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The Prettiest One: A Thriller

Page 35

by James Hankins


  “It was a big mistake,” Caitlin said, and Josh seemed unable to argue with that. He had tears in his eyes. Caitlin felt tears threatening in her own. It hadn’t been an easy decision for her. The doctors weren’t the only ones examining her mind over the last forty days; she’d been doing the same thing, trying to determine how she felt about everything. She’d searched every inch of her soul, and with respect to Josh, she kept coming back to a few thoughts. First, she doubted she could ever truly trust him again. She could forgive him, maybe, but she could never trust him. More importantly, if he could cheat on her, even one time, he just wasn’t the person Caitlin had thought he was. And equally important, Caitlin had learned that she wasn’t the person she’d thought she was, either. She had changed. And the new Caitlin, whoever she was, would never fit with Josh the way the old one did.

  “Your neck’s looking pretty good,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she replied, touching the two-and-a-half-inch scar where George Maggert/Bookerman had sliced her. The stitches were out, though the scar was still a bit bumpy. But she was alive.

  After a moment of silence, Josh said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know.”

  He looked back down at his shoes for a second, then raised his eyes again. “Thanks for saving my life.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Thanks for saving mine.”

  “Bye, Caitlin.”

  He turned and opened his car door. He slipped inside, started the engine, and drove away. Caitlin watched him go. She thought she saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, looking at her all the way until his car was out of sight.

  She walked toward a black Ford Explorer parked in the lot’s first row. Bix was behind the wheel. His window was down and his elbow rested casually on the door frame.

  “Hey, there,” he said. “Looking for a ride?”

  While Caitlin had been locked up and sorting things out in her mind, she had reflected on numerous topics besides her relationship with Josh. She thought about all that had happened. And about Bix. And about who she used to be and how different she was now. She recalled how easily she had slipped into the persona of Katie Southard. How simple it had been for her to show a wilder side when she’d had to, almost as if that person had been inside her all along, hoping to step out of the shadows and into the light. She came to realize that not only was that person a part of who she was, but it might have been just as much the “real her” as the woman she had always thought she was.

  All of her soul-searching made Caitlin certain of two things. First, it was time to figure out just who she was going to be. Not who she had been a year ago, or a month ago, but who she would be moving forward. She was starting a new life. And it wasn’t going to be in Smithfield. Or New Hampshire. No, wherever she was heading, it would be someplace she’d never been. And the second thing she knew was that as she embarked on the journey to discover just who and where she should be, she wanted Bix along for the ride. He may have some questionable acquaintances and a somewhat murky past, but she knew he was a good man at heart. He loved her. She knew that for certain, too. And she felt pretty good about her chances of one day loving him back.

  “So what do you say?” Bix asked with a killer smile. “Need a lift?”

  “Sure,” Caitlin said.

  “Where to?”

  Rather than walk around to the Explorer’s passenger side, Caitlin opened the driver’s door.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but move over. I’m driving.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I can’t do this alone, and I wouldn’t want to try. My first thank-you, as always, goes to my wife, Colleen, for just about everything. Thanks also to my sons for inspiring me and giving me time to write when I need it. I’m also grateful for the advice of criminal lawyers Susan Hankins and Brian Cullen. John Hankins earned my thanks by reading an early draft of the book and sharing his thoughts on it. I owe gratitude to my agent, Michael Bourret of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, for everything he does for me. Thanks to sharp-eyed editor David Downing, who makes the editorial process enjoyable. I am deeply thankful to Alison Dasho for bringing me to Thomas & Mercer and for her steadfast support, and to Jacque BenZekry, Tiffany Pokorny, Gracie Doyle, and the rest of the T&M team for all the hard work they do for me and for my books. My final thanks goes to my family, my friends far and wide, and my wonderful readers, whose kind and unswerving support allows me to continue to do what I love to do. Thank you all. One final note: I invented Smithfield, Massachusetts, so I think I got the facts about it right, but if there are any other errors in this book, the blame is mine.

  An excerpt from Shady Cross by James Hankins, available now.

  In one hand, small-time crook Stokes holds a backpack stuffed with someone else’s money—three hundred and fifty thousand dollars of it.

  In the other hand, Stokes has a cell phone, which he found with the money. On the line, a little girl he doesn’t know asks, “Daddy? Are you coming to get me? They say if you give them the money they’ll let you take me home.”

  From bestselling author James Hankins comes a wrenching story of an unscrupulous man torn between his survival instincts and the plight of a true innocent. Faced with the choice, Stokes discovers his conscience might not be as corroded as he thought.

  ONE

  1:40 P.M.

  “YOU JUST GOT OUT OF jail? Seriously?”

  Stokes heard nothing but curiosity in the guy’s voice. No judgment, no fear, just curiosity and maybe a little slur from the alcohol.

  “Didn’t say I was in jail,” Stokes said. He took a sip of Budweiser and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the one that held the bottle. “Said I was at the jail. They had me in for questioning. No big deal.”

  The guy looked at him in drunk-eyed wonder, like he was a rare species of lizard. “Wow. In jail.” He took a sip of his manhattan. “I guess you must not have done whatever they thought you did, though, or they wouldn’t have let you go.”

  Stokes knew it didn’t always work like that, but why get into it?

  “Like I said, no big deal.” He looked at the guy’s tailored suit again, the suit that had led Stokes to the bar stool next to him in the first place. “So what’s your deal?”

  “Tom.”

  “What?”

  “My name’s Tom,” the guy said.

  Stokes nodded, waited for an answer to his question, didn’t get it, so he asked again, “So what’s your deal, Tom? You from Shady Cross?”

  “What’s Shady Cross?”

  Stokes smiled amiably. “This little city you’re in.”

  “Shady Cross?” the guy repeated as if he’d never heard of the place, like a few drinks had erased the name from his mind.

  “They say it was built up a long time ago around the crossroads at the center of town,” Stokes said. “Used to be shady, I guess. So anyway, what’s your deal?”

  “My deal? What do you mean?”

  Stokes indicated the rest of the bar with a tilt of his head. It was on the seedy side, the kind of place people went to drink hard, to shoot pool, to swap bullshit stories about sexual conquests, to bitch about their blue-collar jobs or their bosses or their wives. Sometimes they went looking for a fight. Sometimes they went just to be left alone. And more often than not, whatever reason they were there, they also went wondering whether they might meet someone drunk enough, lonely enough, and tolerably attractive enough to spend a little time with after last call.

  “You sort of stick out around here, Tom,” Stokes said. “Nice suit, polished shoes. Your hair’s all combed. So what’s your deal? I told you about jail, you can tell me your story.”

  Tom turned his head to face Stokes. His glassy eyes caught up a fraction of a second later.

  “Not much of a story. In town on business. Staying at a motel just down the road.”

  “The Rest Stop?”

  “Yeah, that might be what it’s called. You know it?”

  Stokes did. He’d spent a few hours
there two Saturdays ago with the waitress across the room. He nodded.

  “Finished my business here this morning,” the guy said, “but can’t get a flight back to Pittsburgh till tomorrow. Just killing time now. Stopped in here for an early lunch, but, well, I met you instead and my lunch, uh . . .”

  “Turned liquid?”

  Tom looked at Stokes for a long moment, then laughed loosely. Stokes could have asked what business the guy was in. It was probably expected of him. But he didn’t think Tom was tracking the conversation very closely any longer. He was tottering on his stool now, his vacant eyes staring sightlessly at the mirror behind the bar. Stokes could have looked at that mirror, too, but he didn’t.

  “You a cowboy?” Tom asked, chuckling like he’d made a joke.

  “A what?”

  “You’re wearing a cowboy shirt.”

  Stokes looked down at his Western-style shirt, black with white stitching near the shoulders, which he wore over a black T-shirt.

  “Nope,” he said. “Not a cowboy. Not even close. I don’t even like country music. It’s just a shirt I found in a thrift store. So what do you say, Tom? One more for the road?”

  The guy said nothing for a moment, the words seeming to wander aimlessly through the fog in his mind for a while before finally finding their way. He looked at Stokes.

  “Another? No way, man. Thanks, but I’ve prob’ly had enough. Thanks again, though, for buying all these drinks for me. Nice to find someone friendly in a strange place.”

  Tom’s eyelids were sagging over tired, empty eyes.

  “Yeah,” Stokes said, “you’ve had enough. You drive here this afternoon?”

  “Drive? Yeah, I did. My rental.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not driving back to the motel. I’ll call you a cab, OK? You can come back for the car in the morning, on your way to the airport.”

  “Cab?” He shook his head, looking like he was about to protest as he stood. Then his foot caught a leg of his stool and he just barely managed to grab the bar in time to save himself from a tumble onto the grimy, beer-stained cement floor. “Yeah, maybe a cab’s good idea.”

  Stokes had called for a taxi ten minutes ago. He figured it would be pulling up outside just about now.

  “I’ll help you,” he said, grabbing the guy by the arm, guiding him across the bar. Halfway to the door, he caught the eye of the waitress, Annie, the one he’d spent a few decent hours with a couple of Saturdays ago. She rolled her eyes at him before turning her attention back to her customers.

  The taxi was idling in front of the bar. Stokes reached into the guy’s suit jacket, into the inner breast pocket, and removed a soft leather wallet. He opened the back door of the cab, helped Tom inside, and took out one of the guy’s twenties. He gave it to the cabbie and told him to take Tom back to the Rest Stop. Stokes counted the rest of the money, put forty bucks back into the wallet, and slipped $230 into his own pocket before leaning into the cab and returning the wallet to Tom’s jacket.

  “See you, Tom,” Stokes said as he closed the door.

  The taxi pulled away and Stokes walked back inside, heading to the bar without looking Annie’s way.

  “What was it?” Stokes asked the bartender, money in hand. “Four manhattans for my friend Tom and two Buds for me? What’s that come to?”

  The bartender frowned, turned his back to Stokes, and punched a few buttons on the cash register. He turned around again. “It was three Buds. Forty-four bucks.”

  Stokes peeled off two twenties and a ten and put the bills on the bar. “Keep it.”

  “What a guy, Stokes,” the bartender said. “Hard to believe the cops could ever question the character of a saint like you.”

  “Hey, feel free to give me that tip back, Chuck.”

  The bartender put the money into the register, took out the change and stuck it into the tip jar beside the bottles of hard liquor.

  Stokes smiled. “Maybe I’ll be in again later. We could shoot some stick, if it’s quiet. I could try to win that tip back, huh?”

  The bartender shrugged. Stokes grabbed his leather jacket from his stool, nodded to Annie has he passed, and stepped out into the crisp fall day. In half a minute he was straddling his Yamaha SZR 660, helmet on and buckled, the motorcycle’s engine ready to roar. Five minutes later, he’d left behind the county highway, with its motels and diners and gas stations and seedy bars strewn along it like litter tossed from passing cars. He was flying along a wooded back road. The early-October leaves were nearing their fall peak, the last of the green having given way to fiery reds and glowing golds, but summer wasn’t so far behind that the leaves had started dropping in great number yet.

  Stokes was feeling all right. His night in jail was behind him, and even though the sun wouldn’t set for hours yet, he was surrounded by trees full of sunset colors whipping by in a kaleidoscopic blur as he gunned his bike, sailing through the straightaways, leaning into lazy turns. He’d head back to his trailer, relax for a few hours, and maybe after dinner—

  Leaning to his left, Stokes took the next curve way too tight, well over the centerline. He was halfway around the bend when a dark car appeared, was suddenly right on him, and there he was, leaning into the turn, leaning toward the car, speeding toward it, horribly exposed, nothing but soft flesh covering brittle bone, and he knew it was over, oh shit, it was over for him . . .

  He was barely aware of the car lurching toward the far shoulder of the road as he jerked the handlebars of his motorcycle to the right, trying to wrestle the bike back into his own lane, away from the car. He watched the vehicle’s glittering headlight assembly sail toward his face, then zip just under his ear, his helmet nearly brushing the front quarter panel. He felt the huge metallic bulk of the car, throbbing with deadly power, blast past him, just inches away from him. And then, incredibly, he was beyond it, beyond the car, with nothing in front of him but road and trees, his bike cutting sharply across his lane, his front wheel turning now, seemingly on its own, beyond his power to control it, and in a deafening, bone-shaking, world-tilting moment, his bike slammed into a guardrail and he was flying, twisting, spinning through the air. Everything went unnaturally silent for the briefest of moments, and then he heard a violent, metallic crash from somewhere, just before he slammed to earth and his breath and consciousness exploded out of him.

  The guy was dead. No doubt about it. Somehow Stokes wasn’t, but the driver of the car sure as hell was.

  Stokes had come to rest near the bottom of a gentle incline sloping away from the road, on a thin blanket of dead leaves over a mattress of soft, moist ground. He’d lain for a moment, staring up at the trees all around him, at first wondering where he was and how he’d gotten there, but remembering soon enough, then wondering how the hell he’d flown fifteen feet into the woods and rolled down the hill without hitting a single tree. And, apparently, without breaking any bones.

  He left his helmet by his mangled bike and climbed the little slope back up to the road. He stepped from the woods and looked for the car that had come so close to sending him elsewhere, either hell or purgatory or somewhere like that—certainly not heaven, if such a place existed. The car was nowhere in sight. For a moment Stokes thought it might have simply swerved around him and kept going wherever the hell it had been going when their paths had crossed . . . and then he saw them. Across the road, ten yards farther along, parallel grooves running through the gravel on the side of the road, grooves leading off the shoulder and down the hill on the other side, into the trees.

  Stokes looked in both directions. Not a car in sight. He walked over to the tracks in the gravel. No skid marks on the road that he could see. The driver hadn’t even had time to hit his brakes, at least not before he hit the gravel on the shoulder. Stokes squinted into the woods, where the still-thick canopy of leaves dropped dense shadows to the forest floor. He looked down at the tire tracks in the gravel, where they led onto the soft earth by the road. He followed them with his eyes, down the ge
ntle slope, through the first trees. And there it was. Maybe thirty feet in. A black car accordioned against a thick tree. Stokes looked down again at the tire marks in the gravel, then slid the sole of his boot over the marks, obliterating them. After one more look for cars on the road, he stepped into the woods.

  And now there he was, staring into the car, staring through a spiderwebbed window at the bloody face of a body slumped over the steering wheel. Either this car didn’t have an air bag or it had been defective and hadn’t deployed. Or maybe the dead guy had unwisely deactivated it. The poor bastard’s eyes were open. Open and staring and totally lifeless.

  Stokes took a step back. The woods were silent but for the ticking of the cooling engine. Most people would have called 911 by then, he knew. Then again, most people wouldn’t have spent the last night being interrogated by the cops about a burglary. Nor would they have been arguably at fault for this accident—and therefore this man’s death. And the fact that Stokes had recently had a couple of beers would surely complicate matters. No, Stokes wasn’t going to be calling the cops. Instead, he decided to hide his twisted wreck of a motorcycle as best he could, then leave as fast as possible. Maybe he’d come back after things died down around here and dispose of the bike properly, if no one had found it by then. Or maybe he wouldn’t—fortunately, it wasn’t registered in his name.

  He was just about to implement his plan, such as it was, when something caught his eye through the window of the rear door. He leaned closer to the glass, careful not to touch the car, and peered inside. He blinked. He blinked again. He reached up under his shirt, gripped the door handle through the fabric, and tried the door. It swung open.

  On the floor of the car, behind the passenger’s seat, was a backpack. But that wasn’t really what had snagged his attention. Rather, it was the bundles of money spilling out of the bag that had caught his notice.

 

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