Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (26 page)

She eased herself back onto the edge of the sofa cushion, her weight forward, ready to spring to her feet if she had to move suddenly. He had her boxed in; she’d have to get past him to get to the front door.

He made no move toward her. He simply stood in place, his eyes roaming the length of her body. “What kind of panties are you wearing?”

Oh, no.

“Something pretty, but not too wild, I’m guessing. Not a thong. Maybe silk, with a little bit of lace. Am I right?”

How do I respond to something like that?
she wondered. Deflect the question? Change the subject? Put him on the defensive? So she said, “Why did you kill Vance Scofield?”

His expression clouded over.

Red went outside and vacuumed most of the glass out of his truck. Then they loaded the safe in the bed.

Lucy said, “We oughta call and make sure they ain’t home.”

“Yeah, I think she’s right,” Billy Don added.

“That’s fine,” Red said. “But even if they was there, the house is a long ways from the road, like maybe a mile. We could do it on the front part of the property and be gone before they even knew what was going on.”

Lucy didn’t appear too keen on that idea. “Let’s not screw this thing up now. I don’t wanna take no chances. We’ve all worked too hard.”

So they went back inside, where Red recited the number out of the phone book and Lucy dialed. A few seconds passed and Red thought they were home free—but then he could tell from Lucy’s expression that someone had answered. “Why the hell ain’t you people in Austin?” she asked, then hung up. “That won’t work.”

“All right,” Red said. “Okay. Let me think of someplace else.”

Her intuition told her to keep pressing, so Nicole said, “You did it, right?”

Pritchard seemed to be having some sort of internal struggle. He was gazing at the wall, fidgeting, bouncing the fist that held the letter opener off of his thigh.

But he nodded. “I called him Sunday morning. There was a woman there that shouldn’t have been there. Vance was a crummy partner, and an even worse friend.”

Partner? Partner in what?

Pritchard continued, “He was a liar, in case you didn’t know that. He was supposed to be sharing the profits with me, but he never did. He was horrible with money.”

She sensed that she was about to learn it all. The murder. The drug lab. Everything. “Profits from what?”

He didn’t answer.

“The profits from what? Selling speed?”

Still no response.

“When did you put Vance in the river?”

His eyes came back to her. “I didn’t. I have no idea how he got there.”

“You didn’t put him in the river?”

He smiled. “Stalling. You’re a clever girl, but I haven’t forgotten. I want to add your panties to my collection.”

“I GOTTA GO to the bathroom again,” Phil Colby said.

George Jones was in his usual spot, on the couch, eating a can of beans cold. “You’re worse than a woman. Gotta pee every ten minutes.”

“It’s been more like three hours.”

“I ain’t lettin’ you outside again. I’ll turn one arm loose and you can piss out the window.”

“Hey, whatever. As long as I can go.”

George finished his beans first, rattling the spoon around the bottom to get every last one. Colby’s mouth was watering. “
Y
ou gonna share any of that stuff?”

Piled on one of the bunk beds was an assortment of canned goods George had brought back from Colby’s house the night before.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You know, proper nutrition is the cornerstone of good health.”

George tossed the empty can into one corner of the room. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Well, stop it. I don’t need to hear any of your weird fucking comments.”

“You gonna let me piss or what?”

George rose from the couch and produced a ring of keys from his pants pocket. He bent down and popped the lock that secured one of the chains to one of the eyebolts in the floor. Colby could now stand, and he had a loose five-foot length of chain attached to one arm. It would make a hell of a weapon—except George was wise enough to remain out of reach.

Colby turned and faced the window. He was standing on the hinged plank, and it moved slightly under his feet. As he relieved himself, Colby casually glanced downward. There were no new nails in the hinged end of the plank, which meant that Wade Morgan had never sealed up his secret hiding spot.

But was the rifle still in there? Even if it was, Colby couldn’t possibly bend down, raise the plank, and remove the rifle before George stopped him.

Colby zipped up and said, “There’s no reason you gotta chain both arms. I damn sure can’t get away. It’d be a lot easier for you that way. Wouldn’t have to unlock me every time I need to take a leak.”

George eyeballed him for a moment, and Colby did his best to appear as unthreatening and docile as possible.

George held up the handgun he’d been carrying all along. “See this?”

“Yeah. You won’t get any problem from me. I just want to give you those negatives on Monday and be done with it.”

“All right, then.” George stretched out on the couch and began reading a magazine.

“What kinds of things did Vance lie about?”

“Uh-uh. Don’t try to change the subject.”

“No, I’m really interested. I want to know why you did what you did. Sounds like you had a good reason.”

Pritchard squinted at her, skeptical. “You don’t care. Women like you don’t care.”

Nicole could see that this guy was a total nutcase. “That’s not always true. You can’t just generalize like that. It’s not fair.”

“Don’t talk to me about unfair. Vance treated all his woman like shit, and they still couldn’t get enough of him. But take me, a regular nice guy, and they don’t want anything to do with me.
That’s
not fair.”

“What did he lie about? Give me an example.”

“You don’t think he lied?”

“No, I believe you. I just want to know what he lied about.”

“I’ll tell you, and then you’ll take off your jeans.”

She snuck a glance at the front door. Not far, but he’d be right behind her if she made a break for it. Maybe she needed to do just the opposite. Instead of being defensive, go on the offense. “I’m not doing anything,” she said, “as long as you’re holding that letter opener.”

He pointed it at her. “Without this, you wouldn’t even be listening to me. It’s the only way women like you ever listen to a guy like me—if I
make
you listen.”

“You’re generalizing again, David.”

He nodded at her. “Using my first name. I know what you’re doing.”

“Tell me what Vance lied about.”

“Then you’ll take off your jeans?”

“If you’ll put the opener down. It makes me nervous.” It was important that he believe her.

He nodded. “Okay, here’s one. There was a woman I was interested in. Vance knew her. She wasn’t…she wasn’t as pretty as you. But I’m not a handsome man, and I know that. My choices are limited. Besides, this woman had something beyond looks. She was…special. I thought maybe she’d go out with me. Vance said he’d set me up. But he ended up sleeping with her himself. Just to piss me off.”

“He shouldn’t have done that,” she said. He was talking about Jenny Geiger. Pritchard had harassed her because he was jealous—because he was as sick and twisted as they come. “Is that why you did what you did outside her apartment?”

For the first time, he laughed. “You think I’m talking about Jenny?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Her name was Lucille.”

Colby hadn’t made any headway by being a smart-ass, so he decided to change his approach: Make friends with the guy.

“You married?” he asked.

“Fuck, am I married? Hell no, I’m not married.”

“Neither am I.”

George continued reading his magazine.

“I was almost married once,” Colby said. “I was engaged when I was twenty-four. Didn’t work out.”

George glared at him. “I look like I give a shit?”

Colby shrugged. “Just passing the time.”

“Who’s Lucille?” Nicole asked, trying to buy time.

Pritchard shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about her. We’re drifting off the subject again.” He held up the letter opener—displaying it for her—then set it back on the end table. He grinned at her, and it was the ugliest thing Nicole had ever seen.

She wondered if she could handle him. He was pudgy, not very big. But he was demented. An absolute psycho. He’d be stronger because of his sickness.

He opened his mouth. “Okay, you said that if I—”

That’s when she rushed straight at him.

“This girl I was engaged to,” Colby said, laughing, as if he were recalling some sweet memory. “She had a twenty-year-old sister, and man was she hot. Blonde, with this killer body. A little bit of a slut, too. She was always coming on to me, walking around in nothing but a long T-shirt.”

Colby could tell that George wasn’t reading anymore. He was listening.

“So one day,” Colby said, “about two months before the wedding, I had to stop by her house to pick up some of the invitations. She was wearing this miniskirt, and I’m telling you, she was looking good. She started flirting and—to be honest—I was having a tough time with it.”

George lowered the magazine. “What’re you, queer?”

“Just let me finish the story.”

“Well, then, tell the damn thing.”

“All right, take it easy. So we drank a couple of beers, then some tequila, and I start thinking,
Shouldn’t I leave now?
I mean, I was getting myself into some serious trouble. She was pretty drunk by then, and she says, ‘You sure you’re ready to get married? You ready to have sex with just one woman for the rest of your life?’ I say, ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ And she says, ‘Wouldn’t you like to have one last fling?’ Then, she drops her skirt to the floor, takes off her blouse, and walks into the bedroom.”

Colby shook his head and waited.

George asked, “What the hell’d you do?”

“I got up and walked right out the front door.”

George let out a snort of derision. “Goddamn, I knew it. Friggin’ faggot.”

“I’m not done yet. I stepped outside, and her father
—
who’s about six-four—is standing there on the porch. He starts laughing and clapping me on the back and says congratulations, I passed his little test. Wanted to take me out for a beer to celebrate.”

Now George was looking at him again, his eyes in slits. “For real?”

“Yep.”

“That son of a bitch. Pretty damn smart.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Colby said. “You know what the moral of the story is?”

“Hell no. What?”

“Always keep your condoms in your car.”

For some reason, Marlin calmed down a little bit when he pulled into David Pritchard’s driveway and spotted Brooks’s car sitting in front of the house.

Everything had to be okay, right? It was a nice, sunny day. Nothing seemed out of place.

He and Tatum stepped from the truck.

Nicole drove one shoulder squarely into Pritchard’s midsection, and she felt the air rush out of his lungs as their bodies collapsed to the floor.

He grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked her head back. His other hand clenched her exposed throat.

She was on top of him, clawing at his face, trying to sink her fingers into his eyes.

“You bitch!” he roared, turning his head side to side to avoid her hands.

She got hold of an ear and twisted with all her strength.

The high-pitched scream reminded Nicole of a wounded animal.

Marlin glanced at Tatum when he heard the scream, and both men scrambled up the front steps.

Marlin rattled the knob, found it locked, and pounded on the door. “Nicole!”

“Let’s take it down,” Tatum said.

Marlin stepped back, raised a foot, and drove the sole of his boot into the door.

It didn’t give.

Nicole heard someone yell her name outside—and then there was a pounding on the door—but Pritchard wasn’t giving up.

He released the hold on her throat and managed to flip her sideways, toppling the end table, and now he was straddling her, trying to cover her face with his hands.

She was losing strength and knew she couldn’t fight much longer.

She turned her head sideways to avoid his hands, and she saw the letter opener lying on the carpet.

As she reached for it, Pritchard’s hands again encircled her neck, throttling her. She couldn’t breathe. The ends of her fingertips danced across the cool metal. It was amazing how quickly the lack of oxygen got to her. She was already fading.

She pawed at the letter opener, dragging it closer with her fingernails, until she was able to wrap her hand around it.

Marlin’s third kick did the trick, and the door crashed inward. He burst through the doorway, Tatum right behind him, both with their guns drawn.

“Two guys were driving out in the country,” George said, “and they saw a sheep with its head stuck in a fence.”

Colby nodded, feigning interest, even though he’d heard this one a hundred times.

“So the driver pulls over,” George said, “drops his pants, and starts humping that ol’ sheep. The other guy just sits there in the truck, watching. Finally, the first guy finishes up, and he hollers, ‘You want some of this?’ The second guy says, ‘Hell yeah,’ and he runs down and sticks his head in the fence.”

Colby faked a pretty good laugh, and he thought things were going pretty well. But George suddenly sprang from the couch and said, “Shut up!” He cocked his head, listening. “Someone’s coming.”

Now Colby could hear a vehicle navigating the rutted road up to the cabin. Then the engine abruptly stopped. It sounded as if somebody had entered the property and parked somewhere between the cabin and the road, maybe a hundred yards away.

George walked to a window and peered out.

She was aware that people—who knew how many?—had just burst into the house. She heard a shout.

Her vision was dimming.

Pritchard’s flushed, angry face loomed over her, still choking her, and she swung the letter opener toward his torso with as much strength as she could muster.

She felt it sink in. His grip loosened.

Then there was a swirl of violence around her—the sound of a fist hammering flesh, a tremendous grunt of pain—and Pritchard was suddenly gone. Just gone. She sucked in as much oxygen as her lungs could hold.

John Marlin was kneeling beside her now, speaking in soft tones, asking if she was okay.