Page 17 of Sting
“Where you tied me up.”
“No, I drove five or six miles before stopping to do that. When I stretched you out in the backseat, you groaned a couple of times but didn’t wake up. I used a bottle of water to wash off your face. That didn’t bring you around, either.”
She glanced down at her stained top. Her face would have been similarly spattered with… She didn’t want to think about the matter he had washed off her. Nor did she want to think about him washing her, touching her, handling her.
They were getting farther away from the car and the weak circle of light it provided. The ground had turned spongy. The heels of her sandals sank into it with each step, making walking difficult. Whenever she stumbled, his hand tightened around her elbow to help her regain her balance, but he never let go and continued to prod her forward.
Perhaps he’d only said that about negotiating a deal to put her at ease, to get her to cooperate, go peacefully, so he wouldn’t have to exert himself overly much to finish the job.
Keeping her voice as steady as possible, she said, “You’ll be caught, you know.”
“Not anytime soon. They don’t know what I’m driving.”
“They’ll get a description of the car from someone who saw you leave the parking lot.”
“No one did. I made sure of it. I went a full mile before turning on the headlights, and, anyway, I didn’t meet a single other vehicle on that backwoods road. When I stopped to tie you up, I also changed the license plates. That precaution was well worth the few minutes it took. I switched them from Louisiana to, uh, Arkansas, I think. Or was it Tennessee?”
“If you had states to choose from, you went prepared.”
“Credit goes to Mickey. Before we set out for Tobias he stashed a collection of extra plates in the trunk.”
“That doesn’t sound like someone who’d grown sloppy.”
“His ego was more bloated than his belly. Thought he couldn’t be caught. That kind of arrogance is a recipe for disaster. He drew attention to himself, made himself memorable. If you’re a hit man, those are bad habits.”
“Won’t executing him draw attention to you and make you memorable?”
He actually chuckled. “No doubt.”
“That doesn’t concern you?”
“No.”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t. Here.” Suddenly, he steered her off the uneven track and into tall weeds.
Her heart clutched. Despite her vituperative outburst of only a few minutes earlier, she was now in the grip of mortal fear and couldn’t hold back a whimper. Was he raising his pistol? Would she hear the click when he pulled the trigger? Would she experience pain? Or just…nothingness? Please God.
She would appeal to God for her life. She would not beg him to spare it.
When they drew even with a stout hardwood, he began unbuttoning the fly of his jeans with his free hand. She looked up at him, unable to conceal her dismay.
“What?” This time, there was a taunting quality to his voice which matched the tilt of one corner of his mouth. “I told you I had to take a leak. Wha’d you think?”
“You know what I thought, you son of a bitch.”
Her anger seemed to amuse him. He made a derisive sound and turned slightly toward the tree. “Unless you want an eyeful, better close them.”
She did and didn’t reopen them until he said, “Okay, it’s safe to look.”
He had buttoned up but was now digging into the front pocket of his jeans. Her heart tripped when he withdrew a knife. It was small, but a flick of his fingers released a wicked-looking blade. “Turn around.” She hesitated, causing him to frown. “You want your hands freed or not?”
She was still mistrustful, but the promise of having her hands loosed was too enticing to resist. She turned her back to him and wanted to weep with relief when the knife snapped through the plastic grip. As she came around, she shook feeling back into her hands. “Thank you.”
He slid the knife into his pocket. “You can go behind the tree.”
Realizing now why he had unbound her hands, she shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
