Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [742]
Andrew sat back again, rubbing his jaw as if Tommy had just sucker punched him. The woman in question, an attractive redhead named Erin Cartlan, owned a small bookshop in lower Manhattan. They had met two years before when she introduced herself at Book Expo America and invited him to schedule a book signing at her store. She was attractive and witty, and he could still swear that she had been flirting with him that weekend though she denied it later, pretending not to know what he was even talking about. Since then they had maintained a sort of friendship, more professional than personal, although Andrew had to admit he constantly found himself hoping it would turn into something more.
Tommy was staring at him, shaking his head. “Crap, now I’ve got you thinking about her. You won’t get any writing done.”
“I think you just like to see me miserable.”
“That’s my whole point. I don’t like seeing you miserable. You’re missing what I’m saying here. You seem content to pine for a woman you can’t have. You write about crime scenes and autopsies but pass up opportunities to see them firsthand. You don’t even want to eat the fish you catch.” He shook his head. “From where I sit, that’s not exactly living life to its fullest.”
Andrew felt the heat crawl up his neck, but he kept the anger from his voice when he said, “I didn’t bring enough beers for this conversation.”
“You know I’m saying what I’m saying ’cause I care about you. You know that, right? Oh, fuck.” Tommy grabbed for his belt, twisting the electronic pager attached so he could read the LED. “Sorry, buddy, something’s going on. I’m gonna need to take off.”
Tommy grabbed his cell phone and started to leave but stopped at the porch door. “You sure you’re gonna be okay out here?”
Andrew shrugged with his good shoulder then nodded. “Yeah, of course.” But he was still thinking about Erin and wondering how he’d ever fill those blank notebook pages now.
CHAPTER 17
5:15 p.m.
Highway 50
Melanie stabbed at the button on the car’s door, locking and unlocking it, then finally bringing down her window. She needed to breathe. She needed some fresh air, some relief from the smell of vomit and blood. She gulped down the warm, damp wind then, grabbing her baseball hat before it blew away, she punched the button for the window to close.
“We need to backtrack,” Jared told her, sitting sideways in his seat and watching out the back window.
She saw the gun in his lap, his finger still on the trigger. In the rearview mirror she watched for Charlie. The gags and awful retching had stopped. Occasionally she saw his head bob up into view.
“I said we need to turn around.” Jared’s voice had returned to calm and demanding. “We need to dump this car.”
He reached into the back seat, and Melanie thought he was checking on Charlie. Instead, he grabbed Charlie’s gun by its nose, holding it as though it was contaminated. He opened his window and tossed the gun, flinging it into the grassy ditch. He kept his own gun in his lap while he reached into the back seat and pulled up his duffel bag.
“Turn around up here,” he told her again without looking at her or the road.
She heard the duffel bag’s zipper, but she kept her eyes on the highway, glancing in the rearview and side mirrors, watching, expecting at any minute to see them fill with blue and red flashing lights. The highway divided up ahead—he must mean the next intersection. She could see the road sign indicating the turnoff for Springfield. Oncoming traffic had tapered to a few cars. She could do a U-ie without much fuss. She started to slow down, watching the line of traffic behind her, some cars already moving over to the temporary passing lane to pass by them. She felt relief that none of the cars looked like police cruisers, yet the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach warned her it was pushing their luck to head back into the line of fire. But she had to trust that Jared knew what he was doing.
“Forget about it,” Jared said suddenly.