The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(80)

The screen shattered, and the mannequin collapsed with its head still buried inside the set and its arms limp at its sides. I scooped my phone off the floor and ran over to grab the damp bathroom washcloth, pressing it hard against my cut hand. Cherry stains seeped out through the dingy cotton.

“Looks worse than it is,” I told Caitlin. I tossed her the car keys. “You drive. I’ll shoot.”

The Barracuda squealed out of the parking lot, kicking up asphalt and dust. While Caitlin gripped the wheel I dug my gun out of the glove compartment and checked the load. The washcloth had soaked through to useless, and I tossed it to the floor mat. Getting bloodstains on my slacks was the least of my concerns.

Jennifer called in. I set the pistol in my lap and picked up.

“She’s too damn fast!” Jennifer shouted. “I’m chasing her up the interstate, but I’m gonna lose her any second now!”

“We’re on our way. Turn around, go pick up Margaux at the motel, and meet us back at the Scrivener’s Nook.”

I hung up and looked over at Caitlin.

“Drive fast,” I said.

She wriggled in the driver’s seat, getting comfortable, and smiled. “With pleasure.”

The hemi roared as we barreled up I-15 with the needle kissing the red. The speedometer rose past ninety, then a hundred, then a hundred and ten. We saw Jennifer’s blue Prius dart by in the opposite direction, and we knew we were getting close. This time of day, this stretch of road, there wasn’t much to dodge but the occasional camper or dirt-encrusted pickup. Just open air and a razor-straight road for the next fifty miles.

There she was, just up ahead, pushing the Jeep as hard as it could go. Caitlin pushed harder. As we slowly closed the gap, I rolled down my window.

“Get us close and on her left,” I said. “I’ll try to take out a tire.”

Easier said than done, especially when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig and chewing up road faster than you can see. My left was my gun hand and that one was useless, so I clutched the Judge in my right and leaned out the window. My first shot went high, and the bullet tore into the Jeep’s back fender.

I didn’t see the access road up ahead. Meadow did. The Jeep’s brake lights flared, and suddenly she was gone, bouncing along a nameless road leading off into the desert. We overshot the turn. Caitlin slammed the brakes and spun the wheel, sending us into a skid, whipping the car’s tail around and pointing us the wrong way on the interstate. I didn’t have a second to catch my breath before she stomped the gas pedal and shot off in pursuit.

Meadow had a head start. Worse, she had home-court advantage. Muscle cars were built for smooth straight runs, but now we were chasing her along a road that wasn’t much more than a suggestion. The run was coated in sand, loose rocks, and neglect. Her Jeep was made for this kind of terrain, while we jolted from pothole to pothole, our suspension taking a pounding.

The road rose up ahead, angling toward the red rocks in the distance. I saw it curve, sinuous and serpentine. She’d lose us on the curves. As we closed the gap again, taking advantage of the final straightaway, I knew I’d only have one last chance to take her down.





Thirty-Nine



“Little closer,” I murmured as I leaned out the window. The arid wind whipped through my hair and burned my cheeks. I held the fat pistol out as steady as I could, fighting every bounce and jolt of the tires.

Caitlin saw the curves coming, too. “Running out of road, pet!”

“Little closer!”

Inch by inch we closed the distance, rolling up on Meadow’s left side. I could taste the dust kicking off the Jeep’s fat tires. Two hundred feet left before the first big turn. We were coming on fast, too fast, and I had just enough time to squeeze the trigger.

Her back tire exploded as Meadow spun the wheel. The Jeep launched off the road, flipping over, rolling end over end across the rocky sands. Caitlin punched the brakes, throwing me back in my seat as she fought to keep the Barracuda steady. The car went into a fishtailing spin, then evened out, and finally the wheels ground to a stomach-lurching halt.

I sat there a second, gasping for breath, waiting for my brain to catch up with my pounding heart. Meadow’s Jeep lay fifty feet away, a capsized wreck of twisted metal and spilled gasoline.

“Nice shot,” Caitlin said, breathless.

“Nice driving,” I said.

She held out a shaky fist. I weakly bumped my knuckles against hers.

In the debris, something moved.

A battered door swung open, tortured hinges shrieking, and Meadow Brand climbed out on top of the wreckage. Her blouse was torn and a gash in her forehead spilled blood down her face, clotting one eye shut. She punched her fist against the twisted metal.

“That’s right,” she wheezed. “King of the hill. King of the motherf*ckin’ hill.”

She tried to climb down from the wreck, lost her grip, and tumbled off, landing hard on the sand. Then she pushed herself back to her feet.

“Aw, shit, she’s still breathing,” I said.

“I thought we wanted her alive?” Caitlin said.

“We need her alive,” I said. “Still, I’ll admit to a certain level of disappointment here.”

Meadow stumbled blindly, dazed, throwing punches at the air.

“Yeah,” I said, opening the car door. “We should probably give her a ride.”