The speed limit here was fifty, but the curve they were coming up on had yellow signs that said thirty-five and her brake lights flashed. He pulled past her in the curve, glancing at her as he went by. She was talking to herself, or maybe to him, and it was all he could do to resist pulling the gun and taking her life. It would have been so easy. Like shooting a crow sitting by carrion.
He came up over a ridge where it looked like he could see all the way to the Mexican border. The world spread out from here and the view made him wish he had taken care of the girl long ago. She could have had an “accident” on the farm and he wouldn’t be going through this trouble. In the distance he spotted two vehicles—one on the right, one on the left. He recognized the maroon Escalade and pulled up behind a body. Miguel lay dead beside the road.
He expanded the view of the tracking device on his phone. The girl was traveling behind him now on the same road. She had passed him. Muerte closed his eyes and struggled to remember the make and model of the SUV. It was his gift. An ability to recall fragments of details from flashes. The surprised looks of those who had no idea this was the way they would die. Dead men with gold fillings. He could remember which molar in some instances. There was no license number, just a flash of color—a two-tone tan. The word Suburban and the face of aman driving. Facial hair. A mustache and beard. Or perhaps it was just growth and not a full beard. Caucasian. A cowboy hat. She had gained help on her journey.
Something squeaked behind him, metal on metal. The old woman, braking. The car took a painfully long time to stop, the brakes like fingernails on a blackboard. Muerte stood over the body and stared at her, willing her to keep going. When she didn’t, he motioned for her to move, and the dog jumped at the back window with its head at an angle, whiteness covering the left eye with a cloudy film. Its tongue slapped the window and a cascade of saliva ran down the glass.
The woman hit the Power button for the passenger window and the glass inched down. She spoke over the barking. “Is that fellow dead?”
Muerte gripped the pistol behind him and leaned down. His stare should have been enough to move her, but she seemed confused. Ancient hands gripped the wheel. Her skin was opaque and wrinkled, and fat hung from the undersides of her arms.
“If you know what’s good for you, ma’am, you’ll keep driving.”
“Is that a threat, mister?” She scanned the scene. “What happened here?”
She studied Muerte and then rose up a little to see the body. Muerte took a breath and counted to three, glancing at the road, giving her time to move. When she didn’t budge, he brought out the gun.
“I don’t know what’s happening to this country,” she said. She stepped on the accelerator and crawled between the cars, talking as she drove, the window still down.
Muerte nudged Miguel with his foot but he could tell the stare of death. He took the man’s wallet, retrieved the laptop from the damaged car, and moved to the truck. The passengerdoor was still open. He pulled out the registration under the name John David Jessup and shoved it in his pocket. He thought about dragging Miguel’s body into the Escalade and torching the car but decided it would take too much time, and there was no telling when someone else would come upon the scene. Besides, by the time the authorities figured out what had happened here, the girl would be dead and the country in shock. It would take a long time to make the connection between this road mishap and what he had planned. Maybe they never would.
The image on the screen moved toward the city, so he swung the car around and drove away quickly. Another two miles down the road, he passed a police car heading the opposite direction, its lights off. He slowed his breathing and checked his speed. He couldn’t let paranoia overcome him. He was simply another car on
He came up over a ridge where it looked like he could see all the way to the Mexican border. The world spread out from here and the view made him wish he had taken care of the girl long ago. She could have had an “accident” on the farm and he wouldn’t be going through this trouble. In the distance he spotted two vehicles—one on the right, one on the left. He recognized the maroon Escalade and pulled up behind a body. Miguel lay dead beside the road.
He expanded the view of the tracking device on his phone. The girl was traveling behind him now on the same road. She had passed him. Muerte closed his eyes and struggled to remember the make and model of the SUV. It was his gift. An ability to recall fragments of details from flashes. The surprised looks of those who had no idea this was the way they would die. Dead men with gold fillings. He could remember which molar in some instances. There was no license number, just a flash of color—a two-tone tan. The word Suburban and the face of aman driving. Facial hair. A mustache and beard. Or perhaps it was just growth and not a full beard. Caucasian. A cowboy hat. She had gained help on her journey.
Something squeaked behind him, metal on metal. The old woman, braking. The car took a painfully long time to stop, the brakes like fingernails on a blackboard. Muerte stood over the body and stared at her, willing her to keep going. When she didn’t, he motioned for her to move, and the dog jumped at the back window with its head at an angle, whiteness covering the left eye with a cloudy film. Its tongue slapped the window and a cascade of saliva ran down the glass.
The woman hit the Power button for the passenger window and the glass inched down. She spoke over the barking. “Is that fellow dead?”
Muerte gripped the pistol behind him and leaned down. His stare should have been enough to move her, but she seemed confused. Ancient hands gripped the wheel. Her skin was opaque and wrinkled, and fat hung from the undersides of her arms.
“If you know what’s good for you, ma’am, you’ll keep driving.”
“Is that a threat, mister?” She scanned the scene. “What happened here?”
She studied Muerte and then rose up a little to see the body. Muerte took a breath and counted to three, glancing at the road, giving her time to move. When she didn’t budge, he brought out the gun.
“I don’t know what’s happening to this country,” she said. She stepped on the accelerator and crawled between the cars, talking as she drove, the window still down.
Muerte nudged Miguel with his foot but he could tell the stare of death. He took the man’s wallet, retrieved the laptop from the damaged car, and moved to the truck. The passengerdoor was still open. He pulled out the registration under the name John David Jessup and shoved it in his pocket. He thought about dragging Miguel’s body into the Escalade and torching the car but decided it would take too much time, and there was no telling when someone else would come upon the scene. Besides, by the time the authorities figured out what had happened here, the girl would be dead and the country in shock. It would take a long time to make the connection between this road mishap and what he had planned. Maybe they never would.
The image on the screen moved toward the city, so he swung the car around and drove away quickly. Another two miles down the road, he passed a police car heading the opposite direction, its lights off. He slowed his breathing and checked his speed. He couldn’t let paranoia overcome him. He was simply another car on
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