Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [81]
“Here, buddy,” he said, tossing the pack of cigarettes into the trunk. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
It was only a little past dawn when he drove Jamie’s car out of the garage, into the empty streets. He stopped and closed the doors behind him—there was still a pool of dried blood where the car had sat, and he didn’t want anyone wandering in and seeing it until he had a chance to do something about it. He drove silently, grimly, through the growing light, needing a cigarette. At least it was a distraction—he could think about how much he was craving nicotine. It was a small pain compared to everything else, but it was a piece of suffering he could offer up to the angry gods who seemed determined to screw him over. Him, and everyone he’d ever cared about.
Wisconsin was a damned flat state, but there was Tucker’s Ravine, right on the edge of the county line. The scar in the land ran deep and narrow, and the trees and shrubs were a jungle in the summer. If he aimed the car just right it would disappear into that crevasse and not be found for decades. They wouldn’t be able to identify Mouser—he had no family, no record. Dillon didn’t even know his real name. Fingerprints would be long gone, and hell, maybe the wreck would never be found. He was counting on it.
He drove to the very edge of the bluff, climbed out and stepped back. It wouldn’t take much to send it over the edge, and he’d been thoughtful enough to fill the gas tank when he thought Jamie was going to drive away in it.
He walked around to the back of the sedan and began to push. There was a slight rise up to the very edge of the ravine, and the Volvo was a heavy mother. It finally began to move, and he felt the front wheels drop over the side.
He knocked on the trunk, a useless gesture of affection and farewell, as the car disappeared over the edge.
He watched it go, turning end over end, disappearing into the deep scar in the land, the noise muffled by the snow and the trees. The final explosion came from far away, and the flames were barely visible from the top of the bluff. He stood and watched until the fire died down, and there was nothing more than a faint plume of smoke.
It was snowing harder now. His hair was wet, as were his shoulders and his feet. He hadn’t bothered to change into boots, and his sneakers weren’t the best choice for deep, drifting snow. He didn’t give a shit. He wanted a cigarette, he wanted Mouser to be alive, he wanted Jamie. And he wasn’t going to get any of those things.
The six-mile hike back to the garage was physically miserable. The snow was a mixed blessing. It would cover up all trace of the Volvo’s descent into the ravine, and it kept people off the road who might see him. He only had to dive off the side of the road twice as cars passed. He didn’t expect anyone to find Mouser, but it was never a mistake to be careful.
The snow wasn’t going to be a treat for Jamie, though. The tires on the Caddie were good, and she was used to driving a rear-wheel-drive car, but there was a big difference between a full-size American car and a compact Volvo. And she wouldn’t be in the most stable state of mind. She’d just seen her first dead man, and she probably thought he’d killed him.
He didn’t give a shit what she thought. As long as she was gone, she was safe. And when it came right down to it, that was all that mattered.
It was late morning when he finally made it back to the garage. He was shivering—the snow had soaked through his sneakers, his shirt, plastered his hair against his head. He’d shoved his hands in his jeans pocket to keep them warm, but it hadn’t done much good. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it as he stared at his deserted kitchen.
He’d stretched Jamie across that table and almost had her. He’d played cards with Mouser, laughed and joked with him over the years. He’d sat at the table, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he listened to the muffled sounds of Nate being beaten to death.
He crossed the room and heaved the heavy oak table over, sending