Authors: Stan Crowe
Fifty dollars bought her a wide-brimmed cowgirl hat. Between that, some sunglasses, and several sticks of cotton candy to cover her face, she did her best to fit in while stalking Clint for the rest of the day. He finally set up his own trap by cornering himself in the very RV she’d once made him believe had been torched. When he’d gone inside with the Sullivan woman for a second time that evening, Molly was certain Sullivan was going to force Clint into something stupid and intimate. That couldn’t be allowed. Molly screwed a silencer onto her Glock, slipped in some ear plugs to save her hearing, and made for the wishouse.
Before she could reach the RV, a truckload of cowboys roared to a stop, and a haggard old woman had staggered out, acting as though she’d had too much to drink. Molly guessed the woman may be the gypsy Clint had once told her about—Aunt Fey; the one who had granted Clint the power to drive women mad with the slightest contact. Molly sighed; this meant another witness to deal with—probably an innocent one at that. It was simply the old woman’s bad luck to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Molly closed on the bus like a shark to blood, ignoring the reproof of the old woman. When the side door locked, she immediately began searching for another entrance, only to be favored with the gypsy pushing the door open again. Molly was there in an instant, covering her target at point blank. The weird, red backlighting was comfortably dim, and the old-fashioned interior a refreshing change from the sterile office spaces she so often worked in.
She stepped inside to find Clint holding the Sullivan woman close. Her red hair was mussed, her eyes still slightly bleary from sleep. Clint had a thin sheen of sweat on his face, and was holding the attorney like a prized possession, positioning himself between her and Molly’s weapon. Over the stench of farm animal and food remnants, Molly could detect the scent of fear.
“Hello, Clint,” Molly said. “I’ve been missing you.”
“I thought you said you don’t miss,” he replied.
She looked at him thoughtfully, remembering a time when he had once held her the way he now held Sullivan—guarding her against her idiot peers in a time before she’d learned how to protect herself. Why had he gone and made this so difficult?
“I don’t,” Molly said simply. “I’ll make this simple, Clint. Her, or me. I won’t even pretend this has anything to do with Jane or her father anymore.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Jane’s not my type.”
“Not Jane. Miss Sullivan,” Molly said coolly. “Jane was history the morning she tried using you.”
Molly gestured with the gun. “You,” she said to the gypsy, “please step back toward the other two.”
“You’re really asking to find out what my curses taste like, aren’t you, you little stick figure?” was the reply.
Molly ignored the remark, and kept her eyes on Clint. “I didn’t come here to threaten anyone. I know things are difficult for you, Clint. Let me continue taking care of it. I
know
you. She doesn’t.” Molly nodded at Sullivan, and then slid the gun into the side of her skirt. “See? I’m not crazy.
“My truck is waiting outside,” she added. “We can spend the night in Vegas, and go from there.”
“And if I don’t want to go?” he asked.
That stung. “Clint,” she asked, turning on her small voice, “this is me. Molly. ‘Molly Molly, friend of Holly.’ Don’t you remember? How long have we been together? I know everything that makes you ‘you.’ Your laugh. Your smile. Your big heart. Your stupid jokes.”
“I got ’em from a newsstand,” he said. “You get what you pay for.” He pivoted fully toward her, still keeping Sullivan behind his back.
Molly almost smiled. “See? That’s the man I know. The man I love. The man who loves me in return.
She
doesn’t know that man, Clint. All you ever were to her was a paycheck.”
“That’s not true,” Sullivan cut in. “I’ve known Clint since I was fifteen.”
“When was that?” Molly asked flatly. “Three years ago?”
Sullivan shoved her way past Clint, and strode toward Molly. Clint grabbed at Sullivan’s elbow, but the feisty redhead shook it off and planted herself a breath away from Molly.
Perfect.
“You think you’re the only one who knows Clint?” Sullivan asked. “So I was a bit late to the game. Sue me. I can promise you I’ve put more tears into that man than you
ever
will. In fact, I doubt that little stone face of yours can even cry.”
Molly raised an eyebrow. “You talk like someone who does nothing
but
cry.” She looked over the woman’s shoulder to see Clint. He’d stepped up behind Sullivan. “Clint? I’m trying to picture you chained to someone who cries all the time. Can you see that?”
Sullivan slapped Molly. Or at least tried to. Molly’s block was automatic, but she kept it purely defensive; no need to injure anyone. Yet. Sullivan tried and failed twice more and then pouted about her failure in silence.
“Alright, you pesky little punks,” Fey cut in. “We’re closed. I’ve got rodeo studs to think about, and Altimus will need to dump his dinner outside soon. Go play your stupid teenage love games outside, and
leave me alone
,” the gypsy exclaimed.
“Stay out of this, Fey,” Sullivan growled.
“What do you mean ‘stay out of this’? You’re in
my
house. My house, my rules. All of you,
out
!”
“You. Goat lady,” Molly said, not taking her eyes off Sullivan. “Tell me what you do for fun.”
“What’s it to you?”
“You
are
the one that made trouble for my friend Clint?”
“That hotty made trouble for himself when he wished for a way to be irresistible to the ladies. I could have told him he was
before
he went and wasted a perfectly good wish on something like that.”
This was intriguing. “And do you grant any wish?” Molly asked.
“Not quite, and only one per customer. And not to you.”
“I’ve got a forty-caliber hollow point shell that says otherwise.”
The gypsy shrugged. “I guess I can be convinced. That doesn’t mean it’d work.”
“Hey, Mols?” Clint said. “We’re a bit busy here. I don’t know where you got the idea that you and me were an item, but—”
Molly was the only one who seemed to expect the hissing pop that followed. She took the Glock’s recoil in her forearm and stomach, exhaling sharply. Sullivan jerked backward, clutching her chest. She lurched into Clint, and then went down.
“Lindsay!” Clint instantly dropped to his knees next to her.
“You
moron
,” the gypsy yelled. “That’s going to stain the linoleum!”
“Send me the bill,” Molly said.
“What in
blue blazes
did you just do, Molly? You friggin’
shot
her!”
“She wrote her own death sentence, Clint. She confused you. Made you lie to me. Stole you from me. I’ve done you a favor—she’s not someone you’ll have to think about anymore.”
Sullivan was gasping and weeping on the floor, grimacing and trying not to scream. Molly felt sincerely bad for the woman. Aside from the fact that she was a man-stealing skank, she had proven incredibly resourceful and intelligent. She’d make a good agent herself. Provided Clint chose to let her live.
Almost as if in slow motion, Molly watched Clint leap toward her, grasping desperately for her Glock. She sidestepped the charge, and easily brought her knee up into his gut. He doubled over, and then crashed into the ancient electric stove in the RV’s cooking area. His weight spun Molly a quarter turn, but she used the momentum and went a full one-eighty, ending with a light hop that placed her next to the bleeding redhead. She pointed the pistol toward the other woman’s forehead, and looked back at Clint.
“Clint,” Molly said, her eyes pleading. “This—her—is not what you want. This life on the run from women who will never love you—never understand you. She
left
you without saying goodbye. I’m giving you what you
really
want.”
Clint had regained his feet. “Sully,” was all he could say.
Molly felt her heart melt at the terrified concern masking his face. Forcing aside the pain of watching Clint hurt, she moved her hand into the trigger guard. “I know Miss Sullivan had made you think you feel something for her,” she said almost reverently. “I’ll grant you a moment of male idiocy. Let’s play this game. I have a pistol and a wish. You’ve got neither. Her life is in my hands, and all I want is for you to follow through with what you promised me already, even if you’ve temporarily forgotten that promise. I’d say it’s checkmate.”
Clint stood slightly. “I can’t believe you’d do this. This isn’t the Molly I know.”
“You didn’t get the memo?”
“This isn’t funny, Molly. You
shot
her.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You never do.”
“You made me laugh,” she whispered. “When no one else ever did. Even if you never saw it.”
He paused mid-word, a thoughtful look on his face. “Really?”
She nodded. “I love you, Clint. I
need
you. Please understand.”
On the floor, Sullivan was still writhing and choking. A quick glance at the red patch spreading beneath her was enough for Molly to know that Sullivan would no longer be an obstacle.
I’m way too good at homicide
, she thought. In her heart of hearts, she knew she was wrong—dead wrong. Moral concerns fought their way to the surface of her conscious, only to be squashed again by the inner rage that demanded Clint be solely at her disposal, heart, body and soul. She’d fought those feelings ever since his first touch, but she could fight no longer. She didn’t
want
to fight. She only wanted him; rationale had nothing to do with it.
“Molly, we need to dial Nine-One-One
now
or Sully’s toast. Just tell me what you want. I’ll do whatever.”
Right answer. “You’re coming back to Phoenix with me.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll pick up a few items. We’ll return to Vegas, choose a venue, and marry within a week. That will give Holly and your parents time to get there.”
She watched him squeeze his eyes shut. Why would he have to think about this? He was rejecting her
again
, wasn’t he? She braced herself for his no.
“Fine,” he spat. “Now can we call the ambulance?”
“Promise me this won’t get out.”
Clint gave her a pained look. “Fine. Whatever! Just give me your phone!” He stood quickly and reached toward her. Her instinct kicked in. There was a second hissing pop, and Clint fell forward, sliding past Molly and colliding with Sullivan. He lay still.
TWENTY-NINE
“That’s it! You’re out of here, gun or not!”
Stunned, Molly did nothing to resist the old lady seizing her hand and dragging her toward the door. Nor did she make any effort to stop the gun from slipping from her hand. In three seconds, she was standing in the oppressive night air of rural Nevada, her only hope for happiness slipping away inside the RV.
Molly was vaguely aware of the other woman yanking a cell phone from her pocket, and dialing. As she stood there in the deepening cold of the desert evening, the enormity of what she had done hammered into her. Leaving aside the fact that Clint appeared to be mortally wounded, there were legal issues to think of. One murder she
might
be able to hide with help. A double homicide with a witness? Not a chance. Offing the gypsy wasn’t an option either, nor did it matter. Molly knew that she deserved everything that was coming her way.
But Clint didn’t deserve it.
“You,” she said, whirling on Fey. “I need to make a wish.”
Molly was waved off impatiently as what was clearly a 911 call began.
“
You
,” she hissed. “Hang up the phone. I still have a wish!”
The haggard gypsy excused herself, and cupped a hand over the receiver of her phone. “Bad time, skinny. You made a huge mess all over my home, and I’m fixing it with this nice lady cop. Now get lost!”
Molly knocked the phone from the shorter woman’s hand, and sent it skittering across the dirt with a kick.
Cranky lady gasped. “That’s a brand new iPhone! What do you think you’re doing?”
Molly went nose-to-nose with her unwilling hostess, and tried not to breathe too deeply. “I. Still. Have. A. Wish.”
Fey stared back. “Maybe.”
“I can
save
him.”
Fey pressed her nose into Molly’s. “Maybe.”
Molly felt her jaw clench. “‘Maybe’ won’t cut it. I wish that Clint Christopherson will survive. Make it happen.”
The old woman stepped away, and actually looked sad as she replied. “Wishes don’t work that way. You have to have a real need, and you have to pay a price that matches what you’re asking for. And chick? You be
crazy
.”
Molly felt her pulse race. “I’ve got need in spades, and money is no object. Help yourself.”
Instead of answering, Fey looked up at the sky. Molly watched warily, expecting a trap. “When was the last time you wished on a star, Slim?” Fey asked thoughtfully. The sudden change in demeanor disturbed Molly more than was reasonable.
“The last time I wanted to e-mail Santa Claus. I got the wrong star, and Peter Pan dropped by instead. I don’t have time for this.”
Fey’s face wrinkled in a smile. “I like you. You’ve got a tongue there, don’t you?”
From inside the van, Molly heard Sullivan groan. She raced back inside, to find Clint crumpled in an awkward position next to the woman. His arm was draped over her, and a large, crimson stain was spreading across his shirt. Molly knelt quickly to check on Clint. His breathing was shallow and ragged; his pulse was faint. She tore the sleeve from her blouse, wadded it, and shoved it into the exit wound. She then firmly pressed her free hand over the hole in his chest. “Crunch time, old woman. What do I need to do to keep Clint alive?”
“Phone an ambulance and pray. I was working on that first one before you broke my new phone.”
“So we’re dead in the water.” Ambulance it was. Her phone was at her ear in a heartbeat. Two minutes later, the dispatcher confirmed an ambulance was on its way. Molly put away her phone, and looked at Clint’s face. A mask of agonized shock gripped his face, his mouth hanging limply open. Molly wanted desperately to say she was sorry, but she knew that empty words would do nothing. She strained to catch any sounds of sirens in the Logandale night, but heard nothing. The smell of death hung over Clint and the woman Molly knew he
actually
loved; she sincerely wished Sullivan had never returned—she hadn’t wanted to hurt the woman.