"To my favorite husband," she said, grinning.
They clicked their glasses together. A few chunks of wet, grainy salt fell off Pac's rim into Harney's glass. Other crumbs sprinkled the back of her hand.
The margarita tasted fine to Pac.
As she took a few sips, Harney said, "And to your most spectacular dress."
She grinned.
"And to the body inside that gives it the spectacle."
She laughed.
She had bought the dress especially for tonight -- as a treat for Harney.
Back at the house, when she'd stepped out of the bedroom wearing it, Harney's eyes had gotten wide and his jaw had dropped. "Whoa," he'd said.
"Like it?"
Smiling stupidly, shaking his head and blinking, he'd said, "That's a great slip. Where's the dress?"
"This is the dress, genius."
"Whoa."
"Should I change into something else?"
"No!" He'd started coming toward her.
She'd held up a hand. "Freeze, buster. You can look, but you can't touch. Not till later. That has to wait for after dinner."
"Oh, you're cruel."
"Oh, yes."
She'd slowly turned around for him. The backless blue gown, held up in front by a cord that tied behind her neck, flowed against her skin like warm water. She'd already seen, in the mirror, how it clinged to every curve and how it left her sides bare all the way down to her hips. Viewed from either side, if she moved an arm out of the way, a slope of breast could be seen rising from her ribcage. The skirt was long enough to hang below her knees and loose enough to sway lightly, drifting against her body, caressing her.
In Harney's eyes, she'd seen stunned delight. "Happy anniversary, honey."
"Yeah. Good God." Shaking his head, he'd asked, "What are you wearing under that?"
"Just me."
He'd moaned. He'd swallowed. "That's what I thought." Laughing softly, he'd asked, "So, where's your gun?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"I can see you're not wearing it anywhere. You're not, are you?"
"That's for me to know."
"And for me to find out?"
"Like I said, no touching allowed."
"Would you like to lift your skirt?"
"No, I would not, you lech."
Now, as Pac sipped her margarita, Harney set down his glass. He stared into her eyes. "There's something I need to talk to you about," he said.
The words pounded fear into her. They shriveled her insides, sucked her breath out, made her heart pound painfully hard and quick.
"What?"
"Don't take this the wrong way, okay?"
Oh, my God! I don't want to hear this.
"What?" she asked again, feeling weak and sick.
"It's in your purse."
"Huh?"
A wide, mischievous smile split Hartley's face. "Your gun. It's in your purse."
She gaped at him.
"I've had plenty of chances to look you over. Especially getting into and out of the car. I can now say with complete certainty that you're wearing the gun nowhere on your body. Since you're required to carry it, I can only conclude that it's concealed in your purse."
"You . . . !"
He laughed.
"You scared the hell out of me."
"I know. I'm terrible."
"You'll get yours, buster."
"I'm counting on it."
"Or maybe you won't."
"Aw, come on. I was just trying to cheer you up, take your mind off the other situation for a while."
"Well, you succeeded. I thought you were about to dump me or confess to an affair or something."
"Never."
"Never say never."
"Never."
The way he said it, Pac suddenly felt her throat tighten and tears rush to her eyes. She reached across the table. He took hold of her hand and squeezed it gently.
"I love you so much," she whispered.
"How could you not?"
She laughed. "Jerk." She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn't let go.
"I love you, too," he said.
They stared into each other's eyes. Since Harney still clutched her right hand, she used her left to wipe away her tears. "I wish we were home right now," she said.
"Want to leave?"
She thought about it for a few moments, then said, "We'd better not. I mean . . . we'd better go ahead and order dinner. We reserved the table and everything. Besides, we've got to eat."
"I suppose so."
"The restraint will be good for our souls."
"Ah, very true."
Pac slipped her hand out of his, took another drink of margarita, then picked up one of the menus. She read the list of a la carte items, then the lists of dinners. It came down to a choice between a came asada plate and a tostado de chorizo. She pictured each in her mind, and thought about how they would taste.
Harney, sipping his margarita, hadn't picked up the other menu.
"Aren't you going to look at the menu?"
"I already know what I want to eat," he said, and wiggled his eyebrows.
Pac scowled at him, but his words had triggered a surge of heat. "Let's not be crude, darling."
His eyebrows flew up. "Huh? Crude? I was speaking of enchiladas."
"Sure."
"I always have enchiladas, you know that. What are you going to have?"
"I feel like having some pork," she said.
"Oh! Now who's being crude?"
"Or maybe some tongue."
"Jeez, Pac."
She lowered her eyes to the menu. "There it is right there, taco de lingua. That's tongue taco, isn't it?"
"I dare you to order it."
"Double dare me?" Pac asked.
"Think you're married to an idiot? I know darn well that double-dares go first."
"Cobarde."
"I'm having the cheese enchilada dinner."
"You always order that. Why don't you live a little dangerously for a change?"
"I like enchiladas. If I like something, what's wrong with sticking to it?"
"You get in a rut," Pac said.
"Let's not talk about ruts," Harney said.
"There you go, getting crude again."
"Me crude?" Leaning forward, he whispered, "You're the one sitting there without any panties on."
She frowned down at her menu. "I think maybe I will have the tongue."
Harney squirmed, glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention, then dropped his fork on the floor.
"Oh, no you don't," Pac said.
Harney ducked underneath the table.
Pac took a quick look around. The booth enclosed them on three sides, and nobody at any of the nearby tables was in a position to watch.
She slid her skirt up above her knees, swung her legs wide apart and slowly brought them back together.
A few seconds later, Harney sat up. He looked a little flushed.
"Is everything okay?" Pac asked.
He swallowed, nodded, gave her a shaky smile, and held up his fork. "Found it."
"Find anything else of interest down there?"
"Oh, man," he said. "Yeah."
"And what might that've been?"
Grinning, he raised his other hand and showed her a shiny coin. "Found me a penny."
As they both laughed, the waiter returned. Pac asked for the carne asada plate, and Harney ordered the cheese enchilada dinner.
"Would you care for more margaritas?" the waiter asked.
Harney met Pac's eyes. She gave him a nod. "Sure," he said. "Why not?"
He waited for the waiter to leave, then said, "I thought you wanted the tongue taco, darling."
"Maybe later," she said. "If I still have room for it."
Chapter Thirty-three
The Bag Man
When he heard the distant truck, the man stood up. He brushed pine needles off his jeans. As he hurried down the wooded slope, the weighted bottom of the plastic garbage bag bumped against the side of his knee.
He stopped at the edge of the four-lane highway. Only darkness in both directions.
The truck's diesel engine grew louder, but he knew there was plenty of time. With the steep grade of that approach, the truck would be powering upward at a crawl until it reached the crest a hundred yards to his left. Then it would start gaining speed. He would be able to see the light of its headbeams, but the truck itself wouldn't appear until it rounded the curve about fifty feet away.
By then, it wouldn't stand a chance of stopping in time.
Or swerving quickly enough.
If it came down in the slow lane -- and they nearly always did -- it wouldn't be likely to miss. Not likely at all.
He stepped out into the lane, lowered the plastic bag onto the pavement, and reached inside.
Chapter Thirty-four
On The Road
Judy Billings didn't like driving at night, especially on these dark mountain roads. "Why can't they put up streetlights?" she asked.
"Out here?" Larry sounded as if he questioned her sanity. "This is the boonies. Boonies haven't got streetlights."
"I don't see why not."
"Would you like me to take over the driving?"
"Oh, you'd like that."
"I'm hell on wheels."
"You'd kill us both."
"Me? Not I. I'm hell on wheels."
"You're smashed."
"Me? Not I."
"Oh yes you are. You must've drunk at least ten beers."
"Me?"
"If not more."
"Me?"
"You're drunk as a skunk."
"Stinking drunk?" he asked, and laughed.
"If you hadn't been such a hog . . ."
"Not a hog, a skunk. You said skunk. Can't you make up your mind?"
"If you hadn't made such a hog out of yourself, they wouldn't have run out of beer and Dad wouldn't have sent us out here in the middle of the night. . . ."
"He needs ice cubes, too," Larry pointed out. "I did not hog ice cubes. Or skunk them, either. Not that I am entirely innocent in the matter of the missing ice cubes."
"Where is this liquor store supposed to be?" Judy asked.
"Just a couple of miles."
"It'd better be open."
"It's always open."
"I'll bet."
"Never fear, we'll buy the beer."
"Cute."
"Thank you. I'm a poet and my feet show it."
"They're Tennysons."
That broke up Larry, and he laughed so hard that he fell sideways against Judy. She shoved him away with her elbow. "Cut it out! You'll get us killed." As if to prove her point, she found herself suddenly barreling down on the rear of an eighteen-wheeler.
Her foot jumped to the brake pedal. "Shit!"
"Go around it," Larry said.
Chugging up the hill, the truck moved so slowly that it almost seemed motionless.
"Go around it!" Larry repeated, this time urgently as they rushed toward its tail.
Judy swerved into the fast lane just in time to miss the left rear corner of the truck.
"Jesus H. Christ on a rubber crutch!" Larry cried out, his voice filled with fright and relief. "You damn near got us killed!"
"Not I," Judy said, and smiled nervously. "I'm hell on wheels."
With the truck behind her, she swung in front of it. For a moment, its headbeams filled her rear-view mirror, their brightness hurting her eyes. Then the glare disappeared. She was over the crest of the hill.
"Congratulate me?" she asked.
"For what, almost getting us killed? Holy jumping Jesus, this'll teach me to ride with a goddamn . . . What's that?"
Judy shook her head. She didn't know what it was: a rock, maybe, or some sort of ball. But she knew she didn't want to run over it.
Suddenly, Larry cried out as if frightened awake by a nightmare.
In the headlights, Judy saw that the thing on the road had blond hair. Its wide eyes looked up into hers.
She screamed and jerked the steering wheel.
Larry reached over, grabbed the wheel, and wrenched it from her hands.
"No!" she yelled.
The head looked about to scream as the car bore down on it.
Judy waited, horrified, for the bump.
It didn't come.
Her eyes lifted to the rear-view mirror. In the brief red sweep of her brake lights, she saw the head untouched on the pavement.
"We missed it!" she blurted.
"Passed right over it."
"Should we stop?"
"Are you kidding? Anyway, the truck's gonna nail it."
"Oh my God." Judy stepped on the gas.
When he saw the hair-draped face looking up at the headbeams of his tractor trailer rig, Charlie Farrow muttered, "Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit" until he felt a subtle change in the smoothness of the pavement and knew that his right front tires had mashed the head.
Chapter Thirty-five
After Dinner
"Could you use some dessert?" Harney asked.
Pac groaned. "Don't mention food. Please."
"How about some coffee?"
She smiled. "That's another story."
"Here or somewhere else?"
"Here would be fine. What time is it?"
Harney glanced at his wristwatch. "Almost nine-thirty."
Pac suddenly felt a little sick. "Excuse me, okay? I'd better go and call about Faye. You can go ahead and order the coffees, okay?"
"Sure."
Pac scooted out of the booth. She straightened her dress as she stood up, then walked toward the back of the restaurant.
The public telephone was located in an alcove near the restrooms. She slipped the directory off its shelf under the phone and looked up Jones. There were two listings for Jones, I., and neither listing included the street address.
Though Pac had phoned Faye several times in the past, she'd never bothered to memorize the number.
She considered calling directory assistance.
Only two numbers. I've got a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right on the first try.
So she dropped in a quarter and dialed the first Jones, I. After a couple of rings, a man said, "Hello?"
"Bass?"
"What?"
"Is this Bass?"
"Nope, it's Trout."
"Is this the home of Ina Jones?" Pac asked.
"Nope, Irene."
"I must have called the wrong number. Sorry about that."
"We all make mistakes, honey pot."
Very nice.
"Goodnight," Pac said, and hung up.
She tried the second Jones, I. This time, the phone rang eleven times but nobody answered it. She hung up, collected her coin, then searched the directory until she found the number for Paxton, Bass.