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Authors: Jeffrey J. Mariotte
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compliment her looks. She’d heard it before, from him, but it did nothing for her.
Penny had always been realistic about her own looks. She wasn’t willing to put much effort into appearance, but she did have a thick mane of light brown hair that was usually pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a rubber band or scrunchy. It was unruly, though, and tended to strike out on its own with no notice. Her face was okay, she thought. It worked, its parts were in the right places and there was nothing misshapen about any of them. Her eyes were an unusually light green that contrasted nicely with the brown hair. She had always kept fit, more through being outdoors than in a gym, so her body was as toned as it was going to get: strong legs, probably too muscular in the calves to be really shapely, firm ass, breasts a little on the large side but enhanced by strong pecs. And with a shirt on, no one could see the five-inch scar across her abdomen, her permanent souvenir of the Persian Gulf.
***
On the Slab, Lettie Bosworth made dinner for her husband Will.
She worked over a propane stove in their mobile home, making a casserole out of various leftovers and canned meat. With a very few exceptions for restaurants or visits to friends’ homes, she had made dinner for Will every night for the past thirty-four years. He never cooked, not even barbecue. He never skipped a meal. She had heard about men who traveled for business, but when Will had been in business he’d been a barber. There was no travel involved, and he was home in time for dinner every night. Since he’d retired six years before, he’d been home for every meal.
She supposed there were women who would appreciate such a faithful record. He didn’t go out with other women or carouse with buddies from the barbershop. He went to work, and then he came home. In the morning he did it again. Retirement had only changed the part where he went to work. There was talk of war, but she didn’t think she could count on men in their seventies being drafted.
She had had to drive a borrowed truck all the way to Brawley to find rat poison. Even when she had, she wasn’t sure what it would do. She’d heard about it in movies and TV shows, but that was fiction. She didn’t know if it would kill him instantly, or just make him sick. Depended on the dose, she figured, but there was no handy little chart inside that detailed its possible effects on a human being.
But that was okay. Either result would be fine. She didn’t wish Will dead, necessarily. She was just looking for a change in the routine.
She poured a little more in, replaced the cap, and put the rat poison back under the sink.
Lettie figured the casserole would disguise the flavor pretty well.
Chapter Five
Lucy Alvarez bounced in the back of the Navigator like a kernel of corn in a popcorn popper, each bump or jolt the SUV took throwing her against one of the walls or tossing her up to slam back down against the cargo area floor. With her hands and ankles bound tightly and a gag across her mouth, all she could do was kick and make muffled screams. But the men in the front ignored her, for the most part, only turning around when she tried to raise herself up high enough to be seen from outside the vehicle. Then one of the guys would turn around and push her back down.
The ride took hours. Much of the trip, she was sure, was off-road. The whole time, none of them spoke to her, though they spoke of her quite a bit, appraising every part of her body they’d been privileged to see, and many they hadn’t.
“You think she’ll bruise back there?” one of them asked after a particularly brutal jounce.
“You care?” another had answered. “What is she, a piece of fruit?” They had all laughed at that one.
Lucy’s emotions hopscotched from terror to rage to self-pity; every time she tried to pray, for deliverance from these men, for protection, for a boulder to fall from the sky and crush their car or a cop
Penny had always been realistic about her own looks. She wasn’t willing to put much effort into appearance, but she did have a thick mane of light brown hair that was usually pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a rubber band or scrunchy. It was unruly, though, and tended to strike out on its own with no notice. Her face was okay, she thought. It worked, its parts were in the right places and there was nothing misshapen about any of them. Her eyes were an unusually light green that contrasted nicely with the brown hair. She had always kept fit, more through being outdoors than in a gym, so her body was as toned as it was going to get: strong legs, probably too muscular in the calves to be really shapely, firm ass, breasts a little on the large side but enhanced by strong pecs. And with a shirt on, no one could see the five-inch scar across her abdomen, her permanent souvenir of the Persian Gulf.
***
On the Slab, Lettie Bosworth made dinner for her husband Will.
She worked over a propane stove in their mobile home, making a casserole out of various leftovers and canned meat. With a very few exceptions for restaurants or visits to friends’ homes, she had made dinner for Will every night for the past thirty-four years. He never cooked, not even barbecue. He never skipped a meal. She had heard about men who traveled for business, but when Will had been in business he’d been a barber. There was no travel involved, and he was home in time for dinner every night. Since he’d retired six years before, he’d been home for every meal.
She supposed there were women who would appreciate such a faithful record. He didn’t go out with other women or carouse with buddies from the barbershop. He went to work, and then he came home. In the morning he did it again. Retirement had only changed the part where he went to work. There was talk of war, but she didn’t think she could count on men in their seventies being drafted.
She had had to drive a borrowed truck all the way to Brawley to find rat poison. Even when she had, she wasn’t sure what it would do. She’d heard about it in movies and TV shows, but that was fiction. She didn’t know if it would kill him instantly, or just make him sick. Depended on the dose, she figured, but there was no handy little chart inside that detailed its possible effects on a human being.
But that was okay. Either result would be fine. She didn’t wish Will dead, necessarily. She was just looking for a change in the routine.
She poured a little more in, replaced the cap, and put the rat poison back under the sink.
Lettie figured the casserole would disguise the flavor pretty well.
Chapter Five
Lucy Alvarez bounced in the back of the Navigator like a kernel of corn in a popcorn popper, each bump or jolt the SUV took throwing her against one of the walls or tossing her up to slam back down against the cargo area floor. With her hands and ankles bound tightly and a gag across her mouth, all she could do was kick and make muffled screams. But the men in the front ignored her, for the most part, only turning around when she tried to raise herself up high enough to be seen from outside the vehicle. Then one of the guys would turn around and push her back down.
The ride took hours. Much of the trip, she was sure, was off-road. The whole time, none of them spoke to her, though they spoke of her quite a bit, appraising every part of her body they’d been privileged to see, and many they hadn’t.
“You think she’ll bruise back there?” one of them asked after a particularly brutal jounce.
“You care?” another had answered. “What is she, a piece of fruit?” They had all laughed at that one.
Lucy’s emotions hopscotched from terror to rage to self-pity; every time she tried to pray, for deliverance from these men, for protection, for a boulder to fall from the sky and crush their car or a cop
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