In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [87]
The front door slammed behind him, caught by the wind. He stopped short, staring at the massive silver truck parked outside. He read the name on the side. MOVING ON. What the hell was she doing, driving a moving truck? Was Ed Vincent moving out? Tonight?
The wind threw itself at him like a prize wrestler, and he was breathless as well as soaked when he reached the rented Taurus. Jeez, what a night. What the hell was he doing here anyway?
Cursing, he turned the ignition. There was a choking sound, then nothing. He tried again. The car was dead. There went his quick getaway. How the fuck was he going to get out of here?
The stupid Cuban had ruined his night. It should all have been so easy. And now there was the woman to worry about. And what the hell had happened to Ed Vincent anyway?
His hand rested on the Sigma tucked into his belly band. This was getting complicated. He guessed he would have to kill the woman too. Later, he could dump both bodies in the ocean. With these waves, they would be dragged miles out to sea, maybe never found.
But that meant he would have to wait out the storm before he could get away. And his car wouldn’t start.
He suddenly realized that the only vehicle that could possibly make it across that bridge now was the big moving van.
He went back into the house. Clicked off the lights.
He grabbed the woman on the first scream, but she fought him. And she was strong, like a live electric wire, jumping all over the place. Big as he was, it was tough to hold her. She got away from him, but he moved quicker. He was in the truck first. And then he had her.
Or he thought he had, until she drove the goddamn truck right into that tree.
Gus thought his own end had come, but it was the woman who had caught the full force of it. She lay across the seat, blood streaming from her head, as still as death. And he was a man who had seen death enough times to recognize it.
48
Somehow, Gus had made it back to the hotel. His bedraggled, rain-soaked appearance drew no comment; after all, it was a hurricane and he surely didn’t stand out in the crowd.
Later, he had caught the news report, seen them remove her body using the Jaws of Life.
He had stared, fascinated, at the scene unfolding on the hotel room TV screen, wondering how the hell he had managed to get out unscathed from the mangled cab, with the tree still on top of it. And then they had said she was still alive.
Stunned, he’d watched the ambulance rush her off to the hospital, where, they said later, she had been treated for a fractured skull and a concussion. “Lucky,” the news reporter said. “Lucky she wasn’t dead in such a terrible crash, when the huge, old tree crushed the cab.”
Huh. They didn’t know how lucky. That tough bitch must have nine lives. Nine? Gus hoped it was only three and that the third time the luck would be with him. He sighed again. Right now, the odds were definitely not in his favor.
He had been clever enough to wait it out there in the hotel room. Late the following night, when the hurricane had finally blown itself out, he had rented a sport-utility vehicle and driven back to the beach house.
His heart had pounded and his palms sweated as he approached that bridge. The thought of attempting to cross it again was not good, but this time at least the crippled bridge was above water.
The cleanup had not been easy, either. He’d brought scrub brushes, cloths, stain remover. There was a lot of blood, but fortunately the dark Oriental rug didn’t show it too badly.
He’d cleaned up the mess, put the Cuban’s body in the big cooler he had bought. Then he had taken out the Europa, weighted the cooler with chains, pushed it overboard, and thrown the Sigma in after it. He had watched it sink beneath the swell. It had been rough out there, but he was okay, he knew his way around a boat and got it safely