Still Lake - Anne Stuart [70]
And maybe pigs could fly. It didn’t matter—she was getting out of here, all by herself, for a few hours. She’d play the stereo in her car very loud, something upbeat and cheerful like the Beach Boys, and she wouldn’t think about Grace, or Marty, or murdered women, or sex, or how strangers were going to come and take over her house. She wouldn’t think about going upstairs to that big rumpled bed in the Whitten house and just hiding there. With him.
And most of all, she wouldn’t think about the damned tingle in her body that had haunted her the whole goddamned day.
Shit.
15
He followed her. The rain had begun again, no more than a fine misting that coated his windshield. The roads were wet, even a bit slick. It would be simple enough. She was an out-of-stater, not used to the peculiarities of Vermont roads. It wouldn’t surprise anyone if she had an accident. After all, she’d been working too hard, worrying about her mother and sister. She’d been distracted. Could happen to anyone.
He hated to do it. He was starting to repeat himself, and he knew that was dangerous. As long as he used a different method each time the police were helpless. Most of the time they didn’t even realize there was anything suspicious about it. Just another tragic accident.
But he’d already done a car accident, just three years ago, in the same area. The victim had been a teenage wanton, and she’d died with her lover. This time it would be a presumably virtuous newcomer, old enough to know better. There’d be nothing to connect the two. Only the fact that he knew them both. But then, everyone in Colby knew everyone else—there was nothing suspicious about that. God spoke to him, told him what he must do. And if he was directed toward a stranger, he had no choice but to listen to the Word and act accordingly. Faith was a lost virtue. He took the Word on faith, and dispensed justice and God’s wrath without compunction.
As he would tonight, with Sophie Davis.
He kept his distance in the rain, a set of anonymous headlights in the murky darkness. She was driving a little faster than usual—he couldn’t blame her. She was running from her wickedness, from her lost soul. She was a good girl—he’d known that when he’d first seen her from a distance. But even virtuous women could fall.
She was heading out toward Route 16, and he nodded to himself. It was a sign. Route 16 between Colby and Hampstead was usually deserted, and there were sharp curves, a steep drop-off, and a deep pond near the road. There was even Dutchman’s Falls. He could choose any of those places.
He reached over and pushed the tape into the player mounted in the dashboard of the old truck. He’d put different labels on the tapes, and no one would ever search through his belongings, play one of his tapes. None of them would ever know that he listened to whores, singing their siren songs in his ear as he sought to do justice.
It was Madonna tonight, particularly fitting since he’d thought Sophie Davis was a good woman. The bitch was singing about prayer, and his hands clenched the steering wheel tightly.
He didn’t want to run her off the road. His distress and disillusionment was so deep he wanted to use his hands, so that she’d know why she was dying. He didn’t want it fast and anonymous. She needed to know why, so she could repent.
The curve by Dutchman’s Falls would be the spot. The road fell away sharply there, and her Subaru would tumble end over end, crushing her. It was steep enough that nothing would slow the car’s descent, and he could drive back to Colby, secure that he had done his duty.
He passed her on the flat stretch, driving fast so she wouldn’t recognize the truck. Not that she knew his truck, of course. But he hadn’t survived for so long doing God’s work without paying attention to details. He’d considered borrowing a