“I see. I see.”
“She was active in online groups—preppers, survivalists, religious fringes. As they see it, he kept that up off and on, but they tell me they can see subtle differences in her posts and responses starting nineteen days ago—the night after she went in for supplies.”
Jake hesitated, then went on. “They’ll do an autopsy of the body, and may be able to determine when she died. Morgan, every person they interviewed that had any contact with him yesterday stated they saw something wrong in him. He either couldn’t hide it, or didn’t bother. She had guns, Morgan. A shotgun, a rifle—they found spent shells scattered around. And she habitually carried a Colt on her hip.”
“A lot of good that did her.”
“The point is, he took them. He left an AR-15, so we can be grateful there, but he has the rest. And he bought ammo for the Colt when he went to town. He’s never used guns before.”
“He’s not the same as he was before.”
“The profilers agree with that. Everything they found at that cabin says he’s lost control.” Because he considered them friends, because she would become a kind of sister to him, Jake reached for her hand.
“Their thinking is he’ll have no choice but to come here.”
“Part of that’s a relief because you’re always waiting to hear the door creak open, to see the monster leap out. It’s always there, Jake, no matter what I do. It’s like some rodent tunneling holes under a garden. It looks settled and pretty, but it’s all just waiting to collapse.”
She looked down at her drink, then up into his eyes. “You’re worried, since he took the guns, he’ll just shoot me. When I’m going out to my car or running errands. He won’t. He can’t. It’s too fast and final.”
“He’s not the same as he was,” Jake repeated.
“No, but you can’t change who you are at the base, in the core. He needs to hurt me, to see me afraid. He has to pay me back for everything that went wrong for him since … since Nina.”
After giving herself a shake, she reached for her drink.
“I can’t believe I only knew him for a couple of weeks, and I see him so clearly. The idea of him living the way you said for weeks … No, he has to pay me back for that. Killing me isn’t enough unless I suffer first.”
“I can agree with you and still worry I’m wrong.”
“He took everything from me, Jake, everything but my life. And look.” She spread her hands. “Not even two years later, I’m okay. More than okay. I have a home, family, a man who loves me. I have a good job, a good life. I have friends. He’s the one who lost. He’s the one who’s running and desperate. Killing me quick won’t make up for that. It’s personal.”
As the doorbell sounded, she automatically pulled out her phone to check. “It’s … flower delivery. It’s…”
She passed the phone to Jake.
His eyes went cool before he rose. “I’ll deal with it.”
It took her a moment to gather herself and follow him. She knew a funeral wreath when she saw one. At the door while Jake questioned the stunned delivery woman, Morgan studied the wreath and its message.
Morgan, always remember.
She would, she thought. She would always remember.
* * *
Because he knew changing the plates wouldn’t be enough, Rozwell bought a paint sprayer, some pea-green paint, and on a stretch of desert road, coated the blue of Jane’s truck.
It looked like shit, and he had to spend time wiping paint off the head-and taillights, but his ride no longer matched the description.
He figured it would hold for a while, especially given the yahoo cops in this part of the world.
He couldn’t risk motels, no matter how crap worthy, so drove straight through, into Utah, drove from day into night, fueled by rage and fear, and caffeine and carbs.
Time to reestablish good habits, he decided, so drove to the airport in Salt Lake to take a much-needed nap in long-term parking.
He woke, hot and miserable, before dawn, but decided his luck was back in when he spotted a minivan, complete with a BABY ON BOARD sign, that must’ve parked while he’d taken his siesta.
Easily fifteen years old, he estimated, but whistle clean.
It took him more than a half hour, but he got in, disabled the alarm, got it started—hadn’t lost his touch!—and transferred everything from the truck to the van.
It had two hundred thousand miles on it, but it would do the job, get him into Colorado, a halfway decent motel—not hotels yet, he warned himself.