take Achilles with him when he left.

He had gone to the little library annex in a strip mall next to the motel where he had stayed. There on the computer he brought up Google Earth and located the satellite image of the house. Sweet. Neighbors on both sides, nothing in the back but a hill that sloped down to the Cañada del Oro wash with scrub cactus threaded by smaller washes that were bone dry this time of year. A path had been worn along the top of the arroyos that made for easy walking and had no cactus to lodge itself in either man or beast. Good place to walk a dog.

He felt nervous, now that he was getting closer, and the nerves caused that acid in his gut that made him chew handfuls of Tums without much effect. But he told himself over and over and over that, even if this guy knew what had actually happened, it didn’t mean he would recognize Beaufort. Nobody would. And if the guy had in his possession what Beaufort thought he had—it made sense, didn’t it, that he had it?—the guy wouldn’t know what he had. If he did, he would have sold it, and Santangelo would have found out. Everyone would know.

Know what? What did Hickock say? The thoughts tumbled over themselves, gravel in a concrete mixer. His mind wandering, his feet didn’t pay attention. Beaufort slid down the steep slope of a small arroyo off the path, and crashed to his knees while the dog, still attached to the leash, had managed to stay up on the edge and was now looking at him with some curiosity, possibly thinking the human would be better off with a third leg. Beaufort stood, found that he hadn’t damaged anything, and lifted the dog across the arroyo to the other side before scrambling up there himself.