He’d made a few burgers out of what he thought—hoped—was ground beef, but he didn’t have any buns.
He’d gone through the fresh stuff his dead hostess had provided, lived on eggs, cans, and boxed food. And knew he’d have to make another trip to get some food he could just heat up. And some snacks.
So what if he hadn’t taken off the rest of the weight? Maybe put some back on. So the fuck what? When he had his life back, he’d get back in shape.
He didn’t have anything to do but eat, do his research, play with the tech toys, watch TV on his laptop, and eat some more.
He’d forgotten to water the goat, so he’d had to drag the dead, useless thing back with the woman. What was left of her, and what was left stank so much he’d nearly lost his breakfast.
He’d bought the sheets and towels, but without a dryer, the towels dried stiff. So he’d make a list, make a trip.
Food, numero uno. And he was running low on liquor. Maybe he could get a decent meal—one he didn’t cook or wash up after—in Two Springs. Nobody looked for him in this godforsaken desert, but he’d be careful, keep to himself, though he yearned for voices, movement.
He missed having conversations, knowing most of what he said in them were well-crafted lies.
He caught himself talking to himself, tried to stop. But like the chips, he just couldn’t.
Make the list, drive in, get a meal, buy supplies, drive out again.
He mumbled to himself as he paced around the house, one that had become a cage. Except for that side room. So he went into it, as it always settled him down.
He’d pulled down the Jesus pictures because he didn’t like the way some guy who got himself nailed to a cross stared at him with what looked like pity.
He sat, a man carrying extra weight in his face and belly, one who smelled of sweat, dust, and clothes poorly washed. Roots showed in his dyed hair. His nails needed clipping.
“We’ll just do a little check on our good friend Morgan. Let’s see what that skinny bitch is up to.”
He tracked her usual charges, payments. Groceries, insurance, gas, the monthly payment to her greedy grandmother. And frowned over a charge for seven hundred and change at a jeweler in Westridge.
“What’s all this, Morgan? Getting extravagant? We can’t have that, no, we can’t have that. Not while I’m stuck in this hellhole. Time for a little reminder. Time to touch base.”
He sat back, drumming his unkempt nails on the rough wood table.
“Let’s see, let’s see.”
Closing his eyes, he nearly nodded off in the chair before he shook himself awake, scratched his belly.
He used her account, ordered some slutty clothes—she was a whore, after all. Then went to another site, and another to order whatever caught his eye. Garbage bags, because she was garbage, room deodorizers because garbage stank, always keeping the purchase under five hundred.
He had so much fun he kept at it, hit an online florist for a funeral wreath, and filled out the card.
Morgan, always remember.
“That ought to do it. Yeah, that ought to do it just fine.”
The fun worked up an appetite, so he went in, opened a can of chili. He didn’t bother to heat it up, but ate straight out of the can.
“Another few weeks, that’s all. Just to make sure, make damn sure. Head east before much longer. Maybe catch some of that Vermont foliage. That’s the ticket. Catch some of that color, right? Catch it, kill her dead. Kill her dead and close that deal, collect that debt.”
He tossed the empty can toward the trash, licked the fork.
“Get what she owes me, and it’s smooth sailing again. She’s bad luck, that’s what she is. Brought me bad luck.”
With his belly full, he decided to take a nap. He’d make that list, go into town tomorrow. He didn’t feel like cleaning himself up now. Tomorrow was good enough. Tomorrow meant one more day closer to taking care of business.
As he lay down on sheets he’d sweated through the night before, Beck and Morrison made a pass through Gabbs, then drove to Two Springs.
They’d checked both outlying motels, the single twelve-room hotel in town, shops, eateries. They sat down with the local cops.
It took most of the day and produced not a single hit.
At the end of it, they sat in a little restaurant where the air ran blissfully cold and ate surprisingly good enchiladas.
“We’re not wrong, Quentin, I swear we’re not wrong. There hasn’t been a sign of him in Washington since we started south.”
“Not seeing anything this way either.”