Authors: Bryan Smith
She took a moment to do just that. It didn’t magically wipe away her anxiety, but it did make it more manageable. She also experienced a rare moment of clarity in those precious few seconds. Mostly she lived in the moment and didn’t think much about the grim reality of her life. She was free now, but that couldn’t last forever, not after everything she’d done. It was like she’d told Dez. A day of reckoning was coming and it probably wasn’t that far down the road.
She glanced at her eyes in the rearview mirror.
Look at you.
She thought of the couple she’d shot down in the parking lot.
Look at what you’ve become.
The episode of melancholy was a scant few seconds in duration. Echo forced her eyes away from her reflection. Her path was set. There was nothing to do about any of it now. All she could do was keep on keeping on until she was dead.
Feeling more centered, she backed the Impala up and got it pointed in the right direction. She then drove at a reasonable speed until she hit the highway, at which point she checked her mirrors for police presence and, seeing none, put the pedal to the floor. This time she kept it there as the speedometer needle shot past eighty and then ninety.
The first set of taillights she encountered belonged to a boxy old Ford Escort. She swung into the passing land and drove past the ugly beige-colored car. A little silver-haired old lady sat hunched over the steering wheel, driving slowly. She flipped a middle finger at Echo as the Impala roared past.
Echo laughed.
The Impala’s wheels ate up mile after mile of highway. She passed several more cars, all of which were going too slow to have Lana behind the wheel. Just as she was about to give up and pull into a convenience store to purchase a disposable cell phone, she at last came up on the Corvette, which was going considerably slower than she had expected. She zoomed up behind it and flashed the Impala’s bright lights.
The Corvette slowed to a crawl and pulled over to the shoulder.
Echo pulled up behind it and got out with her gun held down by her leg, a precaution in case the preppy boys had somehow managed to turn the tables on Dez and Lana. The Corvette’s doors popped open.
Echo tensed and raised her gun.
Then she heaved a relieved breath as Dez and Lana came out of the Corvette with Micah in tow. Lana had hold of Micah by the back of his shirt collar. Her gun was jammed into the small of his back. He looked woozy and his face was more bloodied than before. They kicked the Corvette’s doors shut and hurried over to the Impala.
“Where’s the other one? Ogden?”
Dez grimaced. “Had to blow the Ogster’s brains out. Made a grab for my gun. It’s nasty in there now. Probably a good idea to change cars anyway.”
Echo nodded at Micah. “Why is he still alive?”
“He says he can lay his hands on some serious money.”
“Do you believe him?”
Dez shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care. If he can’t, I get to have other kinds of fun with him.”
Echo nodded.
Torture was the kind of fun she meant.
Dez grabbed a rag from the Impala’s trunk and hurried back over to the Corvette, where she got to work eliminating what DNA evidence she could. Echo figured it was a waste of time. Even if she got rid of all the fingerprints, there would be other traces. Hair and clothing fibers. All that CSI forensics shit.
Echo turned at the sound of an approaching engine. She raised a hand to cut the glare of low headlights. The car was moving at a ludicrously low rate of speed for highway travel. Echo smiled, realizing who it had to be even before she could discern the shape of the car.
She raised her gun and fired three times as the Ford Escort went puttering past. All three bullets penetrated the Escort’s rear window. A splash of blood slapped the front windshield. The car veered off the road into the grass median, sliding to a shuddering stop in the depression between sides of the highway.
Dez cocked an eyebrow at Echo as she returned from the Corvette. “The fuck was that about?”
“Little old lady flipped me off back down the road.”
Dez nodded. “Right.”
As if that made perfect sense.
They piled into the Impala and drove away from there.
Chapter Seventeen
Messengers of Love/Harbingers of Doom
A nondescript brown van is parked at the end of a long lane in a residential neighborhood. The van has tinted windows and was manufactured in the 1970’s. There are five human beings inside the van. Only three are alive. The deceased are Tod Clark and Paul Legerski, meth dealers who had the misfortune of possessing the right kind of vehicle required by their killers for certain illicit nocturnal activities.
The van’s living occupants are a young woman and two young men. They are all well-dressed and clean-cut in appearance. All three are good-looking types who smile easily and effortlessly project an illusory image of wholesomeness. Their names are Sally, Thomas and Joshua.
The van—referred to as a “creep van” by the trio of faux-wholesome killers—has been parked in its current spot for over an hour, long enough for the mescaline they’ve injected to take effect. Lucky for them, this is not their first trip. They know what to expect and eagerly anticipate the interesting ways the drug will enhance the experience ahead.
A creep van normally attracts attention in an upscale neighborhood, its residents being unaccustomed to the sight of decrepit vehicles manufactured in the previous century within the pristine environs. It’s the kind of thing that screams “potential criminal activity in progress”. That the young predators have not taken this into account is attributable to a variety of factors, most notably their perpetually altered minds and their youth (none of them are older than twenty). However, it is dark out and they have had the foresight to park in front of an unlit and currently unoccupied home. A forlorn-looking FOR SALE sign in the yard suggests the house has been on the market for some time. These things combine with a healthy dose of good luck to ensure that their presence—as well as their nefarious intent—goes entirely undetected.
Now that the mescaline is doing its thing, the time has come to fulfill the mission assigned them by their mentor. They pile out of the van and shut the doors on the bodies inside. Sally looks up at the clear sky above and smiles. It is a beautiful night. So many stars, twinkling so prettily against the canvas of dark sky.
She hums a merry tune as she leads the way down the street.
The pretty music issuing from the Klipsch speakers perfectly complemented the sensations country singer Melanie Montgomery was experiencing. John, her latest boyfriend, was on top of her on the leather sectional in her tastefully appointed living room. John was an aspiring musician who probably hoped a romance with her would enhance his own shaky standing in the industry. That was never going to happen. He simply wasn’t good enough. He was, however, very skilled in areas that mattered much more to Melanie. She loved the feel of his rough hands on her soft flesh, reveled in the way his mouth seemed to melt into hers as they kissed.
Her hands were under his shirt, her fingers probing the hardness of his back, when he abruptly broke off the kiss and said, “Did you know ‘Dear Prudence’ is about Mia Farrow, the actress?”
Melanie sighed. “I know all there is to know about every one of these songs.” Her fingers came away from his back and slid through the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Now shut up with the trivia and kiss me again.”
But he frowned, resisting when her fingers pressed against the back of his head. “She was a recluse at the time. That’s what the song is about. She was hiding away in her room without coming out for weeks at a time.”
Melanie became annoyed. “Right. I told you. I know. Your point?”
“It’s just depressing. I get sad every time I hear this song. Do you mind if I put on a different record?”
“This is my favorite record.”
A pained look crossed his face. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Not sorry enough.
She peered into his eyes and was struck as always by how open and soulful they were. He was a pretty man. His mediocre talent was such a shame. He made for a nice distraction, but she would have to cut him loose soon. She already had her eyes on a few prospects with better industry standing. She didn’t relish knowing she would have to hurt John—who had already started claiming he was in love with her—but it would be a necessary evil for the betterment of her career.
And nothing mattered more than her career.
So it couldn’t hurt to do him this one small kindness.
She touched his face lightly with her fingertips and smiled. “Okay. Change the record. Just be quick about it.” She traced the length of his bottom lip with the ball of her thumb. “You need to be kissing me again very soon.”
He smiled brightly and got up to head over to the turntable, where he started pawing through the crates of records beneath it. Though Melanie possessed nearly every modern technological gadget available, she preferred to listen to music the old-fashioned way. The warmer, fuller sound of vinyl was just plain better than sterile digital music.
Melanie’s love of music was a lifelong passion, one instilled in her by her late father, who’d been a singer of some renown in his own right. But music was more than a passion at this point. It was her life. Sales of her albums had earned her this beautiful house in this nice neighborhood. But for all she had accomplished, there remained so much untapped potential. There were so many different sounds she wished to create, so many different genres to explore. She longed to branch out and become more than just another country pop artist.
John stood up and displayed the record he had selected—Pink Floyd’s
Dark Side of the Moon
.
Melanie frowned. “That’s your idea of an antidote to depression? Jesus, John.”
He shrugged. “It’s one of my favorites. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it on vinyl.”
Melanie was a little annoyed with him, but she could appreciate an expression of genuine love for a piece of music. It was the kind of thing that always made people more interesting to her, especially men. “Fine. Put it on and get back over here.”
The doorbell rang as John lifted the lid on the turntable to remove the Beatles record. Melanie frowned and bit her bottom lip. It was past nine p.m. Who would be calling at this hour?
Her instinct was to ignore whoever it was. No one she knew would just show up unannounced this late. Also, this neighborhood didn’t get a lot of people selling things or peddling pamphlets door-to-door, but when that did happen, it was usually at a much earlier hour.
The doorbell rang again.
She sat up with a sigh and pulled worryingly at a strand of her long, silken-soft hair. John turned away from the turntable as the Pink Floyd record began to play. A blissful smile gave way to a look of concern as he saw her fretful expression. He glanced in the direction of the front door as the doorbell rang yet again.
He looked at Melanie. “You want me to get that?”
Melanie smiled. “I’ve got it.”
She appreciated his willingness to fulfill the role of the protective man, but she was suddenly sure it wasn’t necessary. No stranger would ring the bell with such obnoxious persistence. There was one person she knew who might do such a thing, someone who had, in fact, been guilty of this kind of behavior in the past, though it had been a while since the last time it happened.
The person she was thinking of was Tara Benson. Best friends since high school, they had moved to Nashville together after graduation to pursue country music stardom. They were a notorious duo in those early Nashville days, party girls who were always out and about and looking to make connections. Things soon started happening for both of them, but Tara ran into some booze-related problems, culminating in a string of DUI arrests. She had been shakily sober for more than a year now, but Melanie had long suspected a tumble off the wagon was inevitable.
And if that had happened, it made sense Tara would drop by Melanie’s house without calling ahead. She probably wanted to drag her old friend out to a club to relive the good old days. Melanie put her hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. She then put a fake smile on her face and opened the door.
Her smile melted, giving way to a frown.
It wasn’t Tara on the porch.
John called out to her from somewhere behind her. “Who is it, babe?”
There were three young people outside. None of them looked more than a year or two out of high school. The girl’s perfect blonde hair and conservative outfit made her look like a character out of a 50’s sitcom. The boys flanking her wore khaki pants and starched white shirts. Narrow, neatly knotted black ties dangled from their necks. One of the boys was holding a briefcase. They looked sort of like Mormons, though it was of course unusual for Mormon kids to come around yammering about their missions or whatever this late at night.
She glanced over her shoulder at John. “Just some Mormon kids.” She put her fake smile back on to address the young religious zealots. “Look, I hate to be rude, but it’s really late…”
Melanie trailed off when she saw that the one boy was opening his briefcase. He flipped the lid open and pulled out a hatchet. The other boy removed another hatchet.