The Casa Cipriani if he stuck with New York.
Or he could imagine the Pacific. Post Ranch Inn, Big Sur.
Or …
And here she came. Rattle, rattle, clunk, clunk.
About damn time.
He got up, used his ears first, since he couldn’t risk his eyes.
He heard the truck stop, and yes, there it was, the creak of the shed.
Now he waited for the truck to shut off, the door to creak shut.
He had to take her from behind, planned on coming up on her after she unlocked the cabin door. She’d have her hands full. She always bought fresh fruit, some vegetables on these trips.
He heard the door shut and the snap of the padlock. Heard her bootsteps approach the house, so he slipped around the shed side of the house and pinned to the wall, sidestepped down.
Then her bootsteps stopped.
He risked a peek.
Her back was to him, her arms holding the crate with cloth bags in it. A carrot top poked out of one.
She looked down.
And he saw it, too. His tire tracks, his footprints.
She dropped the crate, reached for the gun at her side. And he was running.
She’d pulled the gun, started to spin toward him when he barreled into her. Like hitting a bag of bones, he thought as the gun flew.
They landed hard, hard enough he heard her head crack against the side of the narrow front porch. But it didn’t slow her down as she jabbed an elbow into his gut.
He didn’t see the knife until it sliced down his arm. But the pain, the smell of his own blood brought on the rage. He gripped her knife hand, twisted. He felt her wrist snap like a dry branch underfoot. And he rode her high-pitched scream as he pounded his fist into her face.
“You cut me!” His voice was like her scream as he pounded again, again. “You bitch! You whore!”
Her screams turned to gurgling moans as he beat her head against the edge of the porch.
She stopped gurgling. She went silent, went still. Now she only stared at him as he shoved up and clamped a hand over his arm.
Blood slid down, dripped off his fingers, stained the dirt, as hers did. She’d opened him up six inches between shoulder and elbow.
“I’m going to have a fucking scar, thanks to you!”
Furious at the thought, he kicked her, kicked her, then stomped her.
“See how you like it, you stupid old cunt!”
He knew she couldn’t feel the pain he wanted to give her, knew she’d been dead since before the first kick, but he couldn’t stop. Not until the effort and heat combined to make him dizzy.
He picked up the keys she’d dropped along with the crate, and left her there as he walked up and unlocked the door.
She’d have medical supplies—any prepper would.
He crossed the living area with its swaybacked sofa, single chair, and into the kitchen. Double the size of the living area, it had long counters—butcher block, probably the work of the handy husband. Open shelves ran along the walls, packed with canned goods, jarred goods, dry goods in glass jugs.
An old cabinet, maybe handmade, had a first aid kit, boxes of gauze, bottles of peroxide, antiseptics, alcohol, pain pills, bandages, the works.
He cleaned the gash in the kitchen sink. It stung like fire, bled in streams of red. Then, gritting his teeth, he dumped on peroxide, and that stung like the fires of hell.
Tears coursed down his cheeks, but he kept at it, used butterfly bandages to close the gash, slathered it with antiseptic, wrapped it in gauze.
He drank cold water straight from the faucet.
She had Excedrin Extra Strength, and he downed three.
Then he walked out and stared down at her. He’d be damned if he’d bury her, but he couldn’t leave her there. She’d start to stink, plus he didn’t want to look at her. Or risk somebody else with a drone taking a look.
He dragged her around the house. She left a wide smear of blood in the dirt, but he didn’t give a damn.
When he got to the barbed wire, he went through her pockets. Disgusting, but necessary. He found a small wad of bills, more keys, an old pocket watch, and a penknife.
He got the bolt cutters out of his truck, cut the wire, and dragged her farther away across the brush, into it.
Vultures and crows, he thought, they’d take care of the rest of her.
He drove his truck back, unloaded it onto the porch. He’d never leave anything behind in a room again, so he had all he needed. He carried the bolt cutters to the shed, dealt with the lock.
A little gold mine, he thought. More provisions neatly shelved, tools, animal feed. No room for the second truck, but no worries.
Carrying the bolt cutters, he walked back to the house, sneering at the blood path. He hauled up the crate to take the groceries in.